Following in his father’s footsteps, 1LT Castillo became an Army Aviator after his graduation from the United States Military Academy at West Point.
The opening hours of the Desert War saw him flying deep inside enemy lines as co-pilot of an AH-64B Apache attack helicopter charged with destroying Iraqi antiaircraft radar facilities.
The Apache was struck by enemy fire, seriously wounding the pilot and destroying the helicopter’s windshield and navigation equipment.
Despite his own wounds, 1LT Castillo took command of the badly damaged helicopter and flew it more than 100 miles to safety. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for this action.
Now a flying aide-de-camp to a general officer, 1LT Castillo returned to the Aviation School for transition training to qualify him as a pilot of the C-12 Huron.
LT Castillo is the grandson of Mr. and Mrs. J. F. Castillo of San Antonio, Texas.
(U.S. Army Photograph by CPL Roger Marshutz)
* * *
[-II-]
Room 202
The Daleville Inn
Daleville, Alabama 1625 5 February 1992
The door to Room 202 was opened by a six-foot-two, two-hundred-twenty-pound, very black young man in a gray tattered West Point sweatshirt. He was holding a bottle of Coors beer and looking visibly surprised to see two crisply uniformed officers—one of them a brigadier general—standing outside the door.
“May I help the general, sir?” he asked after a moment’s hesitation.
“Dick, we’re looking for Lieutenant Castillo,” the other officer, a captain wearing aide-de-camp’s insignia, said.
He could have been the general’s son. Both were tall, slim, and erect. The general’s hair was starting to gray, but that was really the only significant physical difference between them.
“He’s in the shower,” the huge young black man said.
“You know each other?” the general asked.
“Yes, sir. We were at the Point together,” the captain said.
“I’d really like to see Lieutenant Castillo,” the general said to the huge young black man.
“Yes, sir,” he replied, and opening the door all the way, added, “Would the general like to come in, sir? I’m sure he won’t be long.”
“Thank you,” the general said, and entered the motel suite.
“General Wilson,” the captain said, “this is Lieutenant H. Richard Miller, Jr.”
“How do you do, Lieutenant?” General Wilson said. “You’re Dick Miller’s son?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Tom, General Miller and I toured scenic Panama together a couple of years ago,” Wilson said, then asked Miller, “How is your dad?”
“Happy, sir. He just got his second star.”
“I saw that. Please pass on my regards.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll do that.”
“You’re assigned here, are you?”
“Yes, sir. I just started Apache school.”
“Meaning you were one of the top three in your basic flight course. Congratulations. Your father must be proud of you.”
“Actually, sir, as the general probably already knows, my father is not at all sure Army Aviation is here to stay.”
“Yes, I know,” Wilson said, smiling. “He’s mentioned that once or twice.”
Miller held up his bottle of beer. “Sir, would it be appropriate for me to offer the general a beer? Or something stronger?”
He immediately saw on the captain’s face that it was not appropriate.
After a moment’s hesitation, however, the general said, “I would really like a drink, if that’s possible.”
Miller then saw genuine surprise on the captain’s face.
“Very possible, sir,” Miller said. He gestured at a wet bar. “Would the general prefer bourbon or scotch or gin…”
“Scotch would do nicely,” Wilson said. “Neat.”
“Yes, sir.”
“You can have one, too, Tom,” Wilson added. “And I would feel better if you did.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The same, Dick, please.”
Lieutenant C. G. Castillo, wearing only a towel, came into the living room as General Wilson was about to take a sip of his scotch. Wilson looked at him for a long moment, then took a healthy swallow.
“Sir,” Miller said, “this is Lieutenant C. G. Castillo.”
“I’m Harry Wilson,” the general said.
“Yes, sir,” Castillo said. It was obvious the name meant nothing to him. “Is there something I can do for the general, sir?”
“I’m here to straighten something out, Lieutenant,” General Wilson said.
“Sir?”
“I was your father’s copilot,” General Wilson said.
“Jesus Christ!” Castillo blurted.
“Until I saw the story in The Army Flier right after lunch,” General Wilson said, “I didn’t even know you existed. It took us this long to find you. The housing office had never heard of you, and Blue Flight had shut down for the weekend.”
Castillo looked at him but didn’t speak.
“What your father said,” General Wilson said, “just before he took off…that day…was, ‘Get the fuck out, Harry. The way you’re shaking, you’re going to get both of us killed.’”
Castillo still didn’t reply.
“Not what it says on that plaque,” General Wilson added softly. “So I got out, and he lifted off.”
He paused, then went on: “I’ve been waiting—what is it, twenty-two years, twenty-three?—to tell somebody besides my wife what Jorge…your father…really said that day.”
“Sonofabitch!” Miller said softly.
“I think, under the circumstances,” Castillo finally said, obviously making an effort to control his voice, “that a small libation is in order.”
He walked to the bar, splashed scotch into a glass, and took a healthy swallow.
“Sir,” Castillo then said, “I presume Lieutenant Miller has introduced himself?”
General Wilson nodded.
“And you remember Captain Prentiss, don’t you, Charley?” Miller asked.
“Yeah, sure. Nice to see you again, sir.”
“With the general’s permission, I will withdraw,” Miller said.
“No, you won’t,” Castillo said sharply.
“You sure, Charley?” Miller asked.
“Goddamn sure,” Castillo said.
“‘Charley’?” General Wilson said. “I thought I read your name was Carlos.”
“Yes, sir, it is. But people call me Charley.”
“Your…dad…made me call him Hor-hay,” Wilson said. “Not George. He said he was a wetback and proud of it, and wanted to be called Hor-hay.”
“Sir, I think he was pulling your chain,” Castillo said. “From what I’ve learned of my father, he was proud of being a Texican. Not a wetback.”
“A Texican?”
Castillo nodded. “Yes, sir. A Texan with long-ago Mexican roots. A wetback is somebody who came across the border yesterday.”
“No offense intended, Lieutenant.”
“None taken, sir,” Castillo said. “Sir, how long did you fly with my father?”
Wilson looked around the room, then took a seat on the couch and sipped at his drink.
“About three months,” Wilson said. “We arrived in-country the same day. I was fresh out of West Point, and here he was an old-timer; he’d done a six-months tour in Germany before they shipped him to Vietnam. They put us together, with him in the right seat because he had more time. He took me under his wing—he was a really good pilot—and taught me the things the Aviation School didn’t teach. We shared a hootch.” He paused a moment in thought, then finished, “Became close friends, although he warned me that that wasn’t smart.”
“An old-timer?” Castillo said. “He was nineteen when he was killed. Christ, I’m twenty-two.”
“I was twenty-two, too,” Wilson said softly.
“A friend of mine told me
there were a lot of teenaged Huey pilots in Vietnam,” Castillo said.
“There were,” Wilson said, then added, “I can’t understand why he never mentioned you. As I said, I had no idea you existed. Until today.”
“He didn’t know about me,” Castillo said. “He was killed before I was born. I don’t think he even knew my mother was pregnant.”
“I realize this may sound selfish, Lieutenant—I realize doing so would probably open old wounds—but I’d like to go see your mother.”
“May I ask why you would want to do that, sir?” Castillo asked.
“Well, first I’d like to apologize for not looking her up when I came home. And I’d like her to know that I know I’m alive because of your father. If he hadn’t told me to…‘get the fuck out, Harry’…both of us would have died when that chopper blew up.”
“My mother died ten years ago, sir,” Castillo said.
“I’m sorry,” Wilson said. “I should have picked that up from the story in The Army Flier. It mentioned only your grandparents.”
“Yes, sir. They raised me. I know they’d like to talk to you, sir. Would you be willing to do that?”
“Of course I would. I’d be honored.”
“Well, let me set that up,” Castillo said. “Then I’ll put my pants on.”
He walked to the telephone on the wet bar and punched in a number from memory.
There followed a brief exchange in Spanish, then Castillo held out the telephone to General Wilson.
“Sir, my grandfather—Juan Fernando Castillo, generally referred to as Don Fernando—would like to speak with you.”
Wilson got quickly off the couch and walked to the wet bar.
“He speaks English, right?” he asked softly.
“It might be better if you spoke slowly, sir,” Castillo said, and handed him the phone.
“Oh, Jesus, Charley,” Miller said. “You have a dangerous sense of humor.”
“I remember,” Captain Prentiss said.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Castillo,” General Wilson said, carefully pronouncing each syllable. “My name is Harold Wilson, and I had the privilege of serving with your son Hor-hay.”
There was a reply, which caused General Wilson to shake his head and flash Lieutenant Castillo a dirty look.
Castillo smiled and poured more scotch into his glass.
After a minute or so, Wilson handed Castillo the telephone and there followed another conversation in Spanish. Finally, Castillo put the handset back in the base.
“Like father, like son, right, Castillo?” General Wilson said, smiling. “You like pulling people’s chains? Your grandfather speaks English like a Harvard lawyer.”
“I guess I shouldn’t have done that, sir,” Castillo said. “I have an awful problem resisting temptation.”
“That, sir,” Miller said, “is what is known as a monumental understatement.”
“Your grandfather and grandmother are coming here tomorrow, I guess he told you,” Wilson said. “I’m presuming he’ll call you back with the details when he’s made his reservations.”
“He has a plane, sir. He said they’ll leave right after breakfast. That should put them in here about noon. What I’ve got to do now is arrange permission for them to land at Cairns and get them some place to stay. I think I can probably get them in here.”
“They will stay in the VIP quarters,” General Wilson said. “And I’ll arrange for permission for his plane to land at Cairns. Or Tom will. Right, Tom?”
“Yes, sir,” Prentiss said, then looked at Castillo as he took a notebook from his shirt pocket. “What kind of a plane is it?”
“A Learjet.”
“Got the tail number?” Prentiss asked.
Castillo gave it to him.
“Your grandfather has a Learjet?” General Wilson asked.
“Yes, sir. And until a year ago, when my grandmother made him stop, he used to fly it himself. My cousin Fernando will be flying it tomorrow.”
“Your father painted a very colorful picture of his life as a wetback,” Wilson said. “The benefits of a serape and sandals; how to make tortillas and refry beans. He said he played the trumpet in a mariachi band. And until just now I believed every word.”
“Sir, according to my grandfather, what my father did before he joined the Army—he was booted out of Texas A&M and was one step ahead of his draft board—was fly Sikorskys, the civilian version of the H-19, ferrying people and supplies to oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico.”
“Can I get you another one of those, sir?” Miller asked, nodding at the general’s empty glass.
“Yes, please,” General Wilson said. “This time, put a little water and some ice in it, please.”
“Yes, sir,” Miller said.
“General, may I ask a favor?” Castillo asked.
“Absolutely.”
“Sir, I stood still for that picture because I was ordered to. My general is not a great believer in publicity. I don’t know how he’ll react when he sees that story—but I do know that he will. My grandfather is much the same way, sir; he doesn’t like his name in the newspapers. Is there some way you can turn the IO off?”
Wilson nodded. “Okay, he’s off. I understand how you feel.” He paused and then smiled. “I guess you really can’t cast in bronze ‘Get the fuck out, Harry,’ can you?”
“That might raise some eyebrows, sir,” Castillo said.
“Anything else I can do for you?”
“No, sir. That’s about it. Thank you.”
“Who is your general, Charley? You don’t mind if I call you Charley, do you?”
“Not at all, sir. General McNab, sir. He’s deputy commander of the Special Warfare Center at Bragg.”
“He was three years ahead of me at the Point,” Wilson said. “Interesting man.”
“Yes, sir, he is that.”
“May I use your telephone?”
“Yes, sir, of course,” Castillo said.
As he walked to the wet bar, General Wilson said, “When there is more than one call to make, you should make the one to the most important person first. You may wish to write that down.”
General Wilson appeared clearly pleased with his humor, causing Castillo to wonder, Is he a little plastered? On two drinks?
“Yes, sir,” Castillo and Miller, both sounding confused, said almost in unison.
The explanation came almost immediately.
“Sweetheart,” General Wilson said into the phone, “Tom found him. We’re with him right now in the Daleville Inn.
“He doesn’t look like his father, darling, but he has Hor-hay’s sense of humor.
“So that means two things, baby. First, there will be two more for supper tonight. And Hor-hay’s parents are coming in tomorrow.
“Yes, really. Young Castillo called them just now. Can you do a really nice lunch for them? And dinner, too?
“No, I thought they’d be more comfortable in the VIP house.
“We’ll be there shortly.
“Is Randy there?”
General Wilson looked at Miller and asked, “What’s your class?”
“Ninety, sir,” Miller said.
General Wilson said into the receiver, “Tell Randy he’ll have another classmate there tonight. Lieutenant H. Richard Miller, Jr.
“Yeah. His son.
“That’s about it, sweetheart. We’ll be over there shortly.”
He put the receiver in its base and pointed to the telephone.
“Your turn, Tom,” he ordered. “First, call protocol and reserve one of the VIP houses for a Mr. and Mrs. Castillo for tomorrow night and the next night. If there’s someone already in there, have them moved, and then call Cairns and clear Mr. Castillo’s airplane to land there tomorrow.”
“Yes, sir,” Captain Prentiss said.
“While he’s doing that,” General Wilson said, “may I help myself to another little taste?”
“Yes, sir, of course,” Miller said.
Castillo thought:
He’s getting plastered. Does he have a problem with the sauce?
“Tonight,” General Wilson said, “my daughter’s broiling steaks for her fiancé, Randy—Randolph—Richardson, and some other of his—your—classmates. I presume you know him?”
“Yes, sir, I know Lieutenant Richardson,” Miller said.
“Righteous Randolph,” Castillo said, and shook his head.
“I somehow suspect that my announcement that you’re about to get together with some of your classmates is not being met with the smiles of pleasure I anticipated.”
“Sir, with all respect,” Castillo said carefully, “I don’t think our having supper with Lieutenant Richardson is a very good idea. Could we pass, with thanks, sir?”
“I’ve already told my wife you’re coming.”
“Yes, sir, I understand,” Castillo said. “Nevertheless, sir, I think it would be best if we did that some other time.”
General Wilson stared at Castillo for a long moment. There was no longer a question in Castillo’s mind that the general was feeling the drinks.
“Okay,” Wilson said, “what happened between you?”
Neither Castillo nor Miller replied.
“That question is in the nature of an order, gentlemen,” General Wilson said, and now there was a cold tone in his voice.
“A book fell off a shelf, sir,” Miller said. “Striking Cadet First Sergeant Richardson on the face. He alleged that his broken nose had actually been caused by Cadet Private Castillo having punched him. An inquiry was held. I was called as a witness and confirmed Cadet Private Castillo’s version. Richardson then brought us before a Court of Honor.”
“For violating the honor code? ‘A cadet will not lie, cheat, or steal, nor tolerate those who do’?”
“Yes, sir.”
“And?”
“We were acquitted, sir.”
“As a purely hypothetical question,” Wilson said, “why would a cadet private take a punch at a cadet first sergeant?”
Neither replied.
“Your turn, Castillo,” General Wilson said.
“Sir, in the hypothetical situation the general describes, I could imagine that a cadet private might lose his temper upon learning that a cadet first sergeant had gone to his tactical officer and reported his suspicions that a cadet lieutenant had arranged for a car to pick him up at the Hotel Thayer with the intention of going to New York for the weekend.”
The Shooters Page 7
