by Mark Berent
CHAPTER NINE
1200 Hours Local, 21 December 1965
The Family Dining Room
The White House, Washington, DC
He was from Texas, stood six-foot-three, weighed 210 pounds, and said he did not trust a man whose pecker he did not have in his pocket. He sat down for lunch with four others at an oval-shaped mahogany Duncan Phyfe table covered with a thick white linen tablecloth. A mural on the far wall depicted Cornwallis surrendering his sword at Yorktown. Enough bow-tied waiters were in attendance to ensure swift service. The luncheon was a Tuesday ritual that started at one o'clock in the family dining room on the second floor of the White House. He was the thirty-sixth president of the United States, but the first to select bombing targets at a weekly luncheon.
The guests always included the Secretaries of Defense and State, his press secretary, his closest advisor, and, occasionally, the Director of Central Intelligence (DCI). He rarely invited members of the military to his luncheon. In fact, he rarely saw members of the military at all. Since June 1965 he had only met privately with the Chief of Staff of the Army twice. He did meet privately with the USAF Chief of Staff once in a while, but always in his office, never at the Tuesday luncheon.
To the surprise of many, the lively and quick-witted Chief of Staff of the Air Force, whose spectacles and gangly frame belied the fact that he was an experienced combat aviator, was invited to a Tuesday luncheon. To accompany him was the SecDef's personal target officer, USAF Major General Albert G. "Whitey" Whisenand, the Deputy Director Ops and Planning (Detached). Considering what happened, the odds were good Whitey would not be invited back.
Before moving into the semi-oval dining room, the luncheon guests met in the sitting room for drinks, which the two officers declined. The luncheon talk was banal and did not afford much opportunity for the two Air Force officers to contribute. After the table was cleared and the waiters dismissed, aides erected the portable briefing easels to hold the target information charts. The president stood and spread out on the table some highly detailed black-and-white target photos (taken at high cost by unarmed RF-101s). He bent over to inspect them. This particular stack of targets selected for his approval had been made up by Whitey from the JCS Target List. The list was a compendium of the most serious of the 94 military targets in North Vietnam ranging from POL (Petroleum, Oil, and Lubrication) storage areas to docking facilities in the Haiphong Harbor and the two rail lines running south out of Red China. Had they been swiftly and completely destroyed in 1964 or 1965, the JCS believed the war would have been stopped before it started. Barry Goldwater, a fighter pilot in the Air Force Reserves who had run for president, had vowed to do just that. His opponent, LBJ, won the election by vowing not only would he not do that (and risk World War Three), he vowed he would never let American boys go fight a war the Asian boys should be fighting.
Now, after due consideration and no little anxiety, a few JCS targets were being hit piecemeal. Each time one was authorized at the Tuesday lunch, the White House held its breath in fear that either the Soviets or the Red Chinese would be provoked to retaliate. The Pentagon was about evenly divided on whether or not the two communist powers would likely launch retaliatory attacks. The White House had apparently only one position: The communists, China (as they did in Korea) or Russia, would indeed respond and World War Three would most probably start. White House policy was based on that thesis.
There were other criteria to be examined before a JCS target strike was authorized. Each request presented to the president was on a single sheet of paper containing a four-point checklist:
1. The military advantage of striking the proposed target.
2. The risk to American pilots and aircraft in the raid.
3. The danger that the strike might widen the war by forcing other countries into the fighting.
4. The danger of heavy civilian casualties.
Once the target list reached the luncheon committee, Whitey and the CSAF (Chief of Staff, Air Force), in fact the whole JCS, were out of the loop. Knowing that, Whitey and the CSAF wondered why they hadn't been dismissed when lunch was finished. Surely this was a social luncheon and not a business session where the Air Force men would actually be asked to comment on Air Force matters.
They watched the president and his men hunch over their own copies of the number one request and its accompanying photo which was to airdrop mines into Haiphong Harbor to prevent ship-borne resupply of war material. It was an oft repeated request as of late which made the negative answer predictable. Each man graded his copy of the checklist, and together they totaled and averaged their scores to sum up a collective "No." Although the Haiphong mining and the cutting of rail supply lines that ran southeast and southwest out of China into North Vietnam had great military value, it also had, as the SecState put it, a "war-widening value;" and, furthermore, was a risk to aircrew.
Later, target number seven, the cement plant near Nam Dinh was approved first time up. It had low military value, but then its war widening risk was equally low. Using the same techniques, the president quickly disapproved 14 more requests. On-scene commanders could process and approve air strike target requests in South Vietnam and in Route Pack One in the southern portion of North Vietnam, but not the rest of the North; that was the president's personal turf.
From half a world away these men, politicians for the most part, would decide which targets would be struck and with what ordnance. On a case-by-case basis, they would labor over recce photos and target information of railroad junctions, petroleum storage tanks, railroad bridges, factories, warehouses, airfields ("war widening"), AAA and missile sites ("only if fired upon"), docks ("awful, just awful, lots of boats there with Quakers and Swedes, and Rooskies, too"), and truck depots ("probably civilian workers there").
Watching the president perform this activity, Whitey became bored and fell to musing and mulling over topics ranging from the overhaul needed soon for his cranky steam heating furnace in his McLean home to the ambiguous reports surfacing concerning the buildup at Loc Ninh in South Vietnam. He was becoming more convinced the VC and NVA were gathering men and material in that area north of Saigon in Binh Long province for some unusual purpose. Normally it was quiet up there.
He thought about Ralph and Paulson. Although each had extensive fighter experience in Korea and considerable command experience as well, neither had, as yet, taken a combat tour in Southeast Asia. Both had volunteered to do so, and they often talked about going. They had too much rank to be assigned as line fighter pilots, and would, in fact, be lucky if they were allowed to fly at all. Combat fighter flying in Vietnam was being done by lieutenants, a great number of captains and majors, and a handful of lieutenant colonels. The few colonels who were allowed to fly did so because they held command slots in flying units. Brigadiers and above weren't even allowed into cockpits by themselves. The Navy did it the same way, flying the hell out of their lieutenants and lieutenant commanders. It wasn't that the higher ranks didn't want to or couldn't fly. It was because they had too much rank and command position to be flying daily combat sorties. They had long since been promoted beyond the fun and relatively carefree duty (if you don't count getting shot at) of squadron fighter jocks.
Partway through the target request list, the president straightened up and stretched his back. He looked over to Major General Albert G. "Whitey" Whisenand and asked him, with obvious pride but in a manner that would brook no abstaining, what he thought of his, the president's, ability to prosecute an airwar. Whitey looked at the surroundings for an instant, then back to the tall man from Texas.
"Sir, respectfully, I must point out that as a target officer you are unschooled in basic Douhet principles; principles which clearly stipulate that piecemeal application of airpower is imprudent. Coupling that lack with the use of airpower which lacks mass, surprise, and consistency and you have a situation that wastes lives and money. This, in turn, fosters further contempt for this non-war in the opinion of the American peop
le, and those of the rest of the world, while accomplishing exactly nothing."
There was shocked silence in the room. Those moving seemed to pause in mid-stride. The SecDef, black hair slicked back, gave Whitey a hard and thoughtful look. The president stared at him. Both were about the same age, mid-fifties. The president knew Major General Albert G. Whisenand was a Congressional favorite because he was from a wealthy and influential family that went back to the Mayflower, and he would always speak what he believed to be the truth regardless of the consequences.
Whitey had, in fact, saved the U.S. from a near-disastrous plan to add U.S. airpower to that of France in Indochina in 1954. The then-Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, Admiral Arthur W. Radford, supported by Secretary of State John Foster Dulles, had proposed to President Eisenhower that furnishing American aid in the form of fighter-bombers and aerial resupply would save the beleaguered French garrison at Dien Bien Phu. Major General Whisenand, then Colonel Whisenand, informed a Senate Sub-Committee that such a move was a clear cut signal to the world at large that the U.S. supported colonial powers in a post World War II era that abhorred such things. Further, Whisenand had said, the use of U.S. airplanes, which would have to be eventually based in French Indochina (as Vietnam and the surrounding countries of Laos and Cambodia were then called), would require the commitment of U.S. ground troops to maintain, supply, and protect the American airmen and their airplanes.
U.S. Army General Matthew Ridgeway concurred and so informed President Eisenhower. Big Matt didn't really need Whitey's input since both were members of the "Never Again Club," but he appreciated and needed his support in front of Congress. Both had served in Korea and from experience fighting the North Koreans and Chinese there, they knew that the U.S. should "never again" engage in an Asian land war.
The president stared steadily at Whitey then finally threw back his head and gave a great yelp of laughter. SecDef, SecState, Advisor, and Press Secretary breathed a sigh of relief; so did the CSAF. He had decided that it would do no good to echo Whitey's quite correct statements because as the CSAF, he could be of more benefit in these bad days by maintaining his own position. He believed that one of his more important duties was to serve as a buffer between the troops in the field and that combination of an intransigent and abusive Secretary of Defense and an equally domineering and dictatorial president of the United States.
"Whitey, you old fart, you don't back down an inch, do you?" the president guffawed. Whitey, wisely, remained silent while the room sprang back to life. Conversation resumed sprightly about everything except the president's use of Navy and USAF aircraft to send “messages” to Hanoi.
After a moment, the president looked straight at Whisenand and said, "Whitey, I’m going to tell you an old Texas story." The room fell silent again. "Back in the days of the depression, back there by the Pedernales River," he pronounced it `Purden-alice', "a new young teacher applied to the school board for a job. His papers were in order; but to test him, a member asked whether the world was flat or round. The young man thought for a moment and replied `I can teach it either way.'"
Whitey grinned at the humor of the story, but not the current situation. He thought he knew what was coming.
The president went up and put his arm across Whitey's shoulders. "I've got to teach it both ways," he said quietly and in a manner indicating he was taking Whitey into his innermost confidence. "You understand I have the duty to satisfy the American people at home yet protect their interests abroad. Do you know what that means? Do you know the heavy responsibility I carry?"
Without waiting for an answer the president disengaged his arm, strode to the table and banged his fist on a photo of the Thanh Hoa Bridge, and said, "I've got to tell Ho Chi Minh that unless he stops his aggression in South Veet-nam, that I'm going to hammer hell out of him; and at the same time I've got to tell, to convince, the American people, that I am not going to escalate this Veet-nam war."
The president glared at Whitey, and then at the CSAF, "Dammit, I'm teaching it both ways. I have to teach it both ways. Furthermore, I don't think you or anybody else over in that Goddamn five-sided crap house knows that."
The CSAF took Whitey back to the Pentagon with him in his chauffeured Air Force-blue Plymouth sedan. They got out at the River entrance, mounted the 11 steps, and entered the far left of the five tall, oaken double doors. Whitey automatically started to turn right. He planned to say goodbye then go down stairwell 71 leading to his basement domain. The CSAF put his hand on his arm. "Come up and have some coffee. We need to talk." Whitey nodded and followed him up the escalator.
1415 Hours Local, 21 December 1965
Office of the Chief of Staff, United States Air Force
The Pentagon, Washington, DC
Christmas in the Pentagon is just the opposite from Christmas in a combat zone. For weeks ahead of the actual event certain doors far away from the power corridors become decorated with large Santa posters, red and green crepe paper, shiny ribbons, and clever sayings such as "You'd Better Be Naughty" written across the bottom of a picture showing a provocative girl in a revealing Santa costume. Inside these same rooms miniature green or silver tin and plastic Christmas trees stand on desks, on filing cabinets, or in corners. Ropey tinsel becomes more evident as the actual holidays draw near. There is great anticipation of the office party; will there be booze? Will the colonel come? Will it be like last year when Florene got so tipsy she threw her arms around Major Cruikshank and told him he was adorable, simply adorable. And don't forget Buck Sergeant Tine who got more than tipsy, threw his arm around Major Cruikshank and told him what a shit he was.
Actual paid holiday time off at the Pentagon wasn't much according to the majority of the lower ranking GS workers, the lower ranking EMs, and what few LTs and captains there were in that five-sided building (they had heard what the president had called it). The senior GS employees, along with the senior NCOs and senior officers, on one hand dreaded the holiday season because it really cut into their tight schedule and work productivity. On the other hand, some welcomed it because it meant they could come in during the holidays and get a lot of nag jobs over and done with. These types, regardless of rank were generally spoken of, not kindly by their peers, as workaholics. The Chief of Staff of the Air Force (CSAF) was regarded as one.
The CSAF steered Whitey to the side of his large main office where three burgundy-colored leather arm chairs were placed around a coffee table in front of a matching couch. The table was covered with the latest editions of various defense journals and copies of the Washington Post and the Washington Star. They waited while the steward served coffee in huge plain ceramic mugs with the USAF logo.
"Whitey," the CSAF said, "do you think SecDef McNamara will keep you on after what you said today?"
"No Sir, I don't. And it doesn't matter. I was never really necessary in that position. No one was ever necessary there or is now or ever will be in the future. I think the original idea was to have one more military hand on the throttle, but it didn't work the way he, the SecDef, or they, the President and the SecDef, envisioned. The hand, my hand, tried to hold the throttle back or jam it all the way forward. Either stop the train or run it full steam to its destination. It is unwieldy enough to have target authorization requests come up from J-3 Operations at MACV, in conjunction with Seventh Air Force, through CINCPAC, without being shunted off to a side office such as mine. It makes no difference what I or my people, Ralph and Paulson, say. The lunch group picks the shots on their terms of reference."
The CSAF took a long swallow, placed his mug on the coffee table, and leaned forward from his deep arm chair. He shook his head, his glasses gleaming.
"Whitey, you're the oldest living active duty two-star, and you're so well supported that I can't fire you." He gave a fleeting smile. "Not that I would. All I can do is ask if you would consider retiring from active duty."
CSAF leaned back in his chair; request made. He knew what Whitey would say,
but he also knew he'd have to tell the SecDef he had asked Whitey to retire. The president might appreciate, albeit grudgingly, Whitey's candor, not so the SecDef. He had fired senior officers for merely smiling at times the SecDef judged inappropriate. Since the SecDef himself never smiled, all times were inappropriate.
"No Sir, I'm not ready to retire." Whitey knew the game.
"Well, then," CSAF said, "where can I possibly put you out of harm's way?"
"Out of harm's way?" Whitey put his mug down and walked to the Chief's window and looked out at the Potomac River. "I don't know what you mean by `out of harm's way,' but I'll tell you what I would like. If you don't mind," Whitey added, almost as an afterthought.
Damn, the CSAF thought to himself, hoping Whitey didn't want command of an Air Division or some other operational slot. He's got the date of rank, but those jobs belong to younger men moving through to even higher positions of responsibility and authority.
"Tell me," CSAF ordered.
"If I can't stop it, I might as well join it. How about Chief of Intelligence at Tan Son Nhut?" Whitey asked. The CSAF glanced at Whitey, surprised. Actually, he thought, Chief of Intel at TSN, though a one-star slot, was fine. In fact, he mused, the extra horsepower of Whitey's second star wouldn't hurt although the Army wheels in MACV would scream and most likely re-adjust upward the rank of their Intel chief. Another thought struck him--the further away from the Pentagon the better. Although he liked Whitey personally, he could not afford, as the Chief of Staff, to have a subordinate around who might cross the Secretary of Defense or the Commander in Chief, LBJ, out of hand.
"That might be arranged," CSAF said.
"Chief," Whitey said, "if I transfer out I've got to take care of my boys. Would you look into this?" Whitey pulled out his notebook and scribbled out his suggested assignments for Ralph and Paulson. He handed the paper to the Chief who placed it in his blue-covered `To Do' notebook.
He then thought of Whitey's Vietnam reconnaissance plans.
"What about your recce plans with the NRO? You were getting to the point of briefing the JCS, weren't you?" The CSAF was asking Whitey about his position on the board of the National Reconnaissance Organization (NRO) and its attempt to set up intelligence gathering in hostile Southeast Asia (SEA) areas with a combination of ground teams, drones at low altitudes, U-2s in the upper atmosphere, and satellites in space.
"Yes, Sir," said Whitey, "we are. Lieutenant General Austin has, I believe, an appointment to brief the JCS in the Tank next Tuesday at 1400. I think you'll find the gaps, particularly those that apply to ground and drone recce, will be filled. My input is terminated."
"All right, Whitey," CSAF said standing up, a clear sign of dismissal, "in that case the slot at Seventh is yours as soon as it opens up."
Then, remembering, the CSAF snapped his fingers. "Tex Austin. His son just went KIA, didn't he?"
"Yes, damn shame. Young Paul Austin. He had no business in fighters. He could have, should have, stayed flying transports in MAC. I heard he had a good career going there." Whitey paused, then added, "Did you know his wingman was Sam Bannister's oldest son? He got shot up at the same time and barely made it back to the runway at Bien Hoa."
"You mean Silk Screen Sam, that randy actor's son is an Air Force pilot at Bien Hoa?" The CSAF looked up with interest. "We need, correction, I need, to keep track of stuff like that. Remember when Diderault's kid, the F-84 squadron commander, blew his brains all over his squadron office ceiling with a service forty-five? The Chief of Staff didn't even know about it until the Washington Post called for comment."
"This is different, Chief," Whitey said.
"In what way?"
"The Diderault boy had an authentic, grade A, war hero dad whose exploits as a Navy fighter pilot in World War II were legend. The movies of him are still on the late show. It all caught up with the son. Notice he didn't join the Navy to fly. He joined the Air Force. Wanted to forge his own identity, I suppose. Kind of reminds me of Tex Austin's kid. Should have stayed in MAC. Each kid probably was out to prove something and it caught up with them."
"Using what you just said as a guide, don't you think Silk Screen Sam Bannister's son is the same way--out to prove something?"
"Maybe so. Aren't we all in one way or another. But the man's record is good. He slugged through an AFIT engineering degree and had been accepted for the test pilot school at Edwards, as I recall." Whitey said. "At any rate, he never goes for publicity. Always plays it low and quiet."
"He didn't play it low and quiet at Las Vegas. He got in some brawl, didn't he?"
"Chief, some downtown punk pressed him too far at the Silver Screen Hotel one night about his Dad, so young Bannister fed him his teeth. He's very protective of his father."
"What is his name? Silk Screen Sam like his Dad?"
"No. If anything, it's Quiet Court. His half-brother is called Silky Shawn. He's a bit slick."
"Never heard of him. Wait a minute, isn't he that loud-mouthed journalist?"
Whitey nodded.
"You mean that writer punk is a brother to one of our guys?" The CSAF seemed to take this as a personal affront to the untarnished name of the United States Air Force.
"Half-brother. Same father, different mother. And Silky Shawn is not a full-fledged journalist. He's a stringer in Saigon for the California Sun magazine."
"How come you know all this, Whitey?" CSAF asked fixing Whitey with a squinty stare.
"I'm Shawn's godfather. Samuel Whisenand Bannister and I are cousins."
"Humph, I should have known," CSAF said ushering Whitey out a side door to the E-Ring corridor.
Forty minutes after the Chief of Staff of the United States Air Force ushered Whitey out, the red phone on his desk buzzed once indicating the Chairman wished to talk to him. That the hotline for the CJCS (Chairman of the Joint Chiefs of Staff) buzzed only once, instead of emitting a strident continuous ring until answered, as was once used by an imperious predecessor Admiral Radford, was a tribute to the gentlemanliness of the current CJCS, U.S. Army General Earle Wheeler.
"John," the Chairman said, "the president just called. He wants Whitey Whisenand assigned to the NSC (National Security Council) effective immediately. You were at the White House today with them. What's this all about?"
"General, I wish I knew. I was about to call and tell you about it. I thought Whitey bumped heads badly with the president about the president's ability, or lack of ability I should say, to select bombing targets in North Vietnam. Apparently the president thought Whitey's frankness refreshing and wants him to infuse some of the same into the NSC. I'll see that he gets the word."
"Do that. Like Methuselah, Whisenand will be with us forever. I suppose we need people like him although for the life of me I don't know why."
The Chief of the Air Force restrained himself from comparing Whitey more to Diogenes than Methuselah and answering "To keep us honest." Instead, he thought this a good time to get some power to back Whitey's request for Navy Captain Paulson. Not that he was afraid to go to the CNO (Chief, Naval Operations) himself, but it didn't hurt to ensure high level interest for his request. Besides, with Whitey on the NSC at the president's request, he'd best keep on his good side.
"General," the Air Force Chief began, "Whitey believes that the Navy captain who worked for him earned a good assignment and wants to help him get it." He told him about Jerry Paulson. They both knew the man had to be qualified and in line because no service chief would submit to pressure from above to promote or position an unqualified man over his peers. The Chairman told him he would mention it to the CNO who would take it from there.
1500 Hours Local, 27 December 1965
Office of Major General Albert. G. Whisenand
The Pentagon, Washington, DC
Outside the Pentagon, the heavy gray air of the low ceiling muffled the engine sounds of planes taking off from Washington National Airport a few miles to the southeast. Slush was on the str
eets. The forecast called for sleet. It was the Monday after the long Christmas weekend, and a typically dark late afternoon December day. All the lights were on in the Pentagon where U.S. Air Force Colonel John Ralph and U.S. Navy Captain Jerry Paulson reported to Major General Whitey Whisenand as requested.
At 41, the five foot, ten inch Ralph could be described as pudgy, if not heavy. His face, already tending to jowls, was accented by a deep frown that had become almost permanent. Paulson, lean and tall, had a finely sculpted face and thin lips. Neither officer knew what the general had in mind. They did know that after his visit to the White House last week, he had spent time with the CSAF then sequestered himself in this very office making and receiving many phone calls, according to the information they had weaseled out of his secretary, Betty. She said even the White House switchboard had come through for him and wasn't that something.
The general served coffee. Ralph and Paulson sipped, as politely as possible, the acrid, black, steaming liquid from the Aynsley bone china mugs the general had supplied. Ralph and Paulson, no strangers to the general's Brenny coffee purportedly from the Isle of Man, had opined that since the Isle of Man grew no coffee beans they knew of, the noxious grains were probably from a cache of coffee beans full of one hundred year-old rat turds retrieved in the 18th century from a sunken sailing vessel thence left to rot in a potato cellar. Whitey Whisenand sipped a few sips, smacked his lips, then mouthed to the world at large his favorite double entendre "Ahhh, Man, that's good coffee." Finished with the coffee ritual, he looked steadily at Ralph and Paulson.
"This office is dissolved as of midnight tonight. The president has requested I accept a position as a special advisor for air on the National Security Council."
"Great Scott," Paulson said, truly surprised. Both he and Ralph had thought Whisenand would be involuntarily placed on the retirement list.
"Now, as to you two gentlemen. Ralph, you are going to spend five months upgrading into the F-105 at McConnell; Jerry, you're going to spend about the same length of time going to every RAG (Replacement Air Group) the Navy has for fighter aircraft. Then you both go to command slots in Vietnam. Ralph, you've got the F-105 Wing at Tahkli. Jerry, you're to be the new CAG on the carrier Coral Sea in the South China Sea. Any questions?"
That night each of Whitey's officers took his wife out for a gourmet meal, and plied her with wine and compliments. Somewhere between the entrée and the dessert, the two men, barely able to conceal their glee, told their wives of their new assignments. Later that night, each man made love to his spouse with more vigor, imagination, and ardor than usual.
0300 Hours Local, 28 December 1965
Braniff Parking Lot
Los Angeles International Airport, California
After Braniff International MAC Contract flight number B2T5 (the numbers were always ‘odd’ flying east, ‘even’ going west) deplaned its load of weary G.I.s at the Los Angeles Terminal, Mrs. Bradley L. Lewis, known better as Nancy, went to Braniff's employee parking lot, where she ground the battery dead trying to start her old 1957 blue Chevy 2-door. She closed her eyes and rested her head on the steering wheel. "Ah, Brad," she moaned. "Oh God, I never thought it would be like this." She'd had the Chevy since before she married Brad and drove it to and from work to save the splendid Oldsmobile 88 convertible that they bought a few months before Brad went to Vietnam the preceding spring as an advisor. He had been assigned to Team 75 out of My Tho to the 7th ARVN Infantry Division in IV Corps, South Vietnam. She decided as he left, from this VERY terminal, that she didn't want to put any more mileage on the beautiful convertible until Brad came home. She had driven it to their apartment in Marina del Rey and put it in storage the next day. Two months later, in July of 1965, she found out Brad would not be coming home at the end of his tour. His ARVN field force had been overrun and he was declared MIA. Nancy, Mrs. Bradley L. Lewis, had heard nothing from the Department of Defense since.
She climbed out of the expired Chevy and walked through the well lighted, securely fenced lot to the gate guard's shack where lighted red and blue Christmas tree lights gaily framed one window. Braniff International knew car batteries were unreliable when their employees were often gone for weeks at a time over the Pacific.
Old Ramon pushed the battery cart to Nancy's Chevy and started it for her. He refused the dollar bill she tried to give him. As she drove the Chevy out of the lot, Ramon noticed her left tail light was out. He made a note to himself to buy one and fix it for her when she next came in. He was 63 and felt very fatherly toward the girls who flew so far out to sea. And he had met the brave Sergeant First Class Brad Lewis and felt particularly fatherly toward his beautiful amber-eyed wife.
