I don't know exactly what it is about Ole Miss graduates that sets them a bit apart. Not above, just beside. Certainly there's an air of Faulkner about Curt, his anecdotal eloquence, I guess. But I've known others as well who seem a bit novel. I think maybe it's their short tolerance for one another. They're civil, to be sure, but there's a hint of rivalry among them. Still, one needs only to attend an Ole Miss Homecoming up at Oxfordas I haveto witness their camaraderie. Yet I've seen them exhibit a bit of shifty-eyedness toward one another. I attribute it to their propensity to be jealous achievers. It was here on the Zaragoza flight line a couple of months back that I watched two of Faulkner's boys do battle.
Curt was deadheading with us from Jackson to Zaragoza. He was assigned at the time not to my crew but rather to the pool of pilots stationed there temporarily. Each time we transited Zaragoza, or the other staging bases, we were assigned a pool pilot to augment us for the long round trip downrange and back. Being assigned a tour as a pool pilot was a dubious honor that I had been grateful to avoid. Some liked it because it was a way to build flying time more quickly and to enjoy the luxury of a single room at the staging base. But the pool pilot was a maverick. Each mission, he was assigned a different crew, whose members most likely were total strangers to him. Each time he flew, he would have to prove himself worthy and reliable and to yield his own well-being, reluctantly, to an unfamiliar aircraft commander. He or she was required to be a
Though he was not obligated to do so, he relieved Bones and me at the controls during the long journey. Along with us was newsman Bert Case and a cameraman from WLBT in Jackson. Bert had somehow wangled a trip downrange at a time when only select media people from the national wire services and networks were being allowed in. It was a media coup of sortsa crew from a local affiliate going to the war zone. But then, Bert had a knack for bringing such things off. It would be big news, a documentary of an airlift mission to the Gulf.
Curt and Bert hit it off well during the journey, both being natural jabberers, and before long discovered some sort of common ancestry between them. By the time we touched down at Zaragoza, Curt had concocted a scheme to get himself to the top of the pool pilot list so that he could accompany us downrange. I doubted he would be able to pull it off, but with Bert's help he persuaded the crew stage manager to put him at the top of the list, and into crew rest we went.
But the next morning as we flight planned for the sandbox turnaround mission, another pool pilot showed up. He was at the top of the list before our arrival and had been alerted for our mission by mistake. I guess Curt's plan fell through the cracks when the shift changed at the stage manager's desk. In walked Ole Miss graduate Charlie Decker. As the two met, opposing fingers were pointed, and the two men simultaneously asked, 'What the hell are you doing here?' It was more a demand for an explanation than a question.
Both wanted badly to fly the mission with their hometown comrades, but the stage manager stood adamant in his resolve to allow only one to go. I could hear an ongoing furor in the next room even as Bert interviewed Bones and me on camera about the mission. Finally, we held a conference with the stage manager, who favored Charlie for the trip. With courtroom finesse, Curt convinced him that his kinsmanship with the newsman was a newsworthy event back home and would make for good publicity, but Charlie argued that he alone was the rightful pool pilot. Finally, the manager threw his arms up in disgust, wishing to be done with us, and dispatched both Charlie and Curt to crew the mission. But that was not to be the end of it.
Out on the flightline as Bones and I threw switches and punched buttons, I looked down at the tarmac and saw them there. I couldn't hear what they were saying, but lips were moving furiously, simultaneously. Fierce gestures and threatening body language portended a new civil war in the making. I sent the loadmasters down to stand off and be ready to move in if a struggle erupted. I didn't know what the argument was about, thinking that all problems had been settled to everyone's satisfaction. Then I concluded that each had perceived that the other had offended his honor, and that honor would be restored to the winner of this war of words. Soon the pointed fingers began to peck minute punches into one another's chest, and the loads moved in closer. Then the two seemed to realize our concern and stopped, peered up at me, smiled accommodatingly, and shook hands. Civil war had been averted. Face and honor were preserved. Faulkner chuckled and winked.
We laugh again at the encounter with Charlie as we turn in for what we hope will be a good couple of hours of oblivion before alert time. But it seems that only a few minutes have passed when the buzzer on the wall brutally throws me into convulsive movements. Rising, I hear Curt sigh and see him roll his pillow overhead as the Spanish- accented voice addresses me through the speaker.
'Major Cockrell, call the command post, please.'
Down in the lobby on the hot line, I take the mission. We are to take a C-141 inbound from the Statesdue in one hourand proceed to Abu Dhabi. Our pool pilot will be Captain Lemanski, who is in room 130. I note that he is only a few doors away from my room, which is 238. I don't know this Lemanski (he is evidently from another unit), but I am to alert him along with the rest of my crew. The crew bus will arrive in half an hour.
I return to the room and relay the information to the stirring Curt. He agrees to alert the rest of the crew while I find Lemanski. I get into my flight suit and proceed to his room. He doesn't answer the knock. Again I rap furiously on the door, but there is no response. I'm perturbed over this. The pool pilots know the rules. Like us they're supposed to remain in their rooms during their 'legal' period (usually a twelve-hour window), or else notify the command post if they venture away from the telephones. I knock again and test the door. It's not locked. I peek inside. A young man is lying unconscious on the bed. The air reeks of alcohol. A whiskey bottle lies on its side on the bedstand. Clothes and flight gear are strewn about the room. I touch the foot and shake it.
'Lemanski. Lemanski, wake up. This is an alert, man.' He moves not a whisker. I shake him again violently, yet still he doesn't move. My God, I think. He's dead! I look around for signs of drugs that he may have taken with the liquor, but there are none. Then Curt appears in the open doorway.
'Curt, I think he's dead.'
Curt comes over and shakes him vigorously, spoiling my search for a pulse. Then the man resurrects. Eyes slowly open and stare at me through a stupid glaze.
'He's drunk as a skunk!' declares Curt, informing me of the obvious. We shake him some more and raise him to an upright position.
'Lemanski, don't you understand, we've been alerted. The crew bus will be here in a few minutes. You gotta get going, man!' This was a serious breach of the Uniform Code of Military Justicesomewhat like being drunk on guard duty. I know we are all under tremendous stress, and some handle it better than others. I don't want him to be caught, but he is too far gone.
Curt continues his prodding. 'Come on, Lemanski, GET UP! GET UP!'
I interject, rebuking him. 'Lemanski, I can't handle this. You're not fit to fly with us. I'm gonna call the command post and tell them you're sick. Understand?'
'Leave him alone, Curt,' I admonish as we leave the room. 'He's too far gone.'
But then we look back, and there he stands in the door, looking like death warmed over. His lips quiver and try to formulate a word. Curt goes to his side. 'What is it, man? Come on, spit it out. What is it with you? Don't you know what you're doing?'
The words come slowly, painfully from a dry, writhing tongue: 'Wh-who. . are y-you?'
'For God's sake, man, I'm your aircraft commander. You've been assigned to my crew.'
A hand goes up to an obviously pain-laden head. 'A-aircr. . corn. . wh-what kind of air. . craft?'
Curt and I eye one another. Something is very wrong here. 'Why, C-141, of course. You're a pool pilot, right?'
'P-p-p-pool pilot?' He gropes for words. I look up at the number on the door. It's 230. Lemanski is in 130, on the floor below. I look back into the room. The crumpled flight suit bears a Strategic Air Command patch but has no rank on the shoulders. The man is a tanker crewman, a boomer. And he's recovering.
Painful babble begins to issue from fluttering lips as the glazed eyes search for telltale signs of a bad dream. Listening intently, as if trying to garner secrets from a dying prospector, we're able to glean a few clipped words from the gibberish. 'I. . I. . I. . what you're talkin' ab. . twenty hour. . missi. . refuel. . fight. . I didn't even t-touch. . gr. . man, for eighteenhey man, who. . who are you? What you want fr' me?'
I think quickly.
Still using the name of the man down below, I proffer a hurried explanation. 'Lemanski, there's been a great
