The Warbirds (21 page)

Seeing that the first two lines were decode instructions, the lieutenant colonel dismissed the NCO and called the wing’s vice-commander and judge advocate as witnesses before proceeding any further. The two men looked over his shoulder as he finished decoding the message:

“Well, I’ll be damned,” the Judge Advocate said.

Colonel Bradley felt his stomach turn sour. “I’ll contact General Percival for instructions. He has to act by ten tonight. Until he tells Morris, we do nothing. I’ll be in the command post. Needless to say, don’t tell anyone.” The vice commander’s call to Third Air Force was too late. Percival had received another message and was enroute to Stonewood.

James Percival, the commander of Third Air Force, entered the command post at 9:45 and directed the controller to get Colonel Morris to the wing commander’s office immediately. “Bill, I am sorry this had to happen, but you’ll have to be on hand when I tell Morris,” the general said.

“General, just what the hell is going down?” Bradley asked as they made the short walk to wing headquarters.

“I got a message from Cunningham. It seems Morris lied on his Combat Status Report and rated the wing a one. You know a one means the wing is fully combat ready, ready to go to war. Cunningham treats the Com Stat like being pregnant, either you are or you’re not. Morris getting fired shows how important the Com Stat is to the general. I’d say there are at least seven wings in the Air Force right now that are rated a two or three. Cunningham needs to know so he can supply whatever it takes to make a wing a one. Morris must have thought down
grading his wing from a one would make him look bad, like he’s not using what he’s got.

“I’m worried, Bill; I’ve done this chore before and I’ve seen what it does to a man’s ego. It is hard to tell how Morris will react, but watch him like a hawk until we can get him transferred out tomorrow.”

The door to Morris’ office was open and he was sitting behind his desk when Percival and Bradley arrived. He stood and saluted the general, puzzled by Bradley’s presence.

The general returned the salute and handed Morris the decoded message. “Colonel Morris, I’m acting as directed by this message. Colonel Bradley is now in command of the 45th.”

“I see the message was decoded. An obvious mistake,” Morris said, a tight slight smile spreading across his lips.

“There’s no mistake. I have a separate, confirming message,” Percival told him.

Morris wadded the message in his fist. “Bill, you’ve wanted command of my wing and now you’ve got it. Well, do you mind if I clear out my desk?” He sat down and wrenched a drawer open, staring at its contents.

Percival nodded at Bradley and the two left the office, closing the door behind them.

“It could have been worse. Much worse,” Percival said. “I’m relieved.”

The wing learned of the change of command the next morning at Stand-Up and for the first time felt some relief. After the morning’s Stand-Up briefing in the conference room the commander’s civilian secretary ran up to Chief Pullman, her eyes full of worry. “Chief, Colonel Morris is in his office and he’s acting…funny. I’ve never seen him like this before. He told me to place a call to General Cunningham. When I couldn’t get through—it’s only two-thirty in the morning there—he called me terrible names, then pulled out a gun…”

“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.”