The Quintessence of Quick (The Jack Mason Saga)

by Stan Hayes

Your Excellency,

  Silver bars to go with your silver tongue! I did what I could to mimic your technique, and having endeared myself to a cute little gate agent in Dallas, am writing to you from the commodious drop-down table of a first-class seat on an American Airlines 707. Yes, my boy, I’ll be living with these gold bars for a little while yet, but they now have some company on my chest! Yep, somewhere along about the time your letter was headed in my direction, the Commanding Officer of Naval Auxiliary Air Station Kingsville, Texas was pinning the Wings of a Naval Aviator on my convexer-then-usual chest.

  Nope, not a relative, pussy-packer or other well-wisher in sight for one of the larger moments in my life. Seems as though the command wanted to clean out as much student pilot backlog as possible before the holidays. Among other things, that meant no multi-engine carrier qualification for those of us, like me, who are headed for duty with land-based squadrons (in my case, a hurricane recon outfit in Puerto Rico, which ought to be pretty interesting). That cut nearly a month out of the training cycle, so neither my mom nor my dad nor Clare (in Phoenix getting over a pneumonia attack), who’ll probably miss being here the most, could switch their schedules around to make it. Hell, even the way-more-than-presentable blonde I’ve been seeing lately turned me down, afraid that her husband, a local homicide dick (and Mexican!), might see the official pinning-on picture. Not an attractive prospect, so I elected to be accompanied by a monster hangover instead, which the good Captain was kind enough to ignore.

  Thus made official, I packed my bags and bummed a ride out of NAAS on a reserve squadron’s R4D (DC-3) to Dallas and the accommodating gate agent. Stewardii on the flight aren’t bad, either, but based in DAL. Think I’ll just head to Mom’s, rest up for a day or so of Christmastide and check in with the Bishop girls. Sorry you’ll miss that! Anyway, even with wings, there’s more training ahead for me. I check in to the Airborne Early Warning Aircraft Training Unit, Patuxent River, Maryland on 9 January for 16 weeks of checkout on the Willie Victor (WV-2), a Lockheed Constellation with big radar antennae grafted on its belly and back. Then, on to Airborne Storm Reconnaissance Squadron THREE. Well, at least it’s in Puerto Rico...

  Tell your folks Merry Christmas; I’ll give you a call, say day after tomorrow. No sense trying to get through the holiday tangle.

  Congrats again, 1LT.

  Winged Victory

  23 HOTFOOT

  The soggy mid-afternoon heat shot through the aircraft’s fuselage as if a massive hose had been poked through the forward cabin door, audible exclamations from various passengers underscoring its impact. The Lockheed Constellation, an Air Force Military Air Transport Service C-121, landed at Ramey Air Force Base with all of its aft-facing seats occupied by active-duty personnel, reservists, dependents, civil servants, government contract employees and military retirees on Latin-American junkets.

  Bidding his seatmates, a thoroughly-pregnant young lady and an Airman First Class, farewell, Jack joined the line that shuffled toward the after passenger door. Other Airmen were hard at work disgorging the plane’s baggage compartments. Waiting for his bags to appear on the tarmac, Jack scanned the immediate area for any sign of ground transportation. His destination, Naval Station Roosevelt Roads, was roughly a hundred miles due east of Ramey, and one of the MATS personnel at Charleston Air Force Base had told him that the Air Force ran shuttle service between Ramey and San Juan. He had no information, however, about Navy transportation between the capital and Roosevelt Roads. Not seeing anyone in the immediate area with the ubiquitous symbol of authority, a clipboard, Jack grabbed his bags and headed toward what he assumed was the base operations building. As he approached it, he saw a sign above the door identifying it as the Passenger Terminal.

  He was wearing, per his orders, Service Dress Khaki uniform, with blouse, long-sleeved shirt and black tie; way too much clothing, in his opinion, for a hundred-mile bus ride. His first order of business was a quick change into Tropical Khaki Long, which specified a short-sleeved shirt. Dragging his bags inside a toilet stall in the crowded men’s room, he proceeded to make the change, thankful that an outdoor compartment on his B4 bag was large enough to accommodate his sweat-soaked shirt, tie and blouse. His load thus lightened, Jack made for the Information sign on the opposite side of the terminal, behind which stood a tall, pallid Airman Second Class, exuding boredom through a wispy mustache. His “Help you, sir.” delivered in a jaded monotone, indicated his disinclination to do much of anything of the sort, particularly for a green-ass Ensign.

  “What can you tell me about getting to Naval Station Roosevelt Roads?”

  Warming to his task, the Airman said, “Well, sir, the first thing that I can tell you is that Ramey Air Force Base instructions reflect US Navy Commander, Caribbean Sea Frontier regulations that Naval Officers in transit be in Service Dress Khaki. When you’re in the proper uniform, sir, one of those gray buses out there-” he nodded toward a glass-block wall next to the street outside- “can take you as far as Naval Station San Juan. Once you’re there, you’re the Navy’s problem.”

  Suppressing the urge to vent his frustration on the stringbean airman, Jack picked up his bags and made for the exit set into the glass-block wall. I’ll be goddamned if I’ll put all that shit back on, he thought. There must be cabs out here somewhere.

  Handing Jack’s Navy identification card back to him through the “público’s” open rear window, the Marine gate guard tossed a temporary pass on to the dashboard. The driver, who had assured Jack that he drove onto the Naval Station frequently, turned left and proceeded to the STORMRON THREE hangar. It was a few minutes before six, 1753 Navy time, when the car pulled into the parking lot, passing a whitewashed anchor that looked like it belonged on a cruiser. Telling the driver to wait, Jack picked up the large manila envelope that held his orders and other records and walked through the building’s double glass doors. A sign saying “SR-3 offices” directed him up a flight of stairs. Exiting the stairwell door, he narrowly missed colliding with a hefty, graying Chief Petty Officer wearing an armband that proclaimed him Assistant Squadron Duty Officer. “Oops; sorry, sir,” he said. “Can I help you?”

  “Excuse me, Chief. I’m just reporting aboard,” Jack told him. Indicating the armband, he said, “Guess that’s your department today.”

  “Oh, yes sir, it certainly is. The SDO’s at chow right now, so if you’ll follow me down to the duty office we’ll get you checked in.”

  Thus duly welcomed aboard and having gotten his orders stamped, Jack reboarded his público, telling his driver to proceed to the Bachelor Officers Quarters. “Jess, sor, de bay-oh-ku. Eees a long way fron heere.”

  “Really? How far is it?”

  “Eees abouw forrtain mile. We be dere soon.”

  “Excuse me; FOURTEEN miles?”

  “Jess, sor. Eees won beeg base.”

  After a smiling Filipino Steward had checked him in to the BOQ, Jack tossed his gear inside the room and headed for the bar, pausing with one hand on the iron rail that discouraged pedestrians from taking a long fall down the hill that overlooked the base. Nice location, he thought, silently mouthing the Cagney line, “... top of the world, Ma!” as he turned right through the breezeway into the bar, which was at the moment host to a couple of dozen patrons in both uniform and civilian attire, some at the bar itself and others in the TV room. The alcohol-dispensing section of the bar gave way to a short-order setup, the two meeting in an L. big bar for a BOQ, Jack thought, but again this is the largest BOQ I’ve ever seen, except for Mainside at Pensacola. There’s obviously a lot going on here besides STORMRON THREE.

  Feeling a bit short of both, Jack decided to take up station near the junction of booze and food. This put him just down the bar from a couple of his peers, Ensigns without wings who were engaged in a conversation sufficiently intense to require their full attention. The bartender, a thirtyish Puerto Rican sporting a militarily-trimmed mustache that made him look like a short Tom Dewey, came over to take his order.
“‘Allo. Drink?”

  “Yeah. You have Cuervo Especiál tequila?”

  “Tchure. How you like it?”

  “Straight. A double, with salt and lime. What’s your specialty over there on the grill?”

  “Esteak sandwich weet egreelled onion on onion roll.”

  “Better get me one of those started, too. Rare.”

  The word “tequila” seemed to have instantly cut through the two Ensigns’ conversation. The one nearest to him, a heavyset redhead, turned to say, “Hi. I’m Larry Bernstein. And this is Burke Swearingen, our host. That is to say he’s the Mess Treasurer. Just passing through, or are you joining a unit here?”

  “Jack Mason,” Jack said as they traded handshakes. “Just reported aboard STORMRON THREE.”

  “Well,” said the tall, wavy-haired Swearingen, “Welcome aboard, Storm Chaser. Since you’re going to be a regular, your first round’s on the house.” Holding his hand up as though directing traffic, he said, “That doesn’t mean I’m easy; just a little ‘welcome aboard’ from the Station. Larry here’s a station hand, too; Showbiz Officer.”

  “Would it were true,” chuckled Bernstein. “I’m Assistant Communications Officer, in charge of the station’s closed-circuit television station, which is just about as exciting as changing a tire. Where you from, Jack?”

  “A little town in middle Georgia called Bisque. You guys?”

  “Red Bank, New Jersey,” said Bernstein, “and Burke’s the pride of Upper Darby, P-A. we were at school together; Princeton, and contract NROTC. We thought the Navy had better-looking uniforms, and look what it got us.”

  “And I have an uncle who’s a retired carrier pilot, so when my draft physical notice showed up, I had no choice but to do the right thing. And look what it didn’t get me,” Jack said. Picking up his glass, he said, “Go Navy!”

  “Where’d you go to school, Jack?” asked Larry.

  “University of Georgia. Hey- what’s the bartender’s name?”

  “Bart,” Swearingen told him. Short for Bartolomeo.”

  “Good idea; try saying ‘Bartolomeo’ when you’re shit-faced. Hey, Bart! How ’bout another double before you send that sandwich down!” Turning back to Swearingen, he said, “Looks like a fairly slow night for you.”

  “No, this is about average when we’re between deployments, which we are right now. Next week we’ve got two patrol squadrons and four Marine fighter squadrons due in, and they’ll be three-deep at the bar. Most of the permanent people, like your squadron-mates, usually hit the “O” Club shortly after they secure from work. Then the few of them that live up here might stagger in for a nightcap, but that’s about it.”

  “You said ‘the few that live up here’? Where else do they live?”

  “Most of ’em are married,” Bernstein said, “So they live in one or the other of the two married housing areas. A couple of your guys do live up here, but quite a few of the single officers live down in what I guess you could call the BOQ Annex, Bundy Housing. You came by it on the way up to the main BOQ; that’s where Burke and I live. It’s the old- and I mean old- married officers’ quarters from the early days of the Station, back when they called it Fort Bundy. A bunch of run-down duplexes that have seen better days, but it’s a hell of a lot more comfortable than these cut-rate motel rooms up here. Best of all, it’s the BOQ’s sheets and towels, and the Stewards come down and clean up for us.”

  “Matter of fact,” said Swearingen, “there are a couple of spots opening up at the end of the month. Knock on my office door tomorrow after work if I’m not in the bar, and we’ll walk down and take a look. Maybe we’ll catch Roy Green at home. He’s our other Georgia boy.”

  Jack awoke early, as he usually did in unfamiliar surroundings. A shave and shower put a good-sized dent in his tequila hangover, getting him more or less set to sort through his baggage and find a presentable shirt and trousers for check-in at the squadron. 45 minutes later, following a fairly decent breakfast in the BOQ dining room, he stood waiting in the parking lot’s drive-through for the base shuttle bus to the hangar. Then someone standing behind him called his name. “‘Scuse me. Mason?” He turned to see the smiling face of a tall, slender man who wore the “railroad tracks” of a full lieutenant.

  “Uh, yes sir.”

  “Thought it might be you; I walked into the bar just after you left. I’m headed down to the hangar. Want a ride?”

  Turning to walk back up the two steps into the breezeway that joined the BOQ’s two wings, Jack extended his hand. “Jack Mason, sir.”

  “Harry Weems, Jack. Looks like we’ll be working together.” With his neatly trimmed mustache, Weems gave the impression that Smilin’ Jack had gone AWOL from the funny papers. “We’ve been needin’ some help in the navigation department; I’m new here myself, and my last duty was an A4D squadron. I don’t know one end of a goddam sextant from the other. This is Ol’ Gertie, right here,” he said, indicating a faded-green 1950 Plymouth with a decided list to starboard. “Give that door handle a good jerk; she’ll open, she just doesn’t like to all that much.” From the starting drill that Weems went through, it seemed obvious to Jack that what Ol’ Gertie wanted most was just to be left alone. She made that clear with a roar that was quite inconsistent with what anyone would expect of a modest-sized six-cylinder. Turning to Jack, Weems brought out the smile that he would thenceforth think of as “the full Smilin’ Jack;” simultaneously intimate, knowing and maniacal. “Gotta get Ol’ Gertie’s new muffler mounted up,” he said, backing her out with many oscillations of the accelerator pedal. “Had to order it from the big PX.”

  “From where?” Jack asked him.

  “The big PX. You know, the States.” Weems piloted his antique as though it were an attack jet, sawing at the wheel as he negotiated the downhill run into the base proper with no help at all from the car’s suspension. “It’s in the trunk; Callahan, he’s your senior Petty Officer, offered to put it on for me, so as soon as I can get him and Ol’ Gert into the hobby shop at the same time we’ll get ’er quietened down. Be the best 20 bucks I ever spent; can’t take ’er off the base until I do. You got a car coming in?”

  “Yes sir; they told me yesterday that it’s due into San Juan next week.”

  “Hey, call me Harry, willya? That’s good. Can’t get along on this base without wheels. Only thing you can get in Puerto Rico is somebody’s overpriced problem, and they tax the shit out of new cars. Quite a few people buy those little Lambretta motor scooters through the PX, then they get a snootful and bust their ass on the first gravel patch they hit. What kind of car d’ya have?”

  “‘53 Cunningham.”

  “Damn! A LeMans racer?”

  “Oh, no,” Jack said, smiling inadvertently at the thought of being behind its wheel again. “It’s a C3 coupe, built from the ground up as a street car.”

  “Is that right? I don’t want to get personal or anything, but that baby must’ve cost a ton.”

  “Nah, I bought it off a Miami Chevrolet dealer that didn’t know what they had. At that point, neither did I. I just loved the way it looked. It’s got a 331 Chrysler Hemi in it, so it goes pretty good, too.”

  “I guess it does! I’ll be glad to run you into San Juan to pick it up, once I get the muffler swapped out, but I guess you might want to pick it up before I can make that happen. We’ll see.”

  Car talk took them the rest of the way to the hangar. They arrived a few minutes before eight o’clock muster, pulling into the parking lot as two sailors approached the flagpole with the colors. Pulling up Ol’ Gert’s useless parking brake, Weems said, “Come on, Jack, we’ve just got time to get to formation before colors.”

  When the Squadron Duty Officer dismissed the formation, Harry Weems called to him. “Hey, Freddie!”

  Looking up, the SDO grinned when he recognized the source of the shout. Nodding at Jack, he said, “Could we have just a little respect for the Squadron Duty Officer here? I’m a busy man.”

  “No
t as busy as you’re gonna be. Got you a new officer checking in. This is Jack Mason, the new Navigation Officer.”

  “Hi, Mason,” Barstow said as they shook hands. “Welcome aboard. I’m assistant PIO, wanna swap jobs?” Interrupting himself, Barstow said, “Harry, goddamit, I’m the only straight navigator in this lashup, and Mason here gets the Nav office? Where’s the justice in that?”

  “An experienced old sea-dog like you, looking for justice from the Navy? Freddy was a sailor, got out and went to college and came back to the Navy through the AOC program, which now includes Naval Aviation Observers,” said Weems. “Navigators, CIC officers, Aerographers and so forth. To hear him tell it, ol’ Fred was the best Air Controlman in the Navy.”

  Barstow drew himself up arrow-straight, adding a possible eighth of an inch to his diminutive stature. “And don’t you forget it,” he said before allowing a smile to put the seriousness of his claim in perspective. “Well, I’m on my way to becoming the Navy’s best official bullshitter, justice be damned.”

  “If it’ll make you feel any better, Freddie, it boils down to a date-of-rank situation. Jack’s JG papers are on the old man’s desk, just waiting for next week to roll around.” Looking at Jack, Weems said, “I hadn’t got around to telling you that.”

  “In that case,” Barstow said, “illegal though it may be, let me be the first to call you Lieutenant, Lieutenant. Shall we lay topside and begin check-in for your illustrious self?”

  Check-in turned out to take most of the day, punctuated by lunch just outside the main gate with Harry and Ron Jackson, a JG whose ground job was Assistant Maintenance Officer, Airframes. They took Jackson’s car, a Volvo two-door that looked like a three-quarter scale copy of a ’48 Ford. They parked in a far corner of the lot. “This way we won’t be blocked in when everybody else shows up,” Jackson said.

  “The Bundy Bar,” Jack said. “So is all this lunch business from the Navy?”