Baghdad or Bust

by William Robert Stanek

  Yet we were given no breathing space because just then the egress began. We tallied the outgoing fighters one by precious one. Gypsy was squawking, and in the background I heard Phantom. It seemed like it’d been a while since I’d heard good old Phantom, our friends on the RC. But then again, this last week had been so hellish that maybe I had lost their squawk in the frenzy of it all.

  There were no better words to hear than Gypsy’s final confirmation. “The packages have safely egressed and are headed back to base! Shadow, you’re cleared off stations!”

  “Roger, Gypsy, we’re coming around and going back to base.”

  The crew’s cheer echoed throughout the whole of the Lady, but privately we also sighed.

  My blood pressure slowly returned to normal. Soon I could no longer hear the dull thump-thump of my heart in my ears. With it went the surge of adrenaline that had sustained me for the last few hours, and weariness swept over me like a storm. I closed my eyes and momentarily let my thoughts take me.

  Outbound pilots reported to Gypsy that they’d never seen the AAA so thick and that there was plenty of new SAM activity in the area—things we knew firsthand. In the coming days those nests would have to be targeted and destroyed or they’d start doing serious damage.

  Someone walked by my position, and I opened my eyes long enough to see that it was our visitor. I was sure he had seen quite a bit more than he bargained for. For a moment in my mind’s eye I saw Bad Boy’s face, his eyes wide, his expression something that wasn’t so much awe as shock.

  I knew a day was coming when we’d be closer still, a day when we’d be jamming the eye of the storm. The flack would be so close it would seem as if I could reach out and grab it, just as it could reach out and grab us.

  Morning,

  Monday, 11 February 1991

  Saturday’s night flight spilled over into Sunday and I got back to the barracks early Sunday morning. Mehmet, a Turkish gentleman who took care of our building, had a surprise for us Sunday, a home-cooked meal. He served up a steaming plate of roast chicken, potatoes and onions, and several loaves of fresh-baked hard bread. It was certainly the best food I’d eaten in a long while, and it made my duty a little warmer and brighter.

  Also, I realized something that a few others seemed to realize just then—the Turkish people were really grateful that we were there doing what we are doing. I had had apprehensions about the Turks because of the initial unrest when NATO forces began arriving, but those soon evaporated.

  We were settling into our new quarters. Everything seemed promising. It’s surprising how much the new quarters had changed people’s attitudes. There was renewed excitement even among the habitual mopers. I was confident that in a few days, everyone would have forgotten the PME except me. I wanted to remember it, so I could truly know how fortunate we all were when we finally got to go home.

  I was supposed to start mission planning cell the next day, so Monday’s morning flight should be my last for at least eight days. I could really use the break; twelve-hour days and a set routine would seem a breeze compared to flying a mission in the combat zone and ever changing schedules. Yet I wasn’t sure things would be the same if I were not flying.

  I’ve saved the best news for last. Late Sunday night I finally got a chance to talk to Katie. She sounded worried and sweet. The phone call went much better than last time. And yes, I told her I loved her several times.

  She told me she sent me a Valentine’s day surprise. I felt bad; I’d forgotten all about Valentine’s day. I looked at the Base Exchange for a card, but they were all sold out. So I made a valentine of my own—a hundred hand-drawn hearts and then a hundred more—I hoped Katie would get it by Thursday.

  Katie’s picture sat on the nightstand beside my bed. In it she was wearing a ruffled red dress pulled loosely about the shoulders. I had taken that picture on Christmas eve.

  I had gotten another voice tape from her a few days previously. I now had four. I’d grown accustomed to putting on headphones and going to sleep to the sound of her voice. She always mixed in a few of our favorite songs and she would sing the words in the background—she has such a beautiful voice.

  Katie told me that she had called my mother. I still hadn’t told Mom I was in the Gulf. Mom took the news hard. She and Katie talked for more than an hour.

  Mom said she had known something was wrong when I called the night before the war, but she hadn’t known what. Katie gave her my address, and she said she would write.

  I’m not sure why I hadn’t written her yet. I suppose it was because I didn’t want her to worry. I had tried to start a letter several times. It was just that nothing sounded right. And mom isn’t the sort of person who takes this kind of news easily.

  Tuesday, 12 February 1991

  Monday’s early morning Go went well, and I was home by early afternoon. I was supposed to start MPC on Tuesday; but as they hadn’t pulled me yet, I would be flying again today. Tennessee Jim asked if I’d mind flying again. I told him straight up, “Wouldn’t miss it for the world!”

  Since the gym was so close, I no longer had an excuse to skip workouts. After almost four weeks without hitting the weights, I felt like Silly Putty. I was sore as hell, and every inch of my body ached. But I determined to go again the next day without giving the pain a second thought. I’m no monster, but as I gradually worked my way up to 275 on the bench, I felt good! When you can’t have sex, you might as well hit the weights; you have to vent aggression somewhere, and a good workout takes my mind off other things.

  I was pleased when the day’s flight went smoothly as well. The Gray Lady touched down just as dusk covered the Turkish landscape. As I and ten other tired souls piled out the crew entrance door, a westerly wind was blowing strong across the runway and as it raced to the mountains across the flat land it took with it what remained of the day’s warmth. The crew van still hadn’t arrived, but it wasn’t all that unusual to wait fifteen to thirty minutes for it to pull up.

  I used my A-bags as a seat and sat down for the long wait. Soon the sky overhead was black as coal. Crow and Patrick had already finished up their postflight checks, which included the final powering down and sealing of the plane, and joined us on the tarmac. It’d been a long day and a long flight. We’d had problems with the system the entire time. It’d been up and down so many times I’d lost count. Oddly, when it had mattered most, the Lady’s systems had purred; and we were thankful for that much.

  Tennessee Jim glanced at his watch and cussed loudly under his breath. Forty-five minutes had passed.

  Patrick was about to break the seals and head back into the plane when a pair of headlights approached along the darkened runway. I stood and stretched, then picked up my bags.

  “What the hell took you so long?” screamed Jim as we piled into the back of the van. “Click up the rear heaters; we’re freezing!”

  “I was supposed to get off at 18:00,” said Charlotte.

  “Boo-hoo!” responded Ice. “We could have been back in the barracks by now ourselves.”

  “Who’s your replacement?” asked Captain Sammy.

  Charlotte didn’t respond, she just cast her eyes toward the rear of the cabin and then put the van into drive.

  We’d already missed most of the post-brief with the other players, so we headed straight for ops. Captain Sammy was nice enough to give us his postflight briefing in the back of the van. “Good job today,” he said, and that was about it.

  At ops, we had only to turn in our additional gear, which included our .38s and bullets, then check in with intel. I was headed out the door and back to the van when I heard someone calling my name. I turned about on my heel, and saw trouble: Major James standing next to Tennessee Jim.

  I started toward them. Charlotte handed me the crew van keys. “Sorry,” she said in a subdued, yet relieved tone.

  “We need you to work MPC this evening,” Major James said, “You have any problems with that?”

  I looked Tennessee squa
re in the eye. He knew I was pissed, but I knew better than to complain. “No, not really.”

  “Good,” Major James said, “you weren’t supposed to fly today, but it seems there was a mix-up. You were supposed to be on the night crew this evening, and the person you’re replacing is already in crew rest to fly. When you come back from dropping off the crew, see the duty officer. I’ll explain the situation to him. I’m sure after the next line comes back, you’ll be able to go get some rest.”

  Major James paused then added, “And thanks.”

  “No problem, sir,” I called back, and then, keys in hand, I headed to the van.

  I dropped part of the crew off at the new quarters, and then dropped everyone but Charlotte off at their quarters. Charlotte was in the main billeting building; so after she gave me directions, I headed off.

  “Sorry,” she said again when I dropped her off.

  “Hey, it’s not your fault,” I replied, then sped off.

  As directed, I checked in with the duty officer first thing. He gave me a list of names: people I needed to alert for the next Go. In a few minutes, I’d have to head out; but before that, I took a moment to catch my breath. My head was still spinning from the flight, and the adrenaline pump I’d felt during the flight was completely gone.

  Almost everyone on the list was in the new quarters, so I stopped there first. On the way, I went by my room to grab something to eat. Cowboy and Chris were already asleep.

  The next couple of hours went by quickly. An hour after alerting the crew, I had to go back and pick everyone up. A few hours later I had to drive them out to the plane, and in between I had a number of other things to do. I found out Ray, my office chief from Sembach, was temporarily working the night shift also. He showed me the ropes.

  It was after 06:00 the next morning before I finally got to get some sleep—nothing like working a twelve-hour night after a twelve-hour day. By the time I reached my room, I could’ve slept standing up. Even so, upon reflection, had I the chance to do it again, I still would’ve flown. Who knows, maybe I was on that flight for a reason; if I hadn’t been there, things could have gone differently.

  Wednesday, 13 February 1991

  It was 17:45 when Charlotte pulled up in front of the barracks. I was waiting outside and she tossed me the keys. She had alerted Captain Hillman’s crew nearly an hour ago. By the time I dropped her off at the main billeting quarters, where I picked up Candid the crew’s copilot; Karen, aka Mellow Yellow; and Sandy, part of the mission crew, and then returned to the new quarters, everyone else was waiting to head down to ops.

  I checked off the names on my list as the remainder of the crew boarded: Rollin, the AMT; Darwin, the Eng; Captain Hillman, the Pilot; Beebop, the Nav; Stopwatch, the MCC; and the rest of the mission crew: Topper, Able, Max, Tommy, and Steve.

  I was sure glad I wasn’t on this crew. They looked downright glum. It was most likely due to Stopwatch’s presence. He was a definite anal-retentive SOB. He was the type of person that made flying a miserable chore just because he was in a sour mood. And since it was fairly safe to say he hadn’t gotten laid in the past four weeks unless it was by Madam and her five queens, he was surely in a fire-pissing mood.

  The drive to ops went quickly. “Cheer up!” I told Tommy and Able as they piled out of the van. “Things could be worse; you could find out you have to work MPC after flying all day.”

  The ops center was quiet when I entered. The duty officer was playing Tetris on a Gameboy. He didn’t even look up when I put the keys to the van on the key rack.

  “Get with Ray,” he said when I was about to sit down. “He’ll show you how to break out the ATO for tomorrow’s lines.”

  I shot him a hard glance. I was still a little bitter about having to work twelve full hours yesterday after a flight. He didn’t even see it. He was still playing Tetris. I asked, “Where is he?”

  “Lounge, I’d expect.”

  I glanced at the big board. “There’s a preflight crew that has to go out to the plane in thirty.”

  “Well, you got thirty minutes, don’t you?”

  I left the room and found Ray in the lounge quickly afterward. He was watching CNN. “You want to help me break out the ATO?” I asked.

  “Relax,” Ray said, “we got all evening.”

  “The LT said—”

  “Sisco’s got some problems back home; just stay out of his way. Take a break when you can get it. Daytime MPC’s hell sometimes. No reason night MPC should be unless you want it that way.”

  He’d just shown me how to wind my gears down from the high intensity and high anxiety of flying to a low gear and a calmer pace. “Hey, thanks, Ray. That’s good advice.”

  “That’s what I’m here for.”

  I sat down and tried to relax. The couch against my backside felt good when I wasn’t all tensed up waiting to go fly.

  Thirty minutes sped by and soon it was time to take the Eng and the AMT out to the plane for preflight. Rollin and Darwin gave me a better flight line orientation than I’d gotten yesterday; riding in the back was different from riding up front.

  When I returned, Ray and I broke out the Air Tasking Orders for the next day’s lines. The tasking orders contained the pertinent information for the flights, including the packages they’d be supporting. They were highly accountable items and they never left the ops center. After we finished with the ATO, we updated the mission plans, the files, and the big board.

  “That’s the routine,” Ray said. “On MPC you drive and you plan; and if we’re lucky, Sisco there’ll let one of us go early.”

  Sisco looked up from his Gameboy briefly and smirked. I frowned.

  It was time to take Captain Hillman’s crew out to the plane, so I ambled to the lounge and yelled, “Time to saddle up, boys and girls!”

  The emotions I felt as I drove up in front of the Lady were different than usual. I wasn’t all charged up, but I desperately wanted to go. Instinctively, I put the van in park, dropped the keys into my pocket, and prepared to head out, but then I remembered I was the driver today and not the flyer.

  I watched the crew go while I stayed; and as an afterthought, I yelled after them, “Have a good flight. I’ll be here to pick you up when you return.”

  Valentine’s Day,

  Thursday, 14 February 1991

  I used to love holidays, Christmas and New Year’s Eve, and those special days like Valentine’s Day. I’d wait for their approach, just as I had when I was a small boy. There was always a special splash of magic in a holiday. But all the magic was gone.

  The sun hadn’t even begun its slow descent in the western sky when I started the short trek to ops. Several companies of Turkish troops were marching along the side of the road. I regarded them as they passed, and they me. They eyed my flight suit the same way I eyed the weapons they shouldered. I was fairly resolved that this evening’s shift would eke by counted by seconds, minutes and hours until morning arrived. I carried with me a flight bag containing supper, lunch, and breakfast, and a manual can opener to open it all.

  Thursday had been an interesting day. I’d slept through most of it. I’d slept eight hours and was still tired. Suddenly flopping to straight nights was hell on my already-traumatized system. I still made it to the gym today, squashing my quadriceps so many times that my legs felt like lead weights. I needed the slow amble to stretch out more than I knew.

  The Turkish troops were gone now. I was alone, or at least I felt alone. When military vehicles weren’t driving by on the long straight road, it was so quiet I could hear my breath, the sound of stones beneath my feet, and the chirping of birds. Everything seemed calm and serene, almost as if I were not a part of the war effort anymore. As I walked, I imagined that it was out there somewhere beyond the mountains and that for a few more days it wasn’t going to touch me. Five more days like this was something to look forward to.

  The shift began as the previous two had. I checked when the lines would go, wrote out the lists
of whom I needed to pick up when, broke out what remained of the air tasking orders—the day shift had already started them. Popcorn and Ray arrived at the top of the hour. Sisco had also been early. He was already waging his private war against Gameboy and Tetris.

  No crews needed to be picked up or alerted until 19:45, and as I’d already finished up the mission plans, there wasn’t much else to do but sit back and relax. I thought it was a good time to make supper, and so I did. I cracked open a can of refried beans, plopped them onto a paper plate, then opened a can of cream style corn and poured it on top—a gourmet dinner, as usual. I had a few wieners left from yesterday that I’d put in the fridge, so I stuck them deep into the goo. Five minutes in the microwave and it would all come out steaming.

  When the microwave dinged, I was ready to eat. I went to work shoveling food into my mouth spoonful by gooey spoonful while staring at the TV. We didn’t have much selection on channels. It was either CNN or AFN. CNN was usually on at ops. The big news of the day was still the Baghdad shelter that had been bombed yesterday. There was also a small bit on the burning oilfields in Kuwait that were mucking up the skies over the battlefield. An estimated fifty fields were churning up black smoke.

  Eventually, 19:45 arrived. I looked at Popcorn. He didn’t look like he was going to move from his relaxed crouch in front of the TV for another five or six hours. I was itching to do something anyway, so I made the run. With a hint of rain in it, the evening air was fresh and rather invigorating. I swept through the barracks rather quickly, alerting ten of the twelve crewers in about fifteen minutes. All the while I did this, the smell of barbecue chicken and beer assaulted my nostrils; a group of crew dogs were having a little get together. I carried that scent of chicken and beer along with me back to ops. Having eaten or not, I still wished I could join in.