Every war that's been fought is replete with such repugnant displays of obstinacy in the face of threatened pride and ego. And I have come to the conclusion that lieutenant colonelsthough I have become oneare the worst offenders.
The lieutenants are cautious apprentices. The captains are the most energetic and resourceful of officers, and the majors are the ones who are the most streetwise and in touch with the lower ranks. But lieutenant colonels are a problem. They are the middle managers, mostly in mundane desk jobs, though the Persian Gulf surge had drawn many of them back to the cockpit. They recognize that their careers are on final approach, and they are panicking. They desperately want to make colonel and are mortally afraid of committing an error that will preclude such advancement. So the favorite tactic of the lieutenant colonel is to avoid mistakes by avoiding decision making. Procrastination, consultation, ultraconservatism, and buck-passing is the light colonel's modus operandi. There are exceptions, of course, but if you see a bottleneck, look closely and you'll probably find an LC nearby. Fortunately, most of the full colonels and general officers have achieved their career goals and have a more realistic outlook. And they are ready to act decisively but only if you can get through to them.
Still, the Gulf airlift fueled widespread frustration among all the ranks, including those who were ground bound. I complained to one wing commander about how his people were fueling the planes. They were in the habit of filling the jets with as much fuel as the zero-fuel weight would allow because it was easy on the drivers and pumpers, shorthanded as they claimed they were. They don't want to wait for me to arrive at the operations center, then calculate a proper fuel load and relay that information to them, as per regulations. But it seems that regulations work one way. I have to abide by the regs, but they don't. They can just top off the tanks at their convenience and get to the next job. But I don't want to carry fuel that I don't need. The extra weight costs extra fuel burned, causes seriously excessive engine wear when the weight requires max power takeoffs, and creates a hazard when something goes wrong. They don't have to worry about these problems, since they're not on board when number three engine blows up on takeoff and takes number four with it.
I filed an operational hazard report. I should have called the wing commander personally. Oh, yes, I should have. George told me, later, that I didn't have the guts to call him. But the fact is I didn't have time. And I was tired. I probably couldn't have gotten through to him anyway. But I would have given that guy both barrels. Shorthanded you say? Not enough fuel trucks either? Yes, yes, I understand, Colonelthe war and all. But what about all those SAC bases that are still just sitting around, waiting for the big Klaxon to go off? Have you asked them to lend you a few fuel trucks and men? Or is that a sign of weakness? Certainly, it's hard to get promoted when you display such dependence on someone else. The big what, sir? Oh yes, the Big Picture. Now I understand. Why is it that I can never visualize that Big Picture? Yet I always thought I was one of those who helped paint that fabled canvas. Cocky, you say? And arrogant? Maybe so. But it comes with the territory.
Yeah, George was wrong about me.
Seventeen.
Master Caution (Push to Reset)
We've just coasted out over Northern Ireland, and have set course for Newfoundland. This crossing will be an especially long one. We're flying into the teeth of the winter winds. The computer-generated flight plan has several hundred numbers crunched out on it, but the one that I keep glancing at as if it may change for the better if I glare at it long enough is the number listed in the space for total en route time: 1115, eleven hours and fifteen minutes from Germany to South Carolina. A normal person could work a full day and another half day's overtime while we're sitting here.
Eight months into the Persian Gulf operation, we have come as close as possible to blending with the Starlifter. To us, it has become a living creature, but to complete the merger we have had to mutate in its direction. We've become more inanimate. We've learned to compartmentalize our minds. We keep the vital doors of awareness openthose that give us access to engines, fuel, and weather, but the door to the clock stays closed. Time drops from our awareness. We are hardened to the clock; the slow sweep of its hands no longer agonizes us. We are time travelers. We strap the jet on. We do our jobs. And wait to emerge hours into the future. The places are not important anymore, except for the one coded KJAN, which is home.
I was home last month, pulling stage manager duty. It's a job being rotated among the squadron's senior pilots that involves spending long hours in the command post, coordinating crew scheduling and aircraft movements. It's no fun, but it keeps you home for a few days.
While I was there, I came to know our new air commander, a fellow by the name of Maxie Phillips. When Colonel Bailey retired, Maxie was asked to leave his job flying RF-4 Phantoms over in Meridian and to join us as Shelly's successor. But Maxie was an outsider, and he was a fighter pilot at that. A few feathers were ruffled because someone from within hadn't been promoted. I didn't know him very well at the timeI didn't really care. I just wanted the Gulf operation to end. After that I doubted I'd be around much longer in the Guam anyway.
Maxie had been a fighter pilot all his adult life. Starting out flying Phantoms when they were first introduced, he became an experienced and skilled warrior and eventually acquired an intense hunger for an even greater challenge. He wanted what they all do, the men of his kind: test pilot school. While stationed in England, he asked General Chuck Yeager to recommend him, and Chuck said he would, but it was a discouraging meeting. It wasn't like years ago, when experience, ability, and eagerness could get you a test pilot job. Now, Chuck explained, you needed tons of specialized education and experience in a variety of aircraft. A few friends in strategic positions didn't hurt either. Maxie put in his separation papers that day.
He returned to his native Mississippi and joined the Air Guard in Meridian. For a few years he flew RF-101 jets, the "One-O-Wonder," as they were called, but then in 1979 the unit switched to Maxie's beloved Phantoms. He was as happy as a weevil in a boll; he was living in Mississippi, he had a full-time job flying low and fast, and the pay was good. But Maxie saw the handwriting on the wall. He knew that the aging Phantom would soon be taken out of service. He didn't know what would replace it, but he suspected it would be large planes. When they offered him the air commander job in our unit, he figured he was in for a great change even if he stayed, so he might as well take the challenge.
When I got to know this man, I realized that the powers at state headquarters who had appointed him had wisdom far beyond my expectations. Maxie was a soft-spoken man with an equally soft style in humor and human relations. He was a deep listener; his door was always open. Somewhere along the line, the Mississippi Air Guard had gone right.
It was a cold day in December when he went over to see them off. The first of Meridian's newly assigned KC-135 jet tankers was already sitting on the ramp. More were on the way. And the last four Phantoms were about to leave for various destinations. Some were bound for the "Bone Yard" in Arizona, others to locations where they would "phly phorever" on a concrete pedestal. Maxie had been invited over to witness the last takeoff. He had expected a ceremony of some sort. Certainly the occasion called for it. There would be a band, a speech, photographs, press coverage, and maybe a gathering of the old heads. Perhaps lots of people and fanfare would help ease his pain.