Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  “Robin, why the hell didn’t you let us know you were arriving? We could have met you down in Bangkok, brought you up in the Gooney Bird, given you some kind of welcome. Damn it, you’ve embarrassed us!”

  “I truly apologize, Pappy. Embarrassing you was the last thing I wanted to do. I guess I wasn’t thinking straight,” I replied sheepishly. “It was the way I was sent over in that damned blue Braniff, with nothing said about procedure anywhere along the line. My only guidance was a vague order telling me to proceed to Ubon to assume command of the 8th TFW, and that’s exactly what I did.”

  “You mean you didn’t get your in-briefing at Hickam and Clark? What about in Saigon?”

  “Nope, no place. I took the commuter route and those poor GIs and dependents on the plane were treated like cattle. Hell, we all were. Even the sergeants I arrived with this morning had no clear orders. Personnel handling is as big a mess as this war seems to be.”

  My friend sighed and shook his head. He obviously agreed. We both settled down and soon were chatting amiably. He brought me up to speed on all that had happened after the departure of my predecessor, Colonel Joe Wilson. The base had been set up well and things were pretty organized, but Wilson didn’t fly much. In fact, he had flown only twelve missions in the thirteen months he had been there. His deputy for operations, Scotty Clark, had flown eighteen. Neither had the vaguest concept of tactics or the war itself. That wasn’t good, not good at all, but it certainly set up the situation for my new command. Things were about to change drastically.

  After that quick overview, Pappy told me where to take my stuff and where to sign in. I had inherited Joe Wilson’s air-conditioned trailer so I dumped my stuff inside the door. Nice setup! Then I headed out to go through official check-in. At one point in the afternoon, I was standing in line for the military pay window with a bunch of other hot and tired new arrivals. There were only six or seven of us left to process when the airman on duty in the cashier window put up a CLOSED sign and told all of us to come back in the morning. I told everyone to stand fast and politely asked the cashier for a phone and the number for the base commander’s office. The airman had no idea who I was, but my rank worked again. I got the base commander on the phone and asked, “Can you process a travel voucher?” He said he could not, to which I replied, “Well then, call the chief of military pay and the two of you come down here and keep this facility open around the clock. You’re manned for it. If I can order a man into combat twenty-four hours a day, he should be able to get paid twenty-four hours a day.” Since this guy’s title was officially combat support group commander, he was my subordinate, and he knew an order when he heard one. It was a matter of minutes before he showed up with two other guys and we all got processed.

  Afterward, I walked back to his office with him and got the lowdown on how things were going at Ubon from his perspective. I liked this setup of the base commander being under my command because it meant that I had the overall responsibility while he shouldered the day-to-day problems of running the base. If a toilet wouldn’t flush, that was his baby. If he didn’t have it fixed by the air base group people working for him, he caught hell from me. Operations, the flying mission of the wing, was similar. In that case the deputy commander for operations, a colonel, worked directly for the wing commander as a member of the wing staff. It was the same with the colonel in charge of running the maintenance and supply functions. USAF had made constant organizational rearrangements over the years and it always reminded me of an old dog turning in circles before settling down in front of the fireplace. No matter how many times he circled he always wound up in the same place, with the same grunt, and the same part of his body facing the fire.

  The base commander gave me a good rundown on how things worked, who was who, what was what, and what his own immediate and most pressing problems were. All normal-normal, I thought. I told him I was surprised and delighted with the base setup. “I had no idea buildings and facilities would be permanent. I confess I expected Quonset huts and tents, but not this. There’s even a swimming pool!”

  He explained. “You have to understand, the entire facility really belongs to the Thai air force. We are just tenants, though we’re five times the size of the Thai T-28 Squadron. You probably saw their aircraft out on the ramp. The Thai squadron commander is named Salukiat. He’s a lieutenant colonel, and he normally leaves us alone. On the other hand, we must get his approval for anything we wish to build, and you can bet he becomes a pain in the butt if he doesn’t like what Uncle Sam wants to do. The Thais will get everything when we leave.”

  I gathered there was no love lost between the two, and made a mental note to get to know my Thai counterpart as soon as possible. Then I made a request.

  “I have a suggestion,” I began, although my statement clearly meant it was an order. “I’d like you to assign one of your sergeants on temporary duty to Don Muang in Bangkok. I want him to be impressive, responsible, and gung ho. His duty will be to greet every batch of incoming replacements destined for this wing. He is to welcome them to the 8th, give them a short brief on the country and our mission, and present each of them with a wing patch. Meanwhile, when he calls, that C-47 Gooney Bird sitting out there on the ramp is to go down to Bangkok and bring our new troops directly here. I’ll clear that with the detachment CO at Don Muang. He probably couldn’t care less anyway. Got that? You can rotate your NCO as often as you see fit, but get cracking. I don’t want another one of our new people, officers or airmen, to go through the same indifferent bullshit I experienced on my arrival. And another thing. I want you to reorganize the base in-processing procedure. Instead of each new arrival having to wander all over the place signing in, I want you to have a representative from each of the usual organizations at one table. I mean someone from finance, another from personnel, billeting, etc., you know who they must be. I hope you understand why I’m telling you to do these things.” His expression told me he understood, but he wasn’t particularly thrilled with the new tone of the place.

  The round-the-clock mission schedule at Ubon meant the club was open twenty-four hours a day, both bar and dining room. My arrival hadn’t been widely noticed yet, so I didn’t feel conspicuous when I stopped at the O club at about 4:00 A.M. for breakfast. I wore a flying suit that I’d had for several years, both in the Pentagon and at Shaw for use when I’d been flying some of the support aircraft. I didn’t think much of it. I was preoccupied with thoughts about the base, the morale, the troops, and the leadership that I’d seen so far.

  I ate and headed to the cashier to pay my tab. I fell into line behind a couple of young lieutenants, both apparently backseat F-4 pilots who had been on the night schedule and stopped at the club for dinner and more than a few drinks. They glanced at the stranger standing behind them and then began in a stage whisper to discuss my attire.

  “Must be a trash hauler. Probably on some Gooney Bird from the Philippines getting his monthly combat time.”

  “Yeah, sucking up the combat pay and tax exclusion. Patches say Air Defense Command, don’t they?”

  “Looks like an interceptor pilot maybe. Probably doesn’t know that combat pilots don’t wear patches. Check the leg! Is that his Gooney Bird survival kit? Even interceptor pukes don’t pull enough g’s chasing bombers to need speed jeans.” He turned to me, “Excuse me, Colonel, are you a fighter pilot?”

  “Let’s make him one.…” The bigger one reached down for the knife pocket on the left leg of my flight suit and in one practiced motion grabbed the top flap, snapped it open, and smoothly tore it off my flight suit. Before I could react, the other one snuck behind me and grabbed me around the chest. “Now, let’s get the patches.”

  Being manhandled by a pair of lieutenants on the day of my arrival seemed a bit out of place and I resisted. I turned and grabbed the one behind me. The second went at my waist and within seconds the three of us were rolling around on the floor of the dining room, wrestling, grunting, and grappling as my flight suit s
leeves were ripped and both patches and chunks of cloth were removed. Other pilots gathered to watch the melee and the club manager frantically dialed the phone to call the air police.

  By the time they had arrived it was over. The lieutenants were sitting with me, having another beer, and I was having a third cup of coffee. I told the cops it had been a brief misunderstanding and they left. The explanation the two, Kris Mineau and Lee Workman, gave me seemed reasonable. Combat pilots didn’t wear patches, nor did they ever carry their issue survival knife in their flight suit pocket. It went in the pocket on the left thigh of the G suit. Anybody violating the rules got patches and pockets ripped off. Rank made no difference. I wondered why no one at Davis-Monthan had told me. But, I knew that there was a spark of morale at the flying squadron level that could be built into something bigger. These guys had spirit.

  I headed out to spend the rest of the day exploring the base. I went roving through as many base facilities as I could to get familiar with the setup, locating work centers, unit orderly rooms, recreation facilities, mess halls, barbershop, PX, barracks, and hangars, asking questions and getting answers along the way. I knew the whole tour would take several days, but it was crucial to investigate every little thing at the start of an assignment. I planned to check out all the shops, check out equipment used by the men, look at their supplies, learn how things were put together and taken apart, even examine the gear designed for getting the pilots down from trees. The base functions were crucial to the success of the mission and the survival of the pilots. Even that first day I could sense lethargy among the troops. Morale seemed to be in the toilet. Getting up to speed quickly would be especially urgent for this command.

  The base was small, tightly packed, and with an odd mixture of architecture. Tin-roofed hootches were open and screened, practical and reasonably comfortable. Flowers and grass were neatly done, everything fairly well kept. Most buildings were made of Thai teakwood weathering into a nice reddish brown color. Some goddamned fool had started to paint those attractive walls a terrible yellow or green. I raised hell and soon found out that someone up the chain of command said he “liked paint.” I stopped the practice.

  That night I headed to the officers’ club, which wasn’t far from my trailer. I met several of the guys and started talking to them over beer. It was easy to tell they didn’t know what to make of me, and it was also pretty obvious they had little respect or time for wing commanders. Well, why should they? None of the commanders flew much; therefore, they knew little about the missions. All the frag orders came down to lieutenants and captains. I got hold of Pappy Garrison before the evening was over and told him to gather all the pilots in the morning for a meeting and fit the meeting in between the flights. He told me this would be the first time a full wing pilots’ meeting had been held. What the hell? Despite the staggered mission schedule, the pilots had never been briefed all at the same time? They were in for a surprise. It had been twenty-two years since I’d fought in a war, but it was obvious where my task lay.

  The next morning, I let the pilots stew together over “this fucking new CO” for a little bit before I entered the briefing room, walked to the front, and turned to face them. They got quiet and their eyes glazed over. I glared at them silently for a moment and began, “My name is Olds and I’m your new boss. I’ve been around the air force a little while and I’m really glad to be here. You guys know a lot that I don’t know and I’m here to learn from you. I’ll be flying as your wingman for a couple of weeks. You are going to teach me, but you’d better teach me good and you’d better teach me fast because I’m going to fly Green Sixteen until I think I’m qualified to fly Green Three, and then I’m going to be Green Lead. When you get me ready, I’ll be Mission Commander, and we’ll get it done together. Now, you just stay ahead of me because as long as you know more than I do, we are going to get along just fine. I will listen to you and learn from you, but soon I’m gonna be better than all of you, and when I know more about your job than you do, look out.”

  From somewhere in the middle of the room came a quietly drawn out, “I see.” The tone was a sarcastic “Yeah, right, Colonel,” and I immediately sought out the offender. I could tell it had come out a little louder than he’d intended. My glance fell hard on a guy at the end of a row, Captain J. B. Stone, but slid quickly to the snickering major beside him, Cliff Dunnegan. I’d see about them both.

  Over the next several days, I let the guys train me. Stone and Doc Broadway checked me out in the panhandle route packages, and soon I was scheduled with them to Route Pack 6. I wanted to see where the action was right away and I got what I wanted. Regularly I’d give the guys in the briefing room the same goading speech, “I’m gonna be better than you!” As soon as they stopped being pissed off, they got into the spirit of the challenge. When we weren’t flying, I was stalking through the base looking over their shoulders, visiting the squadrons and hanging out with them at the O club. Pretty soon, I knew all of their names. They taught me well, both on the ground and in the air. I was out in front in less than two weeks.

  This method of taking over a new command was deeply ingrained in me. My father had shown me how to be a leader by his own example. It was reinforced by other great commanders who had earned my respect, leaders like Hub Zemke, Tooey Spaatz, Jimmy Doolittle, and many more. They all connected with their troops on a personal level and learned everything they could about every part of their organization.

  Here’s what I’d learned over the years. Know the mission, what is expected of you and your people. Get to know those people, their attitudes and expectations. Visit all the shops and sections. Ask questions. Don’t be shy. Learn what each does, how the parts fit into the whole. Find out what supplies and equipment are lacking, what the workers need. To whom does each shop chief report? Does that officer really know the people under him, is he aware of their needs, their training? Does that NCO supervise or just make out reports without checking facts? Remember, those reports eventually come to you. Don’t try to bullshit the troops, but make sure they know the buck stops with you, that you’ll shoulder the blame when things go wrong. Correct without revenge or anger. Recognize accomplishment. Reward accordingly. Foster spirit through self-pride, not slogans, and never at the expense of another unit. It won’t take long, but only your genuine interest and concern, plus follow-up on your promises, will earn you respect. Out of that you gain loyalty and obedience. Your outfit will be a standout. But for God’s sake, don’t ever try to be popular! That weakens your position, makes you vulnerable. Don’t have favorites. That breeds resentment. Respect the talents of your people. Have the courage to delegate responsibility and give the authority to go with it. Again, make clear to your troops you are the one who’ll take the heat.

  I worked my way around Ubon in the first few days, and after a week I could understand the malaise that permeated. Joe Wilson had run the base well but was completely disconnected and useless as a combat leader. His DO, Scotty Clark, was ignorant, dense, talkative, and lazy. He would have to go, and soon. The base commander was the same. The assistant DO, Bill Craig, tried his best but the squadrons ran the show. As far as I could tell, Pappy Garrison was the saving grace of the wing. He did things quietly, seemed to know what was going on, hadn’t rocked the boat, and had actually made some progress while he waited for me.

  It was clear that I needed a new deputy commander for operations and he had to be a personable guy that people would like and listen to, but he also had to be someone who would get along with me while carrying out my orders. I knew just the guy and quickly put the call in to Chappie James at Davis-Monthan. He said yes right away. We had always kidded each other a lot, and Chappie was only mildly offended when I told him that the base civil engineers would install additional foundation work under his trailer to keep it from sinking into the earth under his considerable bulk. At the same time, BCE would relevel the trailer so his beloved stereo hi-fi turntable could operate on an even keel. I warned him that
morale building was active at the 8th, elevenses were encouraged, four o’clock tea was mandatory, social graces were observed, and we dressed for dinner. His orders were cut but he wouldn’t be able to get to Ubon until sometime in December, not a moment too soon for me.

  My favorite pastime had always been maps and history, so I headed to the intelligence section of the command center on the next day. It was a tiny storage room at the back of the briefing area, but the nerve center of the outfit, as far as I was concerned. That’s where I’d really be able to put the scoop together for myself … read every report, study every photograph, absorb the wall maps, read intel from other bases. I spent many late hours learning everything I could, trying to get up to speed on what was going wrong and what we were doing right. A small bunch of guys were already there. I asked them, “Why are you here and what are you doing?” J. B. Stone, Doc Broadway, and Major J. D. Covington had been spending a lot of time in the classified area, studying photos and intel reports, trying to understand Vietnam People’s Air Force (VPAF) tactics to figure out how to make the missions more successful. They were putting together a tactics manual for the 8th. Joe Wilson hadn’t even known! I was impressed and told them, “Go for it, guys. I’m right with you!” J.B. had the well-earned reputation as the wing tactician after sixty or seventy missions north. He’d had an engine shot out from under him and several bullet holes in his bird. He was a steady, experienced cool customer. Doc and J.D. were also experienced guys and great pilots. Soon to be added to this cadre would be Lieutenant Ralph Wetterhahn. We were about to plan something spectacular.