clothes had been stashed in the upper bunk to set up the prank. She flung off the curtain and collapsed into the lower bunk, laughing uncontrollably
We were no more than fish hanging on her stringershe, the happy and skillful angler. But now at least we knew something of this newcomer. She had ably staked out her territory among us, and for that we respected her.
Such was my introduction to Ginny Thomas, the first female military pilot I'd ever known. She was from Alabama, and as the only two Bama graduates in a sea of Mississippians, we established a rapport pretty quickly But still, I wasn't sure about her. This was too new. She came from the active Air Force, a tanker pilot. She had a good reputation, having been decorated for saving a Navy fighter plane running low on fuel. But like the rest of us, she wasn't the career type and had turned to the best of both worlds: flying Uncle Sam's jets in the militia.
And a bold move it was. The Mississippi Air Guard was a decadesold male bastion; a fortress of walls lined with haughty menme among themclosely cradling our guns of pride and watching with curiosity and skepticism as this maidenly newcomer rode in, bringing with her a profound change. But we quickly saw that she was not the type who wanted to prove something. Oh yes, this we expected; this we wanted. We were scrapping for a fight. Sacred boundaries had been spit across. We knew it was a hopeless battle, but we reveled in being the underdogs. We wanted to point and shake our arrogant heads, to jump on her case, to extol our superiority and magnify her weaknesses. And we did it sometimes with a cruel resolve. We strangely forgot about all the hard landings we had made when we saw her prang it. When she strayed above the glide slope, we sneered the sneer of self-deceived perfectionists. She went through hell and never tried to fight back, never dared us to knock the feminist chip off her shoulders, because there was no such chip. She just wanted to be one of us, to be accepted even as we ourselves wanted to be accepted by the group. We allowed this during the off-duty times, the layovers, the long drill weekends. But in the cockpit, for a longer time than should have been, we regarded her as something of an intruder and, subconsciously perhaps, a threat.
I shed my zoom bag and crashed into the small German bed, utterly exhausted from the night crossing. I was well aware that I would sleep like a piece of granite porphyry for six hours only to stay awake all night until the 0600 takeoff. Then, before the mission would even have begun, the freshness would be depleted, and I'd be wasted again. Yes, on other occasions I had agonizingly forced myself to stay awake another six or eight hours, so that I could get a normal amount of sleep just prior to alert time. It's no good for me. I would just wrap up in the soft German comforter and cast off from reality. I'd drift away into blessed slumber and let sleep run its course. But there was a persistent rapping at the door.
I staggered over and swung the door open. Miss Ginny stood there, wearing her touring clothes and a cheerful grin. She had sunglasses at the ready and camera shoulder-slung. She started to talk, but I preempted.
'No, no. Go away.' I started to close the door, but she threw her weight into it and resisted, pleading with me to forsake the gloomy room and accompany her into the German countryside. I replied that the very idea was insane, as I managed to force the door closed. Finally I pushed it to the latch and turned back for the bunk, but the rapping and pleading continued. Then they stopped but resumed on another door across the hallway. I snickered, knowing that Milo was then being accosted. I heard his door open as she implored him to come out.
A few minutes passed, and I was roused again by the relentless rapping, and again I ambled to the door, resolved to put an end to it. But there, behind her, emerging from his room was the defeated Milo, donning his jacket and Raybans.
'Come on out of there!' he shouted. 'If I've got to do this, you're coming too.'
I conceded and made ready, while she found a more willing companion in Jerrell, a loadmaster, who had slept during the crossing. The four of us hopped a train bound for Heidelberg. We followed and watched in ignorance as she conversed in fluent German with the local citizens. She had done her share of the flying last night, yet she snapped pictures, talked incessantly, and ran up castle stairways with the energy of a child. But there among the mountains and castles, we forgot for a while about the fatigue, and we became a little less concerned about the new face standing next to us on the fortress walls.
The last we heard, Ginny had been assigned to George Fondren's crew, along with our second female pilot, Mary. That would be an interesting combination. One of our guys says he'd like to be a little gremlin hiding behind a switch in that cockpit, listening to the master bullshitter and the quick-witted she-pilots. But I suspect George is more subdued these days. The times are indeed a'changingand George and I are having a hard time keeping up.
Eleven.
My Kind of Fliers
We wait in front of the billeting office at '0-dark thirty' for the crew bus that will take us to our 162-ton chariot. A chilled wind is blowing, and low ragged clouds are racing overhead. I never thought Spain could have such lousy winter weather. We shiver with the dampness and anticipate the fatigue of the twenty-hour mission ahead.
The dreaded sound of the crew bus diesel engine grows, and headlights appear in the mist. Another cursed bag drag is at hand. We drain our styrofoam coffee cups and with burnt-out moans begin to pick up the B-4 bags, the duffel bags, the chemical warfare bags, the pubs kits, the mission kit, and the coolers. As the bus parks, we see that it contains an inbound crew. The lights inside come on, and simultaneous shouts arise from within the bus and from among us.
'It's one of our crews!'
These were always welcome words, and when we heard them, our spirits bolted upright. With renewed energy we greeted our old comrades from the Deep South. We slapped backs, shook hands, and horseplayed like shut-in brothers.
'How long ya'll been out?'
'Left the house yesterday. How 'bout ya'll?'
'Sixteen days and goin' back downrange today.'
'Shee-it.'
I look around for the pilots and spot the aircraft commander. It's Pink Floyd! The all-American kid next door; the red-haired and temperamental yet abundantly friendly Pink. Beneath his youthful face he hides a great self- confidence and a bit of an ego, which is expected and acceptable. I followed his fast progress from the day he showed up as a raw second lieutenant. He progressed quickly to a captain, then aircraft commander, and soon became an instructor.
Shortly after joining us, he found a real job and became an insurance adjuster. He made pretty good money and proclaimed it a great job. But it was easy to read the discontent in his unassuming face. The truth was that he was hungry to fly professionally, and just prior to the callup he had landed a lucrative job flying for Federal Express.
Seeing Pink I always remember the Greenwood air show, where we were both once big stars. It was one of those rare occasions when we could show off a little and have some fun. He was a new jet jock with an ardor for center stage, but the spotlight focused more sharply on him than he anticipated. It was the result of a simple slip- up; he wasn't even responsible for itif he is to be believedbut in the Mississippi Air Guard the teasers will hose you down when you blunder. I would have my turn at the hose.
I had just transitioned from C-130s to C-141s and had checked out as an aircraft commander, which is the equivalent of captain in the airline world. Pink was fresh out of pilot training and more recently the C-141 copilot school at Altus Air Force Base.
One Sunday afternoon I reported for a proficiency training mission that was scheduled to go out to Oklahoma and back. Pink was already at the base and had vigorously completed the flight planning and paperwork. With thinly veiled excitement he informed me that an air show was under way in Greenwood, his hometown. He knew the air show coordinator and had arranged for us to make a brief appearance, before we winged it for Oklahoma. Pink had okayed it with the supervisor of flying. Everything was arranged. We would appear at precisely 1:30 P.M.
It sounded fun to me, so I briefed the crew on what we would do at the show. We would approach from the
