The Aviators

by W. E. B Griffin

  "I just called to wish you luck."

  "For the check ride, you mean?"

  "Is there something else?"

  "How'd you hear about it?" he asked.

  "I'm psychic," Susan said. "I know about you. When you're going to have a check ride. When some pneumatic nineteen-year-old waitress decides you're pretty cute for an old man. Things like that."

  "You heard about that, too, huh?"

  "You can tell me about that when you come home," she said. "And when, by the way, is that going to be?"

  "I'll have to call you. But, one way or the other, by supper tomorrow. "

  "I'll get steaks."

  "You might get a brace of crow, just in case. It is not graven on stone tablets that I will pass the check ride."

  "Don't be silly, of course you will," Susan said firmly.

  "I'll let you go."

  "Thanks for calling," he said. "Keep your fingers crossed. "

  "Wash behind your ears," she said, then chuckled and hung up.

  Brigadier General George F. Rand was extraordinarily fond of his wife, whom he had married in the chapel at West Point the day after he had graduated. He wondered how she would take it if he busted out of flight school and had to leave the division.

  Well, he decided as he hung the phone up. Just as she has taken every other disappointment, every other exigency of the service. Of which, viewed dispassionately, we have had more than our fair share.

  He was halfway across the room when the telephone rang again.

  "Goddammit!" he said as he returned to the bedside. He -- picked the phone up and barked "Rand" into it again. "Good morning, General. This is Captain Oliver. General Bellmon's compliments, Sir."

  "What does he want, Oliver?" General Rand snapped, aware even as he spoke that jumping on Bellmon's aide was unfair.

  "General, General Bellmon hopes that you will be able to have breakfast with him:"

  "This morning?"

  "Yes, Sir."

  "Please tell General Bellmon that I appreciate his invitation, Johnny, but that this morning is a little awkward for me.

  I've got a check ride at half past seven."

  "Yes, Sir," Oliver said. "General Bellmon is aware of the check ride." Now what the hell is this all about?

  "Captain, please tell General Bellmon that I am about to soft-boil a couple of eggs, and that I would be pleased to have him join me, and you too, Johnny, if that is convenient. "

  "Soft-boiled eggs would be just fine, General, thank you very much," Oliver said. "We'll be there shortly. Goodbye, Sir." Rank hung the telephone up again and finished his shower.

  Lieutenant Howard Mitchell came in as he was shaving.

  "Good morning, General," Mitchell said.

  "What's broken, Howie?" Rank asked.

  "As far as I know, nothing, Sir," Mitchell said a little uncomfortably.

  "Then our breakfast guest, guests, are the bad news," Rand said. "General Bellmon just invited himself and Johnny Oliver for breakfast. They're on the way. If they get here before I'm dressed, pour them a cup of Coffee, will you, please?"

  "Yes, Sir. He didn't say what he wanted?"

  "If you want to make somebody nervous, Howie, you never tell them what you want. That puts their imagination to work. "

  "What about your check ride, General? That's scheduled for 0730."

  "I'll ask General Bellmon to give me a note explaining why I'm tardy."

  "Yes, Sir," Mitchell said and walked out the bedroom.

  [TWO]

  Quarters #1

  Fort Rucker, Alabama

  0630 Hours 10 July 1964

  Captain John S. Oliver replaced the handset on the wall base on the kitchen wall and turned to General Bellmon. "General Rand's compliments, Sir," he said, gently mockingly. "He will be pleased to share soft-boiled eggs with you, Sir. With both of us. "

  "I don't eat soft-boiled eggs," General Bellmon said. He turned to the refrigerator, removed a package of bacon from it, and handed it to Oliver. Then he took out a jar of English orange marmalade and a package of English muffins. "Breakfast is the most important meal of the day," he said. "I am unable to understand why most people refuse to acknowledge that." He walked out of the kitchen toward the driveway, carrying the muffins and marmalade. Oliver turned to follow him.

  Marjorie Bellmon, in a bathrobe, sleepy-eyed, appeared at the door from the living room.

  "I will not ask what that's all about," she said, smiling.

  "But I'm sure you'll have a wonderful time whatever it is." Oliver smiled at her, chuckled, and followed Bellmon. The staff car driver had turned it around so that it was headed down the driveway, removed the covers from the red major, general's plates, and, having installed the General in the back seat, was already behind the wheel starting the engine. Oliver slipped into the front seat.

  "Magnolia House, Dick," General Bellmon ordered the driver.

  "Yes, Sir."

  Their route to the Magnolia House took them past the new, concrete-block, two-story barracks of the 31st Infantry. A platoon of troops was being inspected by a very short, very dapper second lieutenant. All of a sudden-someone had obviously spotted the two-starred plate-he did a quick about face and saluted.

  Bellmon had been reading the overnight TWXs, but somehow he sensed that he was being saluted and returned it.

  Logically, Oliver thought, he could not be expected to have seen the saluting second john. But he had.

  When they got to Magnolia House, they were saluted again, this time by the driver of the staff car assigned to General Rand. He had been leaning on the fender, and his -eyes followed Bellmon's car as it pulled into the drive.

  The door was opened by General Rand's aide, a tall, ascetic-looking young first lieutenant who wore both a West Point ring and aviators' wings. He was wearing stiffly. starched fatigues. The embroidered wings were visibly much newer than the fatigues.

  "Good morning, gentlemen," Lieutenant Mitchell said.

  "General Rand is expecting you." After. Bellmon walked past him, Mitchell looked questioningly at Oliver, curious about the reason for this. early morning visit. Oliver shrugged his shoulders, signifying he was just as puzzled.

  " Morning, George," Bellmon said.

  "Good morning, General," General Rand replied. He was sitting at the dining room table, dressed in a flight suit, drinking a cup of coffee.

  They shook hands.

  "I was not kidding about the soft-boiled eggs, General," Rand said. "Is that going to be enough for you?"

  "No, it won't," Bellmon said. "And it's not enough for you, either, George. Breakfast is the most important meal of the day." He turned to look at Rand's aide. "Can you cook, Lieutenant? Bacon and eggs? And toast an English muffin?"

  "I'll give it my best, Sir," Mitchell said.

  "Give him that stuff, Johnny, and let him have a shot at it," Bellmon ordered.

  "With pleasure, Sir," Oliver said, handing Mitchell the groceries. "They also serve, Lieutenant, who stand and fry."

  "General," Rand said

  "I didn't know what to do about my check ride."

  "You can call me Bob, George," Bellmon said. "For the moment, at least, we're old friends, classmates. Your check ride has been rescheduled for fifteen hundred."

  "What's going on, Bob?" General Rand asked.

  There was a coffeepot on the table, a battered silver one, on loan from the Officers' Open Mess. Bellmon went to it and poured half a cup before replying.

  "Actually, George, it's a rather interesting problem in command responsibility," he said.

  "Why do I feel I'm' not going to like this?" Rand asked.

  "You probably won't," Bellmon said. "But I've given it a lot of thought, and I hope you'll consider that before you start throwing things."

  "Now I am worried," Rand said seriously.

  "As soon as we have our breakfast, you're going to go out to Hanchey with Johnny Oliver." Hanchey Army Air Field was then the main Fort Rucker heliport. "You and J
ohnny are going to get into a Huey, and you will fly him around, wherever he wants to go. To Benning, if he wants. Anywhere he wants to go, just so long as that gives him a fair opportunity to judge your flying skills, and more important, your attitude and aptitude. If you pass that muster you can take your check ride at fifteen hundred."

  "I don't think I understand," General Rand said. It was obvious to Johnny Oliver that Rand was furious.

  "Well, George, you're entitled to an explanation," Bellmon said. "The thing is, I'm more than a little uncomfortable with the senior-officer flight program. People our age tend to forget we're not twenty-one any more. Or even forty-one."

  "I passed the same flight physical you did," Rand said.

  "And they wouldn't have set me up for the check ride if they didn't think I was ready for it. "

  "That's what's been bothering me," Bellmon said. "I'm not sure what you just said is so."

  "How would you like your eggs, Sir?" Lieutenant Mitchell called from the kitchen.

  "See if you can find some cyanide out there," Rand called back.

  Bellmon laughed. "Up., please," he called.

  "Mine, too," Captain Oliver called cheerfully

  "Thank you ever so much, Lieutenant." Bellmon gave him a hard look and then smiled.

  "That's what you get, Bob, when you have an aide who doesn't want to be an aide," Bellmon said.

  General Rand was not in the mood for pleasantries; he did not allow the conversation to move off the subject.

  "I really don't think I've been given a free ride, Bob," he said. "The course has been, pardon the French, a ballbuster."

  "I'm not saying that," Bellmon said. "What I'm saying, George, is that it's possible that whoever is scheduled to give you your check ride this afternoon-and I think it's very important to tell you I have no idea who that is, and don't want to know-would give you the benefit of the doubt-beyond what you should get."

  "In other words you don't think I can fly," Rand said, and anger took over. "Well, then, why don't you give me the goddamned check ride?"

  "I considered that," Bellmon said, oblivious to Rand's anger. "But that would set a precedent I'd rather not set. They sent me down here to run the school, not give check rides. I don't have the time-nor are there other senior officers who have been flying a while who have the time-to give every senior officer who comes through here a check ride."

  "Then why don't you let the system work the way you set it up?" Rand asked.

  "The senior-officer flight program hasn't been in effect long enough to really be called a system," Bellmon said. "This, is one modification to it I think is necessary."

  "What you're saying in effect is that you don't trust your own people."

  "Don't push me, George," Bellmon said. "I told you I don't even know who's scheduled to give you your check ride.

  But whoever it is, I think there's a risk of an overly generous benefit of the doubt. For one thing, you're a general. I would hate to be a captain, for that matter, a lieutenant colonel, who was the guy who said, Sorry, General, you just don't cut the mustard.' And there's something else, in your case.

  You ever notice, George, that people feel sorry for ex-POWs, that they treat them with a little extra consideration-as if they're old women?" General Rand's face reddened and his lips tightened. He had been captured when Corregidor fell. He'd spent nearly four years as a Japanese prisoner. All logic aside, he felt there was something shameful about losing a battle, burning the colors, becoming a prisoner. There were very few people in the service who dared talk to Rand about his having been a POW. General Bellmon was one of the few who could. Bellmon ha~ been captured by the Germans in North Africa, and had spent three years as a prisoner in Germany. Bellmon stared him down. He's a nice guy. He can't fly too well, but what the hell, he's a general and he won't be flying by himself anyway. And the poor bastard was a POW. I'm not going to kick him, too. Get the picture, George?" Rand didn't reply.

  "And I considered the other alternative, George," Bellmon went on." Let the old bastard kill himself; what the hell, he's a big boy. And I decided against that, too. For one thing I don't want Susan mad at me. And for another, the Army needs you. Preferably flying with the 11th, but if not that, somewhere else. "

  "OK, Bob," Rand said. "You've made your point." Bellmon looked at Johnny Oliver. "Johnny, aside from I'd really rather not be doing this have you got anything to say?"

  "No, Sir," Johnny Oliver said.

  [THREE]

  Hanchey Army Airfield

  Fort Rucker, Alabama

  0805 Hours 10 July 1964

  Brigadier General George F. Rand walked around HU-ID Tail Number 610977 and performed the pre-flight check.

  Captain John S. Oliver walked with him, watching him.

  What is involved here, General Rand thought, is my god, damned ego. I am a general officer of the United States Army. I have fought in two wars, and commanded a regiment in combat. Therefore I have every right to be annoyed at having a captain young enough to be my son watching my every damned move as if I'm a plebe whose mess kit he suspects is greasy. How dare he?

  The point is he has every right to. The system is out of whack. The junior officer knows what he is doing, and there is a strong possibility that the general officer doesn't.

  He finished the pre-flight and turned to Oliver and raised his eyebrows in question. Oliver returned the facial expression.

  "I think this machine, Captain, is safe to fly," General Rand said.

  "If you say so, Sir," Oliver said.

  "Where would you like me to sit?"

  "Wherever you would like to, Sir." Rand locked eyes with him a minute.

  This is one tough little sonofabitch. He is not awed by Brigadier General Rand. What I need is someone like him for an aide.

  Rand put on his helmet and then walked around the nose of the Huey and climbed in the right, the pilot's seat. The seat was too far- forward- Whoever flew this thing last must have been a goddamned midget.

  He reached down and unfastened the seat lock and slid the seat as far back as it would travel. Then he put the lap and shoulder harnesses on and adjusted them. He looked at Oliver and saw that Oliver was strapped and plugged in, but obviously had no intention of being helpful; Rand understood he was not going to get any special courtesy because he was a general officer.

  Oliver reached over and up and grabbed the plastic-coated flight checklist, which was fastened to the sun visor with a length of key chain.

  "Are you ready for this, Sir?" Oliver asked, his voice sounding metallic in the earphones.

  "As ready as I'm likely to get," General Rand said.

  "Cyclic, collective pitch, and pedals?" Oliver read.

  Rand moved the cyclic control, between his legs, in a small circle, then to the outward perimeters of its movement and then centered it. He moved the collective control, on his left, up and then down, and pushed on the rudder pedals.