by Tom Wilson
The Bear looked on quietly.
"We saw two of them," said Benny.
"You sure they weren't MiG-17's, sir?"
"I got a good look at one of them, and it was fatter than a MiG-17, like a MiG-19." The silhouettes of the two Mikoyan aircraft were much the same, but MiG-17's had only one engine and no afterburner while MiG-19's had two engines, both equipped with primitive afterburners.
"I hate to put that down, sir. You sure you want me to? Higher headquarters says there's no MiG-19's in North Vietnam. "
"Then you'd better tell them. Flame was shooting twenty, thirty feet out the tailpipes. Russian afterburners look like that, and MiG-17's don't have afterburners."
"I dunno, sir," DeWalt hedged.
Benny started to fill in the written narrative about Lieutenant Dortmeier's shootdown and probable status, and he asked the Bear to take over answering the debriefing questions.
DeWalt winced. He disliked working with the Bear, who sometimes ridiculed his intelligence estimates. The Bear grinned maliciously.
"Seventh Air Force says there are only MiG-17's and MiG-21's in North Vietnam," said DeWalt warily.
The Bear was patient. "Well, let's not argue with higher headquarters."
"I agree, sir."
"How about putting down that it was a MiG-17 with two engines and afterburners?"
"That would be a MiG-19, sir."
"That's what the hell he was trying to tell you!"
Lieutenant DeWalt sulked, but he wrote it down.
"What size antiaircraft artillery?" DeWalt asked.
"Fifty-seven, eighty-five, small arms, a guy throwing rocks, you name it."
"Would you describe it as heavy, medium, or light?"
"Heavy."
DeWalt filled in the blanks on his form, then read again. "How accurate was the flak?"
"Two out of four aircraft got hit, for God's sake," said the Bear. "One was shot down."
"Yes, sir, but how accurate, just generally, would you say the flak was?"
"They were accurate twice. Since they fired several hundred rounds at us, and since I guess you want the average, you can put down that it was inaccurate flak."
That made Benny smile as he finished the narrative and pushed it toward Lieutenant DeWalt.
"Dumb shit," said the Bear as they walked outside the debriefing room and stopped at the Coke machine.
"Dumb questions," corrected Benny. "Higher headquarters sends the questions and those guys just fill in the squares."
They saw Les Ries walking toward the command post door, a frown heavy on his face, and Benny hailed him. He came over and they both saluted. Dan Janssen joined them, and he did not act any friendlier than Ries. The Bear guessed they were still sore about the silly-assed PACAF message.
"We got a site up there yesterday, Les," said Benny. "Saw the missile launch and dive-bombed the smoke."
Les looked unhappier yet.
"You sure, Benny?" asked Janssen in a belligerent tone.
The Bear's jaw drooped.
Dan Janssen continued. "We flew up there yesterday morning, before you guys did, and we didn't see a site where Dave Persons said you guys bombed. There was one in the same general area, but it wasn't that close to the river."
Les spoke then, his voice brittle with irritation. "I took a look at Dave's film. He thought it was a SAM site too, but like I told him, I think you guys got a couple of triple-A batteries. You're just not used to seeing SAM sites yet. They're hard to see."
"We saw SAMs exploding on the ground," reasoned Benny.
"Probably a pile of artillery rounds. They were indistinct in Dave's photos. Too much smoke and dust to tell for sure, but it wasn't a SAM site."
The Bear found his voice. "Are you calling us liars?"
Les gave him a withering look. "I'm just trying to tell you something, and that's often hard to do, Captain."
Janssen seemed to be gloating. "Everyone makes mistakes. You too, Mal."
"We're not wrong on this one."
"I think you are," said Les.
The Bear's temper flared hotter and his voice rose angrily. "Well, I'll tell you both what I think—"
"Back off, Captain," said Ries. He glared harshly, nodded to Janssen, and the two of them walked into the command post.
"What the fuck was that all about?" exploded the Bear.
Benny returned his look of disbelief. "They've got the rag on for some reason."
The Bear burned all over again when he thought of Janssen's smug look. Benny motioned back toward the command post. "I want to talk to Max Foley about the MiG's. I'm positive they were MiG-19's."
"I didn't get a good look," the Bear said, smoldering.
"It's not a real big deal. MiG-19's won't be hard to handle, but we should at least be prepared for them."
The Bear watched him go inside, then began to think. He walked to the squadron and checked out a crew van, then drove to the photo lab, ears hot with anger. Their film was hanging in long strips, drying before a fan.
"Only be a minute or two more, Captain Stewart," said a cheerful photo interpreter.
"You get a look yet?"
"A quick look. You'll be interested."
After a short wait, the PI took the strips down, cut off a few frames, and imprisoned one with clips on a light table.
"See here," said the photo interpreter showing him a frame of two cylinders with brightly glowing tails. "Surface-to-air missiles," he said.
"Can you see where they came from?"
"Somewhere off to your right. They're at the rear of the photo, so they're behind you."
They looked at several bunches of flak bursts and muzzle flashes from the ground. There was no sign of a SAM site in the early frames. Just tree thickets and rice paddies.
"Keep going," said the Bear.
Several frames later a photo showed the bomblets going off, pinpoints of light, some in the air where they collided, then the majority where they detonated on the ground.
"Keep going."
A bright detonation.
"Keep going."
A SAM appeared on the ground, burning on one side, being propelled wildly sideward.
The Bear grinned. "Cut that one for me."
"Yes, sir."
In the next frame some of the camouflage netting was missing. The Bear traced a part of the Star of David–shaped road network between missile launchers and what the PI identified as a loaded missile launcher.
"Cut that one, too."
Benny Lewis
Benny was in the command post, deep in discussion with Max Foley and Pudge Holden about the best ways to cope with MiG-19's. Max had opened a volume of TAC Manual 3–1, the classified fighter tactics bible, and was going over the differences between the performance of the two MiG's when the Bear came in and interrupted.
"Where's Ries and Janssen?" the Bear snapped.
Benny drew back and looked around. "They were here a few minutes ago."
Max shook his head. "Ries mentioned something about going over to his squadron."
"Thanks." The Bear turned and started to leave.
"Where you going, Bear?" called Benny.
"I got something to show 'em."
"Film?"
"Yep."
"Wait up. I'll go with you."
Benny left Foley and Holden, both still nose-deep in the books, and joined the Bear. "What'd the film show?"
The Bear showed the frames to him.
"Great!" said Benny. He looked up at the Bear and cocked his head, knowing he was up to trouble. "You want to show these to Ries and Janssen?"
"Sons of bitches called us liars."
"So now you know they were wrong. Why press it?"
"I want them to know."
"Wait until you've calmed down," said Benny.
"Wouldn't be half as much fun then."
It was only two buildings down the flight line to the 354th, so they walked. Benny resolved to keep the Bear out of trouble.
They found Ries and Janssen at the duty desk. Things quickly got beyond Benny's control.
The Bear walked up to Les and flung the frames onto the counter. "Want to see pictures of a SAM site? Probably the first one you guys have seen, so take a good look."
Ries glared harshly, ignoring the photos. "I just want to see you get the hell out of here, Captain."
"Let's see the photo of that SAM site you say you bombed last month and compare." The Bear was hot with anger.
Benny grasped his arm. "C'mon Bear. You're going too far."
Ries's face was stiff. "You're insubordinate, Captain."
The Bear shook his head. "Fuck insubordinate. I don't like posturing assholes calling us liars."
Les's face went white with rage. "I won't stand for this!"
Janssen was gritting his teeth, holding back his own anger, fists formed stiffly at his sides.
"Try me," said the Bear in a menacing tone.
"Bear!" said Benny clutching the arm tighter. He pulled the Bear around to face him and saw that he was shaking with fury. "Go on outside. I'll be right there."
"Dammit . . ."
"Go on!"
The Bear glared at both Ries and Janssen again, then stomped off toward the door.
Benny turned back toward Ries. They had once been friends, when they had been stationed together. "Les, why the hell did you start this? It's not like you."
"I don't enjoy being questioned, Captain."
Benny felt his frustration grow. "You're wrong. Look at the photos, for Christ's sake."
Les's features were hard. He pointed his finger like a pistol and started to jab it into Benny's chest.
Benny's voice was whisper-quiet. "I don't know what's wrong with you, Les, but one touch of that finger and I'll tear off your head." He retrieved the photos and left.
Later, over dinner, he felt discouraged. "We're not just fighting the North Vietnamese and the stupid restrictions. Now we're fighting among ourselves."
"Les is a grandstander and Janssen is tagging along saying me too," the Bear said. "They're assholes."
"No, they're not. Dammit, they're heroes, just like most of the guys here. Les Ries"—he shook his head as he remembered—"has the nicest, sweetest, most loyal wife in the world and three daughters he thinks the world of. The youngest one is retarded, Bear, and Les dotes on her. Don't tell me he's a bad guy."
The Bear shut up.
"It was a good kill," Benny said.
"Yeah. I loved it."
The Bear changed the subject and asked if he'd heard from Liz Richardson. Benny told him she'd written a few times.
Liz wrote almost every other day, the letters posted from locations all over the Pacific, and he enjoyed her commentaries about the various places. Some were colorful and funny; all were informative. Except for one short paragraph in an early letter apologizing for her silly tantrum, she kept her words light. She offered to help out any way she could, like handling anything he needed done in the States. He'd decided to write in return.
"Hell," he leveled with the Bear, "maybe I made a hasty judgment. And something I forgot. She said to say hi to you and tell you thanks for the great advice, and you'd know what she meant. I guess you ran into her after I left?"
The Bear gave him a sheepish look. "Yeah, I saw her," he mumbled. Then, "You're going to see more of her, I take it."
"Maybe. I treated her pretty shabbily in Bangkok. Just looking for a reason to stay pissed off at all women, I guess." He looked at the Bear. "How are you doing with Julie?"
The Bear nodded without comment.
"She still serious?"
"Yeah." He looked troubled and like he wanted to say something. Benny started to ask what was bothering him when Sam Hall joined them.
"You guys talking about anything important?" asked Sam.
"Females," muttered the Bear darkly.
"My wife writes that women in the States are wearing skimpy little skirts and nothing underneath," said Sam.
"I can handle that," said the Bear.
"How's life as ops officer, Sam?" asked the Bear.
"Tolerable. I hear you and Les Ries had a run-in."
Benny shrugged. "Difference of opinion is all."
"He's making some loud sounds. Stay away from him and it'll pass. Les is acting strange these days." Sam looked meaningfully at the Bear. "He's mainly pissed off at you. You stay away from him . . . period."
It was an order and required no further explanation.
"Sam," said the Bear, changing the subject, "I hear you bombed the fuckin' hospital yesterday."
Sam's eyes opened wide. "Me?"
"That's what I hear."
"I missed the empty barracks, that's all. Maybe a couple of my bombs went near the white building. Sure to hell wasn't a hospital though. The thing is still blowing up. I guess they had a lot of explosives stored there."
"Was Colonel Parker pissed off?" asked the Bear.
"He chewed on my ass for a little bit, but he wasn't really mad. If it had really been a hospital it would have been different. I told him I made an honest mistake, but I don't think he believed me."
"No one believes you, Sam," said the Bear.
A waitress arrived and took their orders. Sam ordered his usual bottle of Louisiana hot sauce. He would use a third of it on the single meal.
16/2000L—Mack's Trailer, Takhli RTAFB, Thailand
Colonel Mack
Chief Master Sgt Casper Roberts knocked on the door of Mack's private trailer. When he saw that Maj Pete Crawford was already with him, he tried to beg off.
"Nonsense, Cas, come on in." Mack motioned him into a chair.
The squadron commanders' trailers were double the size of the other field-grade officers' trailers, but were still compact. MacLendon's consisted of sleeping quarters on one end, a bathroom in the center, and a living room–kitchen combination at the other end. The three men sat around the small dinette table, and Mack poured Scotch.
Mack nodded from Crawford to Cas. "Guess you already know Chief M. Sgt. Cas Roberts, woman thief and maintenance man."
"Woman thief?" asked Crawford.
"Colonel, you promised."
"Okay, Chief. No more sniveling." Mack grinned. "Anyway, the major here broke one of your aircraft all to hell, Cas. He just got in from Udorn on the gooney bird, and says he doesn't know if the bird is fixable."
"My maintenance team leader just called back from Udorn. It's class twenty-six material, Colonel. Broke a wing spar. Major Crawford's lucky it didn't come apart in the air. It would be a waste of time to attempt repairing the aircraft."
"Thought it was bad," said Crawford lamely. He'd flown too low delivering his bombs on a target in pack five and hit a treetop.
"Okay, let's see the rest of your figures, Cas. Show me the total sad story."
"Yes, sir." Roberts spread his paperwork out on the tabletop.
"I think I'd better go, sir," said Crawford, rising. "Sorry about the bird."
"Just pull out a little higher next time."
"Will do." He closed the door quietly behind himself.
Chief Roberts raised an eyebrow at Mack.
"He's good. Listens hard when I talk about tactics, then he tries them and comes up with improvements."
"He'll be even better once he stops flying into trees."
"He knows he pressed too close. I brought him in here so I could chew his ass in private, then gave him a drink of your good whiskey to take out some of the sting."
"I brought more," said Cas, pulling another bottle of single-malt Scotch from a plain brown bag. "Thought you might be running low."
Mack stowed the bottle in a cabinet. "Know what Crawford said?"
Roberts shook his head.
"Said he wouldn't mind dodging SAMs and MiG's and flak so much if he thought Washington was serious."
Roberts sipped the smooth whiskey and sighed appreciatively.
"You know who we need for president? A goddam kick-ass-and-take-names
NCO. We keep getting all these ex-officers, but when have we ever had an ex-NCO for president?"
"Not once that I know of, thank God," said Mack.
A rapping at the trailer door proved to be B. J. Parker, the wing commander.
"Hello, Mack. Chief Roberts."
"Come in, sir," said MacLendon. "Cas and I were just going over the airplane situation."
Colonel Parker's eyes narrowed and he pointed his portable radio's antenna at the distinctive three-sided bottle. "We commoners have to settle for rotgut, while you squadron guys drink good stuff."
"Just poor working men laboring well into the night, Colonel."
Parker watched as Mack filled the bottom third of a tumbler. He picked it up and carefully sloshed it from side to side, making a show of it. "Okay, Mack, where do you get it? There's no Glenfiddich this side of Bangkok. Maybe none in Bangkok."
"Sure there is. You're drinking it." He turned to Chief Roberts. "Maybe if we told the colonel, he'd approve an R and R to Australia. You remember that beach outside of Sydney where the women go topless?"
"Topless? I don' remember anything like that."
Colonel Parker grinned. "That's because the women put on their tops when they hear a sergeant's around."
"Colonel Parker, you are a cruel man. I was having a hard time coping with Colonel Mack here, and upon your arrival I felt that the hardworking enlisted men in this wing might finally receive some support."
"Support? I remember when you stole Mack's girlfriend back at Seymour-Johnson. I was there, remember. Saw the whole sordid affair."
Cas Roberts shook his head sadly. "We poor noncoms receive no justice at all." He reached across the table and grasped the bottle of Scotch.
"Hey!" cried out Mack. "Where are you going with our bottle?"
"Our bottle, sir?"
Mack gave Parker a grin. "Now you know, Colonel. Our NCOs get all the good whiskey. Periodically Cas makes a mercy trip by my trailer."
"Sounds sinister."
"Only when he doesn't show up with the Glenfiddich. Do you realize the power this man wields?"
Parker chuckled. They had periodically run across one another at the various fighter-bomber bases since being stationed together in North Carolina in 1950, when Parker and Mack had been captains.
Parker sipped his drink and sighed. "Helps one forget the eighteen-hour days. How do you get this stuff?"
