Tail of the Storm

by Alan Cockrell

  A close friend was once discussing the marriage institution with me over lunch. He had divorced and remarried. When I told him how committed I was to Ellie, he cautioned me never to say never. "Read my lips," I told him.

  "Never."

  Six.

  Zaragoza

  My watch says it's 0115, but it's set on "Z," or Zulu time, which is military slang for Greenwich mean time. The longitudes of the world march across our lives so relentlessly that Z time has become our sole reference to the passage of the hours, the days. I think you add two to Z, to get local time at Zaragoza, so it must be about 3:15 a.m. here. Or do you subtract two hours? But then. is Spain still on daylight saving time or not? My body stays so soaked with weariness that even simple determinations are error fraught.

  Typically, I crash for three or four hours after coming in from the West but then wake up and languish in the dreaded half-sleep, halfwake fog for another two hours before surrendering. Thinking I'll take a walk, I stir, looking around for my sweats, and discover that Curt is awake as well. At his suggestion we check out the gym keys from the security police and come over here to kill some time.

  Curt is in the weight room, working out. There's a set of exercise machines in there, the kind with the chains and stacked bars, but the gym staff has seen fit to lock away the inserts. Why in creation anyone would want to steal the little steel rods that you stick into the stacks to select your weights is beyond my comprehension. Curt is furious about it and is taking out his frustration with the free weights.

  I'm dribbling a basketball and listening to the bounces echo off the walls of the empty, half-darkened gym. I think it's the loneliest sound life serves up: no exuberant shouts, no buzzers or crowd swells, no squeaking tennis shoes, not a murmur or a whisper, just that solitary bounce and its echo. Yet there's something about the sound that sustains and consoles. Even so, it's the sound of solitude: a slow dribble, a pause, a twang off the hoop, more dribble. Maybe it will be the final sounds the world eventually breatheswe'll go out with a bounce, not a bang.

  Of all the fine traveling companions I've had the honor to fly with, Curt Kennedy is one of the most delightful. He flies for USAir as a DC-9 captain. He's stock), a good runner, and a lover of sports. The loquacious Curt is an Ole Miss-educated lawyer who loves people, conversation, and humor, yet is wonderfully unpretentious. He is a philanthropist of southern-style friendliness, establishing goodwill and warm feelings with everyone he meets but not without a skillful touch of diplomacy with the higher-ups. A couple of weeks ago down at Torrejon his mitigation skills met a big challenge.

  A stranger boarded their crew bus at the billeting office as they finished their bag drag and sat down for the trip in to the command post. Oddly, he was in civilian attire, and Curt appropriately decided to inquire. The man could have been a spy or a terrorist or maybe a plant to test the crew's vigilance. Curt's approach as he extended his hand was characteristic: "Hello, sir, I'm Curt Kennedy Who are you?"

  The man shook Curt's hand. "Glad to meet you Curt. I'm H. T. Johnson."

  Curt pondered the name, didn't recognize it, and pressed further but still with a mild manner, as if he were catching up with a distant but interesting relative. "Well, pleased to meet you too, sir, but what, ah, what are you doing here?"

  "You mean you've never heard of me?" he replied.

  "Well, no. I don't believe I have."

  "I'm CINCMAC, your boss."

  Curt vaguely remembered that CINCMAC was the acronym for commander-in-chief, Military Airlift Command. From this man it was only about three more levels up to the president. The general probably didn't expect every one to recognize his face, but certainly his people should know his name. CINCMAC was visibly agitated. "Oh, yes." Curt responded enthusiastically, extending his hand again. "Well, we certainly are glad to have you here, sir. Will you be going with us downrange?"

  He wasn't.

  Curt then began to pump the general with questions ranging from the nature of his visit to the health of his wife and children, allowing him little time to respond. Soon the rest of the crew followed Curt's lead and joined in, and a friendly banter developed as the general's irritation melted. It was a smooth recovery.

  Curt was like that. He could talk up a storm, never allowing your attention to drift or your participation to wane. Yeah, I flew my most enjoyable missions with Curt.

  He loved to tell the story of his encounter with the southern humorist Jerry Clower. Again, it was a characteristic Curt Kennedy reaction. Approaching his gate in the terminal, Curt noticed a crowd gathered around a talking, gesturing figure. Moving in closer, he recognized the "Mouth of the South" carrying on in his flamboyant manner with everyday people just as if he were onstage. Curt's story was entirely believable, because I had once seen Clower joking in a doctor's office. Listening in, he heard the subject of Jerry's clowning. It was the old rivalry between Mississippi State, Jerry's alma mater, and Ole Miss. Jerry was telling the crowd of travelers that it would come to fisticuffs if he ever had to sit next to an Ole Miss graduate.

  Curt asked the ticket agent for the seat beside Jerry, and the stage was set. Jerry had settled in as Curt had stowed his bag in the overhead bin, then he took a stand in the aisle and raised his fists.

  "OK, put 'em up, Jerry"

  Jerry didn't fight. In fact, he probably found a kindred soul.

  Curt and I tire quickly and leave the gym for the murky dampness of the Spanish night. We walk back, listening as a departing C-141 shatters the silence. The plan was the same. We would try again to bank some sleep before we became legal for alert. We were coming to loathe Zaragoza. It was a beautiful place when the weather was good, but lately it had remained gloomy. And the base was small. We felt confined, even during our short stays. Zaragoza became the epitome of fatigue. It was never a haven, never a restful respite, only a place in which to recover to some mediocre level of revitalization.

  We grew tired of the fare in the chow hall and began to eat in the NCO open mess (the officer's club had closed its kitchen). The evening before we had had a curious encounter there over which Curt continued to muse.

  We had ordered the special: 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 bac
k 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.

  I return to the room and relay the information to the stirring Curt. He agrees to alert the rest of the crew while I find Lemanski. I get into my flight suit and proceed to his room. He doesn't answer the knock. Again I rap furiously on the door, but there is no response. I'm perturbed over this. The pool pilots know the rules. Like us they're supposed to remain in their rooms during their "legal" period (usually a twelve-hour window), or else notify the command post if they venture away from the telephones. I knock again and test the door. It's not locked. I peek inside. A young man is lying unconscious on the bed. The air reeks of alcohol. A whiskey bottle lies on its side on the bedstand. Clothes and flight gear are strewn about the room. I touch the foot and shake it.

  "Lemanski. Lemanski, wake up. This is an alert, man." He moves not a whisker. I shake him again violently, yet still he doesn't move. My God, I think. He's dead! I look around for signs of drugs that he may have taken with the liquor, but there are none. Then Curt appears in the open doorway.

  "Curt, I think he's dead."

  Curt comes over and shakes him vigorously, spoiling my search for a pulse. Then the man resurrects. Eyes slowly open and stare at me through a stupid glaze.

  "He's drunk as a skunk!" declares Curt, informing me of the obvious. We shake him some more and raise him to an upright position.

  "Lemanski, don't you understand, we've been alerted. The crew bus will be here in a few minutes. You gotta get going, man!" This was a serious breach of the Uniform Code of Military Justicesomewhat like being drunk on guard duty. I know we are all under tremendous stress, and some handle it better than others. I don't want him to be caught, but he is too far gone.

  Curt continues his prodding. "Come on, Lemanski, GET UP! GET UP!"

  I interject, rebuking him. "Lemanski, I can't handle this. You're not fit to fly with us. I'm gonna call the command post and tell them you're sick. Understand?"

  "Leave him alone, Curt," I admonish as we leave the room. "He's too far gone."

  But then we look back, and there he stands in the door, looking like death warmed over. His lips quiver and try to formulate a word. Curt goes to his side. "What is it, man? Come on, spit it out. What is it with you? Don't you know what you're doing?"

  The words come slowly, painfully from a dry, writhing tongue: "Wh-who. . are y-you?"

  "Fo
r God's sake, man, I'm your aircraft commander. You've been assigned to my crew."

  A hand goes up to an obviously pain-laden head. "A-aircr. . corn. . wh-what kind of air. . craft?"

  Curt and I eye one another. Something is very wrong here. "Why, C-141, of course. You're a pool pilot, right?"

  "P-p-p-pool pilot?" He gropes for words. I look up at the number on the door. It's 230. Lemanski is in 130, on the floor below. I look back into the room. The crumpled flight suit bears a Strategic Air Command patch but has no rank on the shoulders. The man is a tanker crewman, a boomer. And he's recovering.

  Painful babble begins to issue from fluttering lips as the glazed eyes search for telltale signs of a bad dream. Listening intently, as if trying to garner secrets from a dying prospector, we're able to glean a few clipped words from the gibberish. "I. . I. . I. . what you're talkin' ab. . twenty hour. . missi. . refuel. . fight. . I didn't even t-touch. . gr. . man, for eighteenhey man, who. . who are you? What you want fr' me?"

  I think quickly.

  Still using the name of the man down below, I proffer a hurried explanation. "Lemanski, there's been a great mistake. The MAC command post gave me the wrong room number. I'll have their asses for this, don't worry, buddy. Get on back in there and get some sleep. I'll straighten this mess out right now." We usher him back to the bunk.

  We find the real Lemanski, who somehow learned of the alert, already moving bags down in the lobby, and join in the bag drag out to curbside, where the bus is waiting. On a shuttle back into the lobby, we see that the boomer has come down to see us off. He stands there like the creature from the black lagoon but still looks confused. I don't know if he intends to attack or what. I grab a couple of bags and call out to him. "Lemanski, get on back to bed, son. We'll check on you later."