Six.
Zaragoza
My watch says it's 0115, but it's set on 'Z,' or Zulu time, which is military slang for Greenwich mean time. The longitudes of the world march across our lives so relentlessly that Z time has become our sole reference to the passage of the hours, the days. I think you add two to Z, to get local time at Zaragoza, so it must be about 3:15 a.m. here. Or do you subtract two hours? But then. is Spain still on daylight saving time or not? My body stays so soaked with weariness that even simple determinations are error fraught.
Typically, I crash for three or four hours after coming in from the West but then wake up and languish in the dreaded half-sleep, halfwake fog for another two hours before surrendering. Thinking I'll take a walk, I stir, looking around for my sweats, and discover that Curt is awake as well. At his suggestion we check out the gym keys from the security police and come over here to kill some time.
Curt is in the weight room, working out. There's a set of exercise machines in there, the kind with the chains and stacked bars, but the gym staff has seen fit to lock away the inserts. Why in creation anyone would want to steal the little steel rods that you stick into the stacks to select your weights is beyond my comprehension. Curt is furious about it and is taking out his frustration with the free weights.
I'm dribbling a basketball and listening to the bounces echo off the walls of the empty, half-darkened gym. I think it's the loneliest sound life serves up: no exuberant shouts, no buzzers or crowd swells, no squeaking tennis shoes, not a murmur or a whisper, just that solitary bounce and its echo. Yet there's something about the sound that sustains and consoles. Even so, it's the sound of solitude: a slow dribble, a pause, a twang off the hoop, more dribble. Maybe it will be the final sounds the world eventually breatheswe'll go out with a bounce, not a bang.
Of all the fine traveling companions I've had the honor to fly with, Curt Kennedy is one of the most delightful. He flies for USAir as a DC-9 captain. He's stock), a good runner, and a lover of sports. The loquacious Curt is an Ole Miss-educated lawyer who loves people, conversation, and humor, yet is wonderfully unpretentious. He is a philanthropist of southern-style friendliness, establishing goodwill and warm feelings with everyone he meets but not without a skillful touch of diplomacy with the higher-ups. A couple of weeks ago down at Torrejon his mitigation skills met a big challenge.
A stranger boarded their crew bus at the billeting office as they finished their bag drag and sat down for the trip in to the command post. Oddly, he was in civilian attire, and Curt appropriately decided to inquire. The man could have been a spy or a terrorist or maybe a plant to test the crew's vigilance. Curt's approach as he extended his hand was characteristic: 'Hello, sir, I'm Curt Kennedy Who are you?'
The man shook Curt's hand. 'Glad to meet you Curt. I'm H. T. Johnson.'
Curt pondered the name, didn't recognize it, and pressed further but still with a mild manner, as if he were catching up with a distant but interesting relative. 'Well, pleased to meet you too, sir, but what, ah, what are you doing here?'
'You mean you've never heard of me?' he replied.
'Well, no. I don't believe I have.'
'I'm CINCMAC, your boss.'
Curt vaguely remembered that CINCMAC was the acronym for commander-in-chief, Military Airlift Command. From this man it was only about three more levels up to the president. The general probably didn't expect every one to recognize his face, but certainly his people should know his name. CINCMAC was visibly agitated. 'Oh, yes.' Curt responded enthusiastically, extending his hand again. 'Well, we certainly are glad to have you here, sir. Will you be going with us downrange?'
He wasn't.
Curt then began to pump the general with questions ranging from the nature of his visit to the health of his wife and children, allowing him little time to respond. Soon the rest of the crew followed Curt's lead and joined in, and a friendly banter developed as the general's irritation melted. It was a smooth recovery.
Curt was like that. He could talk up a storm, never allowing your attention to drift or your participation to wane. Yeah, I flew my most enjoyable missions with Curt.
He loved to tell the story of his encounter with the southern humorist Jerry Clower. Again, it was a characteristic Curt Kennedy reaction. Approaching his gate in the terminal, Curt noticed a crowd gathered around a talking, gesturing figure. Moving in closer, he recognized the 'Mouth of the South' carrying on in his flamboyant manner with everyday people just as if he were onstage. Curt's story was entirely believable, because I had once seen Clower joking in a doctor's office. Listening in, he heard the subject of Jerry's clowning. It was the old rivalry between Mississippi State, Jerry's alma mater, and Ole Miss. Jerry was telling the crowd of travelers that it would come to fisticuffs if he ever had to sit next to an Ole Miss graduate.
Curt asked the ticket agent for the seat beside Jerry, and the stage was set. Jerry had settled in as Curt had stowed his bag in the overhead bin, then he took a stand in the aisle and raised his fists.
'OK, put 'em up, Jerry'
Jerry didn't fight. In fact, he probably found a kindred soul.
Curt and I tire quickly and leave the gym for the murky dampness of the Spanish night. We walk back, listening as a departing C-141 shatters the silence. The plan was the same. We would try again to bank some sleep before we became legal for alert. We were coming to loathe Zaragoza. It was a beautiful place when the weather was good, but lately it had remained gloomy. And the base was small. We felt confined, even during our short stays. Zaragoza became the epitome of fatigue. It was never a haven, never a restful respite, only a place in which to recover to some mediocre level of revitalization.
We grew tired of the fare in the chow hall and began to eat in the NCO open mess (the officer's club had closed its kitchen). The evening before we had had a curious encounter there over which Curt continued to muse.
We had ordered the special: ribeye steaks, always a bit stringy and overdone, but the unique appeal of a multicourse meal, savory or not, was that it killed time. And the club was a relatively pleasant place to sit and stretch out a meal while the minutes clicked down to alert time.
When the waiter appeared, we thought we had been cast in a Pink Panther movie. He could easily have doubled for Peter Sellers. The thin black mustache, the Mediterranean accent, the large rolling eyes, the white cloth folded over the forearm, pencil and order pad in hand: it was all suggestive of a movie set. And when he spoke we had to suppress a snicker.
'Ant how vould you like youh stake done, sirh?'
'Medium, please.'
A short pause followed each question as a distinct mark was made on his pad.
'Bekt potato or frensh fries?'
'Baked, please.'
'Souah cleam or buttah?'
'Sour cream, please.'
He regarded us with astonishment, as if only a second before he had informed us two simpletons of the sour cream's unavailability 'Ve haf no souah cleam!' Curt's eyes and mine met. By golly, this
'Then butter will be fine.'
Fifteen minutes later, french fries arrived. Curt politely sent them back.
Then the baked potato arrivedwith a great scoop of sour cream atop.
'How's Heidi and the kids?' I asked. Curt had just returned from a couple of days at home. He perked.
'She's fine. But she broke down the other day.'
'How so?'
'Well, she expected me to be home longer, I guess. When they called I was in the shower. She lied to them, told them I was gone, didn't know when I was coming back. When I got out of the shower she was hysterical. Said that she had lied, that we would both be going to prison, but that it wasn't fair for them to call so soon. I called them back and smoothed things over.'
I had never met Heidi, but hearing this I liked her.
