Being the squadron voice could be a good thing or a very bad thing, depending on the day’s events and who was sitting in the big chair. The man running the air war was Lt Gen Mike Short, whom we called Senior. He had flown the A-10 in the 81st during a previous assignment and had a son, whom we called Junior, in our squadron. Although it wasn’t obvious, he had a special affinity for Hog drivers and paid close attention to any news of our operations. Senior was tough as nails, much like a high school football coach who was busy directing the game of his life. No one in the CAOC ever took Senior lightly. His questions (or orders) were always direct and spot-on. He knew the game better than anyone else in the room and was familiar with most, if not all, of the details. He had subordinate experts tackle the details that he didn’t personally have time to address. None of us ever lost sight of the fact that Senior knew his stuff and would call us on the carpet if we failed him. He was always deadly serious. We took our breaks and killed time in the unit rep’s room by cracking jokes, surfing the net, or trading stories; but we knew when we came up front and Senior was in the big chair, there would be no latitude for levity. I couldn’t imagine anyone pulling the wool over Senior’s eyes. It seemed that he generally knew the answer before he asked the question and just wanted to keep people on their toes.
I remember on one occasion being called into the CAOC’s main room to answer to Senior. It seemed that someone had told him that A-10s were going to bomb through the weather—release our bombs on coordinates without being able to visually identify the target. There is no way that we would have done that. Our navigational systems were not accurate enough, and even if they were, we had not trained that way. I couldn’t imagine any Hog driver who would have been willing to drop his weapons blindly without knowing what he might hit. It just wasn’t in our thought process. Senior sent for me; when I arrived he gave me a hard look and said, “What’s this I hear about A-10s wanting to bomb through the weather on coordinates?” I must have looked fairly shocked and assured him that with all the civilians on the ground, we had no desire or inclination to start fighting this war that way. With a short grunt and a terse, “That’s the right answer,” Senior turned back to work. He had known the answer all along—he just wanted to make sure I knew it.
Senior’s aptitude and extensive knowledge was shared by most, but not all, of the senior officers in the CAOC. Men like Lt Col Paul C. “Sticky” Strickland, Maj James “Dibbs” Dibble, and Lt Col Walrus Heise, to name a few, kept the place functioning. They dealt with daily issues as trivial as how to get gas to the rental cars and as critical as reorganizing the war’s SEAD support. They kept the big picture and sidelined those who didn’t.
There were a few others whose priorities, war-planning abilities, or aptitude for leading men was disappointing. We had one officer in the CAOC who focused his efforts on ensuring that people didn’t pop microwave popcorn anywhere in the building, because he didn’t want to smell burnt popcorn. We had a war on and he’s worrying about people popping popcorn. On one occasion he called me to the floor after some of our jets had been shot at and returned fire. “Why are your guys getting shot at?… Don’t they know that they aren’t supposed to be looking for targets in these areas?” He blurted this out as he waved at a wide area hashed out on a 1:500-scale map.
His wave depicted an area, inside Kosovo along the Macedonian border, where we were prohibited from actively looking for targets. The restriction had been put into place for several reasons, including a desire to keep NATO ground troops inside Macedonia, but close to the Macedonia-Yugoslav border, from being drawn into the conflict. The Serbs had discovered our selfimposed no-attack zone and were using our ROEs against us. The restriction had an unintended consequence of turning the entire area into a “safe haven” for the Serbs. They roamed freely through that zone, and often we were powerless to stop them.
I explained to him that the A-10s had to transit the restricted zone using the ingress routes planned by his CAOC airspace experts to get into their assigned areas. It was during their transit that, while they weren’t searching for targets, they had noticed the AAA. “Well, I don’t want them hanging out in there. Tell them not to fly over there any more. That’s too close to Macedonia!” He was excited, and his gestures only served to amplify his emotional outburst. A German colonel, who was standing behind him, smiled knowingly. He had observed this exchange and had probably overheard 10 more diatribes that night on as many subjects—par for the course when this particular officer was in charge. So I gave him the best “Yes, sir” I could manage and was dismissed from the main room.
Most nights were uneventful. Our pilots flew the scheduled missions, reported their BDA, and the war went on. I will never forget, however, the contrast in leadership I witnessed in the main room of the CAOC. There were times when it seemed that the war was being run by people who had been there before, had the big picture, and were doing their best to make this operation run the way it should. At other times other people were in charge who did just the opposite. Many of us felt much aggravation and irritation when these types were in charge. I learned later that my frustration, from having to personally answer their questions in the CAOC, paled compared to that felt by the people flying operational missions over Kosovo when an officer of this type was in charge.
I had been lost in my thoughts for some time when TSgt Damien Fortunato stepped lightly on the brakes—forcing me back to the present—and brought the aircrew minivan to a stop near my aircraft. Damien was one of our life-support NCOs. We had served together in the same squadron at Pope, and he was now part of the 74th FS contingent that had come over to supplement us at Gioia. It was nice to have some familiar faces in both squadrons. “Here you go, sir,” Damien said. It was time to start thinking about the mission at hand. I thanked him, stepped out of the van, and walked towards tail number 80-984.
The weapons troops were busy putting the finishing touches on the CBU-87s slung underneath the aircraft. One of the ammo troops had written some personalized messages to the Serbs on the CBU canisters. I was sure that if I got the opportunity to drop them, the soldiers on the ground would have no question as to their meaning. We were all focused on the task at hand, and it was evident that everyone on the flight line took great pride in his or her work. This was the first shooting war for many of us. Morale was high, and so was our efficiency. The jets rarely broke, but when they did, they were fixed in a fraction of the time that we had come to expect back home. That accomplishment was due, in great part, to the great enthusiasm we had for our jobs and to the fact that we rarely, if ever, wanted for necessary parts. It was a great feeling to be part of that team.
