We had ordered the speciaclass="underline" ribeye steaks, always a bit stringy and overdone, but the unique appeal of a multicourse meal, savory or not, was that it killed time. And the club was a relatively pleasant place to sit and stretch out a meal while the minutes clicked down to alert time.
When the waiter appeared, we thought we had been cast in a Pink Panther movie. He could easily have doubled for Peter Sellers. The thin black mustache, the Mediterranean accent, the large rolling eyes, the white cloth folded over the forearm, pencil and order pad in hand: it was all suggestive of a movie set. And when he spoke we had to suppress a snicker.
"Ant how vould you like youh stake done, sirh?"
"Medium, please."
A short pause followed each question as a distinct mark was made on his pad.
"Bekt potato or frensh fries?"
"Baked, please."
"Souah cleam or buttah?"
"Sour cream, please."
He regarded us with astonishment, as if only a second before he had informed us two simpletons of the sour cream's unavailability "Ve haf no souah cleam!" Curt's eyes and mine met. By golly, this was a Peter Sellers movie.
"Then butter will be fine."
Fifteen minutes later, french fries arrived. Curt politely sent them back.
Then the baked potato arrivedwith a great scoop of sour cream atop.
"How's Heidi and the kids?" I asked. Curt had just returned from a couple of days at home. He perked.
"She's fine. But she broke down the other day."
"How so?"
"Well, she expected me to be home longer, I guess. When they called I was in the shower. She lied to them, told them I was gone, didn't know when I was coming back. When I got out of the shower she was hysterical. Said that she had lied, that we would both be going to prison, but that it wasn't fair for them to call so soon. I called them back and smoothed things over."
I had never met Heidi, but hearing this I liked her.
I don't know exactly what it is about Ole Miss graduates that sets them a bit apart. Not above, just beside. Certainly there's an air of Faulkner about Curt, his anecdotal eloquence, I guess. But I've known others as well who seem a bit novel. I think maybe it's their short tolerance for one another. They're civil, to be sure, but there's a hint of rivalry among them. Still, one needs only to attend an Ole Miss Homecoming up at Oxfordas I haveto witness their camaraderie. Yet I've seen them exhibit a bit of shifty-eyedness toward one another. I attribute it to their propensity to be jealous achievers. It was here on the Zaragoza flight line a couple of months back that I watched two of Faulkner's boys do battle.
Curt was deadheading with us from Jackson to Zaragoza. He was assigned at the time not to my crew but rather to the pool of pilots stationed there temporarily. Each time we transited Zaragoza, or the other staging bases, we were assigned a pool pilot to augment us for the long round trip downrange and back. Being assigned a tour as a pool pilot was a dubious honor that I had been grateful to avoid. Some liked it because it was a way to build flying time more quickly and to enjoy the luxury of a single room at the staging base. But the pool pilot was a maverick. Each mission, he was assigned a different crew, whose members most likely were total strangers to him. Each time he flew, he would have to prove himself worthy and reliable and to yield his own well-being, reluctantly, to an unfamiliar aircraft commander. He or she was required to be a first pilot, at a minimum, a rating that allowed him or her to fly either right or left seat, unlike a copilot, who could fly only in the right seat. However, many pool pilots were either aircraft commander rated or even instructors. It was a lonely job; the pool pilot had no sense of belonging. We further degraded his status by referring to him as a "rent-a-pilot." Curt's tour would be about two weeks.
Though he was not obligated to do so, he relieved Bones and me at the controls during the long journey. Along with us was newsman Bert Case and a cameraman from WLBT in Jackson. Bert had somehow wangled a trip downrange at a time when only select media people from the national wire services and networks were being allowed in. It was a media coup of sortsa crew from a local affiliate going to the war zone. But then, Bert had a knack for bringing such things off. It would be big news, a documentary of an airlift mission to the Gulf.
Curt and Bert hit it off well during the journey, both being natural jabberers, and before long discovered some sort of common ancestry between them. By the time we touched down at Zaragoza, Curt had concocted a scheme to get himself to the top of the pool pilot list so that he could accompany us downrange. I doubted he would be able to pull it off, but with Bert's help he persuaded the crew stage manager to put him at the top of the list, and into crew rest we went.
But the next morning as we flight planned for the sandbox turnaround mission, another pool pilot showed up. He was at the top of the list before our arrival and had been alerted for our mission by mistake. I guess Curt's plan fell through the cracks when the shift changed at the stage manager's desk. In walked Ole Miss graduate Charlie Decker. As the two met, opposing fingers were pointed, and the two men simultaneously asked, "What the hell are you doing here?" It was more a demand for an explanation than a question.
Both wanted badly to fly the mission with their hometown comrades, but the stage manager stood adamant in his resolve to allow only one to go. I could hear an ongoing furor in the next room even as Bert interviewed Bones and me on camera about the mission. Finally, we held a conference with the stage manager, who favored Charlie for the trip. With courtroom finesse, Curt convinced him that his kinsmanship with the newsman was a newsworthy event back home and would make for good publicity, but Charlie argued that he alone was the rightful pool pilot. Finally, the manager threw his arms up in disgust, wishing to be done with us, and dispatched both Charlie and Curt to crew the mission. But that was not to be the end of it.
Out on the flightline as Bones and I threw switches and punched buttons, I looked down at the tarmac and saw them there. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but lips were moving furiously, simultaneously. Fierce gestures and threatening body language portended a new civil war in the making. I sent the loadmasters down to stand off and be ready to move in if a struggle erupted. I didn't know what the argument was about, thinking that all problems had been settled to everyone's satisfaction. Then I concluded that each had perceived that the other had offended his honor, and that honor would be restored to the winner of this war of words. Soon the pointed fingers began to peck minute punches into one another's chest, and the loads moved in closer. Then the two seemed to realize our concern and stopped, peered up at me, smiled accommodatingly, and shook hands. Civil war had been averted. Face and honor were preserved. Faulkner chuckled and winked.
We laugh again at the encounter with Charlie as we turn in for what we hope will be a good couple of hours of oblivion before alert time. But it seems that only a few minutes have passed when the buzzer on the wall brutally throws me into convulsive movements. Rising, I hear Curt sigh and see him roll his pillow overhead as the Spanish-accented voice addresses me through the speaker.
"Major Cockrell, call the command post, please."
Down in the lobby on the hot line, I take the mission. We are to take a C-141 inbound from the Statesdue in one hourand proceed to Abu Dhabi. Our pool pilot will be Captain Lemanski, who is in room 130. I note that he is only a few doors away from my room, which is 238. I don't know this Lemanski (he is evidently from another unit), but I am to alert him along with the rest of my crew. The crew bus will arrive in half an hour.