“Go on down to the conference room and tell Colonel Bradley; I’ll handle it here,” Pullman directed. And while the secretary hurried down the hall the Chief called the hospital, asking for Colonel Goldman, saying that he had an emergency on his hands. Doc Landis cut onto the line and asked what he could do to help, that Goldman was in the OR. The chief quickly explained the situation. Landis told him he would be right over and tried to remember what he had learned about handling so-called nervous breakdowns in authoritarian personalities while he was at Brooks AFB training to be a flight surgeon.
When he arrived Landis snapped a sharp salute. “Lieutenant Colonel Landis reporting as requested, sir.”
Morris was sitting in a swivel chair behind his oak desk, hands folded childlike in his lap. Mementos were neatly arranged on the desk as in the past. He returned an awkward salute. “I didn’t ask to see you,” he said in a low, husky voice.
“Sorry, sir, it must have been a mistake. I was told you weren’t feeling too well. Might have use of a sawbones—”
“You’re one of them.” Morris’ voice was abruptly calm, too calm. He raised his right hand, and aimed a .38 service revolver at the doctor. “This is a mutiny. No one is going to take my command from me.” The muzzle of the gun was pointed directly at Landis’ forehead.
Landis froze. The colonel’s forefinger seemed to twitch on the trigger.
“Colonel, I’m not a professional military man. I have nothing to gain from any of this. In two years I’ll be back in private practice. Until then, my only job is to support you, be a member of your team. So, please, tell me what you’d like me to do.” Slowly, Morris laid the pistol back down in his lap, and as he did Landis’ heart slowed its frantic beat, though he fought not to show his relief.
“Convince them what they’re doing is illegal,” Morris said, voice flat, and toneless.
“If what they are doing is illegal,” Landis said easily, “then the proper authorities will end it. But, sir, don’t you think we should give them time to come to their senses and not do anything illegal ourselves in the meantime? You mustn’t weaken our position, and your own conduct must be above reproach at all times.”
“Yes, of course, but I must…must be protected until then…”
“Sir, perhaps we could schedule you for a physical, at the hospital? I guarantee I can protect you there…”
“Yes, yes…good. That will work. Good…” Morris handed over the pistol. “You might need this, Doctor. I’ll report for a physical examination in twenty minutes. Be careful.”
Landis accepted the pistol, which felt like a hot rivet, and joined the waiting men in the outer office, where he quickly gave the pistol to Chief Pullman.
“What the hell happened in there?” Bradley demanded.
Landis shook his head. “Sorry, Colonel. Can’t violate the doctor-patient relationship. I can tell you that Colonel Morris is probably suffering from nervous and physical exhaustion. Let it go at that.”
1 December: 2240 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1540 hours, Luke Air Force Base, Arizona
The crew chief marshaling the F-4 into its parking spot on the ramp at Luke AFB crossed his wrists above his head, signaling for Waters to stop, then made a slashing motion across his throat, the sign to cut engines.
Waters’ hands went over the switches, shutting the big fighter down. He unstrapped and threw his helmet and then the small canvas bag carrying his flight publications to the crew chief, who motioned toward the edge of the ramp, pointing out the waiting staff car. Waters scrambled down the boarding ladder and quickly walked around the Phantom during a post-flight inspection, before heading for the car. The wing commander, Boots McClure, crawled out from behind the wheel and stood by the car, a slight smile on his face.
“Congratulations, Muddy. You’ve got yourself a wing—the 45th at Stonewood. The word came down about thirty minutes ago.” McClure grabbed Waters’ right hand and pumped it.
Waters just stood there, unable to speak.
A command…
A wing…
The fulfillment of his dream. The years of hard work, loneliness and frustration suddenly evaporated…A wide smile came across his face. A warmth that he had only experienced at the birth of his daughter captured him. It was a high few men ever realized.
“It’s going to be different from anything you imagined,” McClure said softly, doubting that Waters could catch his meaning. “Why don’t you tell your bride and get her away from the O’ Club pool.” McClure laughed and pushed Waters towards the car. “She’s driving some of my young jocks bonkers…”
Later, Anthony was ragging Sara a bit about Boots McClure’s randy comments, and acting—well, partially acting—a little teed-off. She picked it up fast, and fed him a few more anxiety moments before playing it straight.
“I met Mrs. McClure the other day at a luncheon and liked her,” she said. “She doesn’t wear her husband’s rank like some of the other wives do. God, what a sad crowd they can be. You’d think in this day and age they’d get out and do something besides eat lunch and sit around the pool and gossip, gossip, gossip. For some reason I think the lieutenant colonels’ wives are the worst—do you suppose it’s because they’re bucking with their spouses for the big eagle and letting off his frustrations? Oh, never mind—now what about the big news? Where are we off to in the wild blue yonder and so forth?”
“No way, lady. You got to pay for your intelligence. Ante up…”
And she did, and afterward, his head against her bare breasts, as she checked carefully for more signs of gray—“I love a mature man, stop worrying”—he told her it was England, and she told him that that was too easy, that she had paid too much for such available info.
“You’ve just begun,” he said, and proceeded to make love in a way he never thought he could again, the inhibitions from the tragedy of the past finally giving up the ghost.
5 December: 1805 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1305 hours, Washington, D.C.
On Sunday the Gomezes met them at the airport. While waiting for their luggage, Tom Gomez told Waters that his interview with Cunningham was set for Monday morning, a VIP flight was leaving Andrews AFB for Mildenhall late Monday afternoon and they had seats on it, and that his DO, Sam Hawkins, had submitted his retirement papers.
Waters studied his friend for a moment. “Tom, would you take the job?”
“In a minute…”
That night Gomez told his wife about Waters’ offer.
“It won’t much help your career at this point,” she said.
“Well, I don’t think I’m going anywhere beyond colonel. Might as well do something I want and work for someone I like and respect. Would it bother you moving to England?”
“Honey, you know I’m just a camp follower at heart. So let’s do it. Besides, Sara’s going to need a friend over there, and I’ll bet you two rolls in the hay she’s pregnant or damn soon will be.”
“You mean you get off the hook two times if you’re right?”
“No, fool. The other way ’round.”
Colonel Stevens met Waters as he entered Cunningham’s offices on Monday morning. “Congratulations on your command,” the young colonel said. “We need to talk a bit before you go inside.” Stevens handed Waters the IG’s one-page special report on the combat status of the 45th. “The general fired Morris for one reason—he rated his wing a one on the Combat Status Report and an inspection team rated the wing’s readiness as a five. Moral: don’t fudge about your combat capability.”
“The report only says the 45th should be rated a five because of deficiencies in flying training and maintenance,” Waters observed. “Some details might have helped.”
“Well, your job as wing commander is to fill in the details and fix whatever’s wrong. Remember, the general trusts and relies on the IG system…If you’re ready I’ll take you in now.”
Cunningham, as usual, was direct and to the point. “Waters, I hope your honeymoon is over because the 45th is not
combat ready and I may need them in the Persian Gulf before too long, especially if your lieutenant was right about his scenario. Six months at the most. Do what you have to, but get them ready. Your deputy for Operations, Sam Hawkins, is retiring. Who do you want to replace him?”
“Tom Gomez, sir. And I want Lieutenant Bill Carroll to be my Intelligence chief.”
“That’s a major’s position; you want to put a lieutenant in it?”
“I’ll take any major that speaks Arabic and Farsi and thinks as well as he does,” Waters answered quickly.
“You’ve got them both. Anyone else?”
“Major Charles Justin Conlan.” Waters waited, studying the general’s face for clues.
“If you want that skinny, bald-headed S.O.B. you’ve got him too.” The general smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Conlan is the best air-defense suppression man in the business. Now you’ll want some Wild Weasels. I’ll see what I can do. You’ll need them if you get involved in the Gulf.” Cunningham was pleased with the man standing in front of him.
Vietnam and the 1973 Yom Kippur war between the Israelis and Arabs had driven home two hard points: Soviet-built Triple A, anti-aircraft artillery, and SAMs, surface-to-air missiles, were very effective at blowing fighters out of the sky, and the Soviets had produced large numbers of these air-defense weapons to ring every target for protection against air attack.
Yes, Waters would need Wild Weasels, the F-4G Phantoms were modified to go in and hit the SAMs and Triple A where they lived so an attacking force could get through. Air-defense suppression was military jargon for all that. The United States had built only 116 Wild Weasels, and every fighter wing that got involved in air-to-ground dropping bombs wanted as many Wild Weasels as possible to escort its aircraft onto a target. Who got the Weasels was always a big flap.
The general’s gaze was direct, serious. “You’re the first new wing commander I’ve met that’s been concerned with tactics. I understand Bull Morgan is already assigned to the 45th. Looks like you’re collecting quite a crew. Anyone else?”
Waters shook his head.
“Good luck, then, Muddy,” the general said, sticking his hand out, and trying to keep any evidence of concern out of his hazel eyes.
8 December: 0800 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0800 hours, Stonewood, England
Waters entered his new office and told the chief, “Let’s do it.”
While the officers stood at attention, Pullman read the formal orders relieving Bradley as temporary commander and designating Waters as the new commander of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing. After Bradley passed the wing’s fanion to him, Waters placed the small pendant in its stand behind his desk, shook hands with the small group. “Please call Sir David and set up a courtesy call. I’d like to visit him at his convenience. Also, I’ll be looking around the base today with Colonel Bradley and Chief Pullman. Nothing special, just to meet your people. See you at Stand-Up tomorrow morning.”
After the next morning’s brief Stand-Up, Waters headed for the command post, where he flopped into a chair next to Vern Yaru-Lau, the major in charge of the command center, and asked, “Major, what is our true combat status rating?”
Waters’ tone said not to hedge his answer. “We’re a five, maybe a four. Maintenance can’t keep enough of our aircraft fixed and MC…mission capable. These are old birds, sir. Also, we’re not meeting all our flying training requirements.”
“I know what MC means, Major…All right, report what’s driving our rating down in the remarks section of the next message and tell me how many planes have to be MC and what our shortfalls in training sorties are so we can get a one rating.”
After leaving the command post Waters dropped by the small building that served as the RAF base commander’s headquarters. Sir David Childs was waiting and ushered him into his office. “Colonel Waters, good to see you.”
“Thanks for seeing me so soon, Sir David. I don’t want to bother you but I was wondering if I might change the sign at the entrance to the base?” Childs gave Waters a look and waited, suspecting that this one was just like Morris. “I’d like to drop my name and add the motto of the 45th, ‘Return with Honor.’”
“Lovely idea,” Sir David said quickly. “And please remove my name from the sign as well.”
“And are there any immediate problems I need to know about?”
“Ah…I think you will discover that your predecessor did not stress tactical flying. Which did tend to make my position less difficult, inasmuch as it reduced noise complaints.” Child spelled out how every RAF base had the same problems and that local citizens were always complaining. “This island is too densely populated, of course, and so no matter where you fly someone will be disturbed. But on the other hand I do believe tactical flying is the reason your wing is here…”
“Would you be willing to be the point of contact for noise complaints?” Waters asked.
Child smiled, nodded; the American colonel got the point.
“How else can we help you?” Waters asked.
“Well, I’d say don’t fly below a thousand feet unless you’re on a low-level route, and please avoid the mink and stud farms, especially during the mating season. Try not to make any unscheduled landings in the countryside. Disturbs the copulatory patterns of too many species.” The two men laughed, saluted and Waters left.
Twenty minutes later Waters entered the 377th Tactical Fighter Squadron, where the short stay he had planned turned into a three-hour ordeal. His mouth was set in a grim line when he left, and it was the same when Colonel Sam Hawkins saw Waters enter his office…he had been warned about the results of the wing commander’s visit to the 377th.
“Why, Sam?” Waters asked, closing the door behind him. They both knew what he meant.
“Colonel Waters,” Hawkins said, “our flying program is exactly what Morris made it. He was more worried about losing aircraft than the crews maintaining flying proficiency—”
“Just what in the hell is a tactical fighter wing all about? Last time I checked it’s to train like you plan to fight. Your crews haven’t been doing that. You must have gotten the word that the 45th is earmarked for possible operations in the gulf. Has wing Intel been monitoring the situation there? Have your weapons and tactics pukes been working on ways to counter the SAM and Triple A threats down there? Have you run any true low-level flights onto similar targets? Sam, you’re an old pro, you’ve been around the damn flagpole as much as I have. You know how to use training sorties to get your crews ready to fight. Better to lose one or two birds in training than lose a wing in combat…”
“I couldn’t convince Morris of anything,” Hawkins said.
“Maybe you didn’t try hard enough,” Waters said, stood up and left.
Back in his office, Waters shut the door and slumped into his chair. Things clearly were worse than when the wing was in Egypt. Shaw had problems like lousy base housing and schools. Mine are worse, the wing has forgotten how to fight, Waters realized. Courtesy of Mad Stanley. Commanding a wing was something he’d wanted since his first combat tour in southeast Asia with the 8th Tac Wing. Taking men into combat and bringing them home was the ultimate challenge. Well, he had his chance to do that. But first he had to teach them how to fight without killing any of them. But if necessary—he cut off the unwelcome thought.
The Phantom rolled in on the gunnery range at twenty-two hundred feet and nosed over into a twelve-degree dive. The sight picture was perfect as the pilot, called Sooner, acquired the strafe panel in the lighted target-ring of his heads-up display. Gently he squeezed and released the trigger for a short burst of cannon fire as he passed through three hundred feet, then instinctively pulled the nose up and fire-walled the throttles. But the burring noise of the M61 gatling gun did not stop, warning him the gun had jammed on full-fire. Sooner jerked the nose to the right, pointing the gun out to sea, only to spot a small fishing boat in the range’s restricted zone. Automatically he pushed the nose over to direct the stream of b
ullets toward the water. By the time he had reacted the gun was empty and he was dangerously close to the water in a dive angle that was much too steep. For a split second Sooner thought he had bought it. Then, however, his quick reactions got the nose up and the Phantom bounced off the water, ripping off the wing-tanks but still flying.
The two men in the fishing boat were nearly mesmerized by the sight of the F-4 barely touching the water. They could hardly be aware of the tremendous forces at play when a sixteen-ton aircraft loaded with four tons of fuel ricocheted off water…accelerometers in both cockpits pegged at over ten Gs, not able to measure the full impact of the Gs breaking the plane apart, four engine-mounts on the right engine and two on the left snapping under the load, wing spars cracking. Like hitting concrete…
“Mike,” the pilot yelled at his wizzo, “you still with me?”
“Yeah, no place to go. We okay?”
“Beats the hell out of me,” Sooner told him. For a few moments the two men just breathed deeply, trying to steady nerves as Sooner climbed to a safer altitude over the Wash. The English range controller kept requesting them to check in. Sooner answered him with a call declaring an emergency. And now Sooner’s wingman joined up on his left and checked him over while he ran his emergency checklist.
“You’re in one piece,” his wingman radioed. “It looks like the SUU-21 is hanging by its trailing lug and will probably fall off. Why don’t you jettison it before we coast in?” Sooner selected the right inboard station where the practice bomb dispenser was hung, had his wingman check if the ocean’s surface was clear, and hit the jettison button. But the bomb dispenser did not separate from the pylon. Sooner’s panic was building. Rather than try anything else he called for a straight-in approach to runway 09, landing to the east. He would have to stay airborne seven minutes longer to get to that side of the base but at least he would avoid the village and other built-up areas. He hoped they had the seven minutes.
The Warbirds Page 18