“All this bullshit about egos and your pal Lawrence is great, but what do me and Thunder do right now?”
“Well, for one thing, don’t squawk identification,” Doc said. He was alluding to the IFF (Identification, Friend or Foe) radar transponder beacon that sent out a signal for ground-based radars to identify an aircraft.
“Where did you learn about the IFF?”
“I’m a student of the F-4,” Landis said. “I figured I’d better be if I was going to be any good at saving your ass, and mine.”
18 October: 0200 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 17 October: 2200 hours, Washington, D.C.
Sara decided she was going to have to push Anthony “Muddy” Waters off dead-center. She went into the bedroom, selected an old-fashioned nightgown with a high neckline and long sleeves and got ready for bed. After brushing out her hair she walked into the living room. leaving the bedroom light on, hoping it would silhouette her figure through the nightgown. Waters, watching her, stretched out his arm.
Sara sat down close and nestled against his shoulder. “Anthony, I’m an old-fashioned modern girl…” She waited, hoping he understood.
He did. “Sara…there’s a hell of an age difference between us. Do you think—?”
“I think if I’m going to have an Anthony Jr. or an Antonia, I’d like to be halfway respectable about it.” She waited.
“Are you…?”
“No, but I want to get on with it.”
“What would you do if I said no?”
“Not be so respectable, I guess.” She was forcing herself to sound light but was close to tears.
He wasn’t about to protest too much. “Then like you say, let’s get on with it…”
18 October: 0730 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 0730 hours, Stonewood, England
Anticipating the inevitable noise complaints, Colonel Morris mounted a public-relations campaign in the local community. The 45th had flown P-51 Mustangs out of England in World War II, and Morris built on that, claiming a long-standing tradition of service in the U.K. “Jet Noise—The Sound of Freedom” was printed on thousands of bumper stickers. The colonel invited newspaper and TV reporters to tour the base and made the Officers’ Club available to the “Friends of the Eighth” for their next banquet. The public tours on Friday afternoons were a hit and well attended. It was time to get to the real work…
At 7:30 A.M. on a Monday morning the quiet was ripped apart as the wing started its training schedule. Four Phantoms cranked their engines in unison, the first go of the day. Within two hours the 45th would launch sixteen aircraft; then a period of relative quiet would descend over the base until the early afternoon when another sixteen would be launched.
The action started the previous evening as Maintenance confirmed which aircraft would be launched. The section chief on the flight line had his people check each bird, insuring each one was fully mission capable and serviced. Two of the birds had maintenance problems: one had a slow fuel leak from a wing fuel-cell; another’s LOX bottle was found to be at its lower limits. The chief had the LOX bottle replaced with a fully charged bottle and called for a fuels specialist to fix the leak. It would be an all-night repair job.
By 4:00 A.M. the first four Phantoms stood ready when the crew chiefs, the pilot who would be the flight lead on the mission and the squadron duty officer reported in. The two crew chiefs on each Phantom pulled a detailed preflight inspection, ending the preflight by removing most of the safety pins, down locks on the main gear and intake covers from the engines. Two crew chiefs sacked out in a van near their bird, five had time to get breakfast and one cleaned the canopies of his bird and made a note in the maintenance forms to have the light brown star under the left front canopy repainted.
While the crew chiefs were preparing their birds the flight-lead planned his mission. At 5:30 A.M. the other seven members of his flight reported for the briefing. For the next hour the flight lead went over every aspect of the coming mission, covering exactly what he wanted from each pilot and wizzo. At 6:30 he concluded his briefing and his flight hurried into the Life Support section to put on their equipment and make a last pit stop. They gathered around the front counter where the duty officer gave them a last-minute briefing on field conditions, the active runway and any special notices. At 7:00 the crews stepped to their fighters, where they would meet the crew chiefs, make their own inspection of the birds, strap in, start engines and taxi to make an 8:00 A.M. takeoff.
On that first morning of flying, the wing was composed of 4156 active duty personnel, of which 2237 were assigned to maintenance; seventy-two F-4E aircraft divided between the three squadrons, of which thirty-four were fully mission capable; three flying squadrons of thirty-eight pilots and thirty-six wizzos each; various support units comprising the remainder of the wing—and J. Stanley Morris, who walked into the command post and told the controller on duty to change the wing’s rating on the Combat Status Report to a one.
Doc Landis would try to break away from his office for a few hours every day and meet Thunder for some impromptu training on the care and feeding of the F-4. The schedulers got to know the Doc as he tried to cadge as many rides as possible, and Thunder soon learned that the funny-looking, pear-shaped man had a quick intellect, an excellent memory, superb eye-hand coordination and a high tolerance to Gs. He also never complained and made quick progress in using the radar.
In many ways Doc Landis’ progress toward becoming a WSO paralleled the wing’s training program. He started out by becoming familiar with the local training area: learning how to find the base, what areas to avoid, and how Eastern Radar, the local air traffic control, managed the airspace. From there he progressed to the gunnery ranges. He loved it. He even enjoyed riding Big Ugly down the chute at 450 knots as the altimeter rapidly unwound. He could put his faith in the ability of the pilot in the front seat. He told his wife, “I know that I can keep us out of trouble on the range. Besides, it satisfies my basic kamikaze instincts.”
Radar bomb deliveries were a delight for the doctor. The sweat would pour off him as he worked the radar, acquiring the target. Once he had the target broken out on the scope he would drive the radar cursors over it and activate the system. After a few fumbling attempts and one extremely long bomb—the British range controller told him that he was supposed to bomb the island and not France, even though he thought it was a fine gesture—Doc turned into a right-on bombardier who won as many bets as he lost.
But it was when he experienced dogfighting for the first time that Doc Landis came to know what fighters were all about. He needed every bit of his intellect and experience to follow the three-dimensional form of combat. His keen eyesight often got the first visual sighting, the tallyho, in the first critical opening of the most engagements, and pilots liked having him in their pit.
On his third air-to-air ride he was paired with Mike Fairly and the squadron commander explained that it was never called dogfighting, it was air-to-air or air-combat tactics, ACT. They were still climbing out when their opponent, another F-4 from the 379th, developed a minor electrical problem and returned to base. Rather than recover with the disabled F-4 Fairly took his bird out over the North Sea to give Doc a flying lesson and burn off gas. They had just cleared the coast when two RAF Tornados from the nearby Honington base jumped them and the fight was on. It should have been an easy thing for the swing-wing Tornados, but Fairly took the fight into the vertical and played the sun to his advantage. He refused to disengage and dragged the fight lower and lower toward the sea so that never once did the Tornados bring their sights to bear on the F-4. Finally the Tornado leader rocked his wings and flew straight and level Fairly joined up on the two RAF fighters and the lead gave him a thumbs-up sign. The three flew a tight formation back to the coast.
Fairly told Doc Landis that what they had been doing was illegal as hell and Morris would have their asses if he found out they were rat-racing with the Blokes. Doc didn’t care. That night, he went home and pulled Mrs. Landis into bed for an all-nighter.
“The movie director Sam Peckinpah was right,” he told her. “Fighting and fucking is what it’s all about. Everything else is a surrogate.”
“My hero,” she said. “Now cut the crap, Doctor, and stop acting like an overaged teenager.” She deadpanned when she said it, but there was nothing dead about what they did together that night.
Afterward she wondered if he and Sam might not have been right. Keep flying, darling…
That Saturday night the Fairlys and Landises had dinner at the Tudenham Mill near Mildenhall. Over coffee in the lounge Fairly quizzed the doctor about leaving his successful practice in the States to join the Air Force and losing his mind over the F-4. “I don’t really know why I did it,” the doctor said. “Maybe I simply got bored with my patients. I can’t tell you why I like flying Big Ugly so much. Maybe the challenge. In medicine a challenge means the patient’s life is on the line. In flying, it’s your own life you’re betting.”
“He’s a teenager that grew old, never up,” his wife announced.
The major in charge of the command post, Vernon Yaru-Lau, hated going to Morris’ daily stand-up briefing. Every morning the commander of each unit on the base had to keep standing while a series of slides summarizing the previous day’s activity, the planned schedule for the day and the current status of critical resources on the base was flashed on the screen. Every wing in the Air Force had a similar meeting each morning.
When Yaru-Lau had tried to explain that the slide summarizing the wing’s combat status was wrong Morris had silenced him with “I know the combat status of my wing; you don’t.”
“Royally pissed,” to quote his sergeant, the major called the Inspector General’s office at Third Air Force and filed an anonymous complaint—the wing’s Combat Status Report was highly inflated.
The next day two lieutenant colonels from the IG appeared in Morris’ office to tell him they were conducting a no-notice inspection of the command post. Morris’ secretary told them that Morris and the wing’s vice-commander were at a conference in Germany and wouldn’t be back until the next day. The two IG officers shrugged and went to the command post, where Yaru-Lau laid out the problem for them. “Colonel Morris has directed that I report our combat status as a one. But we’re only flying enough tactical training sorties to rate a five, maybe a four. Also, Maintenance is only keeping enough aircraft fixed and flying to rate a three.”
The two lieutenant colonels reviewed the sortie and maintenance rates, drafted a one-page report and forwarded it to the Pentagon and Third Air Force. No one told Morris when he returned that two officers from the IG had spent an hour in his command post while he was away. What he didn’t know could hurt him…they hoped.
2 November: 1945 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 1445 hours, Washington, D.C.
Cunningham had read the one-page report and set it aside, letting his anger cool down before he decided what to do. The report had been on his desk over a day when his private telephone rang.
“Lawrence”—Ruth Cunningham’s voice sparkled—“we’ve been invited to a wedding this Saturday for two of your officers, a Colonel Waters and a Captain Marshall. I believe I’ve already met the bride at a reception. It’ll be at the Marshalls’ home and I’d like to attend.”
Cunningham grunted a yes and then buzzed his aide, telling him when he wanted Morris relieved and who was to replace him.”
The two women hovered behind Sara adjusting the old Spanish mantilla over her hair. The white lace shawl had been in the Marshall family for over a hundred years and had been worn as a bridal veil by four generations of Marshall brides, ever since a young John Marshall brought it home for his bride after making his first voyage as a third mate on a clipper ship. Sara’s mother, Martha Marshall, had selected a subtle off-white material for the wedding dress that blended perfectly with the mantilla, creating the soft effect she wanted. Sara stood up, letting her mother appraise the elegantly simple knee-length dress for the last time. “It’s perfect, Mother,” was all she could say, seeing tears form in her mother’s eyes.
“I was just thinking about our names,” Ruth Cunningham said, changing the subject. “Martha, Sara, and Ruth. You’d think we were a bunch of minister’s wives. Should we be stern and sour?” Her gambit didn’t work. Martha began to cry, no longer able to hold back.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m happy for Sara, but Louis is upset because of their age difference.”
Ruth brightened. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Just look at Muddy. He’s younger looking than most thirty-five-year-olds, and certainly in better condition. Your daughter is not marrying the most eligible bachelor in this town, only the most desirable.”
Sara put her arms around her mother. You’re going to have some beautiful grandchildren.”
The French windows had been thrown open, letting the unusually warm fall day spill into the room. The Air Force chaplain marrying them stood with his back to the French windows while the guests arranged themselves in a semi-circle in front of him. Sara’s father escorted his daughter to the chaplain and gave her hand to Waters.
And so they became Colonel and Mrs. Anthony Waters. After the couple had been congratulated by the guests and Sara thoroughly kissed by Cunningham, the general took the couple aside. “I’ve got a honeymoon present for you. I want you to go through the commander’s refresher course for flying F-4s at Luke. Your class starts a week from Monday. It’s important that you make this class, Muddy.”
Waters’ muscles tensed. “Thank you, sir. We’ll make it.” He silently was furious, suspecting that the general knew about his wife and daughter’s deaths at Luke the first time he had been stationed there.
Sara read his thoughts. “There’s no way he could have known about your first marriage and what happened at Luke,” she said, after the general had walked off. “We’ll do this one together, but I wonder why the rush?”
“I don’t know, but it looks like we are going to an F-4 unit. And damn soon. Not much time, so let’s make the most of it…”
15 November: 2035 hours, Greenwich Mean Time 2035 hours, Stonewood, England
The communications technician ripped the message off the telecommunications bank at Stonewood, annoyed at the garbled text. She was going to request a retransmission when she noticed the message was directed to the attention of the Communications Squadron commander for decoding. She called for her first sergeant, who took the message and told her never to mention that it had been received or she had seen it. The NCO sealed the message in an envelope and called the lieutenant colonel in charge of the squadron, who rushed over to the communications center.
Seeing that the first two lines were decode instructions, the lieutenant colonel dismissed the NCO and called the wing’s vice-commander and judge advocate as witnesses before proceeding any further. The two men looked over his shoulder as he finished decoding the message:
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY COL J. STANLEY MORRIS IS RELIEVED OF COMMAND OF 45TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING. COL WILLIAM L. BRADLEY WILL ASSUME COMMAND PENDING ARRIVAL OF NEW COMMANDER. COMMANDER THIRD AIR FORCE IS ACTION AUTHORITY. ACTION AUTHORITY WILL NOTIFY AND RELIEVE COL MORRIS NLT 2200Z.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the Judge Advocate said.
Colonel Bradley felt his stomach turn sour. “I’ll contact General Percival for instructions. He has to act by ten tonight. Until he tells Morris, we do nothing. I’ll be in the command post. Needless to say, don’t tell anyone.” The vice commander’s call to Third Air Force was too late. Percival had received another message and was enroute to Stonewood.
James Percival, the commander of Third Air Force, entered the command post at 9:45 and directed the controller to get Colonel Morris to the wing commander’s office immediately. “Bill, I am sorry this had to happen, but you’ll have to be on hand when I tell Morris,” the general said.
“General, just what the hell is going down?” Bradley asked as they made the short walk to wing headquarters.
“I got a message from Cunningham
. It seems Morris lied on his Combat Status Report and rated the wing a one. You know a one means the wing is fully combat ready, ready to go to war. Cunningham treats the Com Stat like being pregnant, either you are or you’re not. Morris getting fired shows how important the Com Stat is to the general. I’d say there are at least seven wings in the Air Force right now that are rated a two or three. Cunningham needs to know so he can supply whatever it takes to make a wing a one. Morris must have thought downgrading his wing from a one would make him look bad, like he’s not using what he’s got.
“I’m worried, Bill; I’ve done this chore before and I’ve seen what it does to a man’s ego. It is hard to tell how Morris will react, but watch him like a hawk until we can get him transferred out tomorrow.”
The door to Morris’ office was open and he was sitting behind his desk when Percival and Bradley arrived. He stood and saluted the general, puzzled by Bradley’s presence.
The general returned the salute and handed Morris the decoded message. “Colonel Morris, I’m acting as directed by this message. Colonel Bradley is now in command of the 45th.”
“I see the message was decoded. An obvious mistake,” Morris said, a tight slight smile spreading across his lips.
“There’s no mistake. I have a separate, confirming message,” Percival told him.
Morris wadded the message in his fist. “Bill, you’ve wanted command of my wing and now you’ve got it. Well, do you mind if I clear out my desk?” He sat down and wrenched a drawer open, staring at its contents.
Percival nodded at Bradley and the two left the office, closing the door behind them.
“It could have been worse. Much worse,” Percival said. “I’m relieved.”
The wing learned of the change of command the next morning at Stand-Up and for the first time felt some relief. After the morning’s Stand-Up briefing in the conference room the commander’s civilian secretary ran up to Chief Pullman, her eyes full of worry. “Chief, Colonel Morris is in his office and he’s acting…funny. I’ve never seen him like this before. He told me to place a call to General Cunningham. When I couldn’t get through—it’s only two-thirty in the morning there—he called me terrible names, then pulled out a gun…”
The Warbirds Page 17
