As the drop mission launched and progressed, stinging accusations were fired across the squadron frequency. Of the two other aircraft in the formation beside his own, ten people had access to the radios. Jake could not know who was taunting him. He tried to maintain his composure, to be calm and professional, but the teasers were relentless. Jake's radio tortured him as they made their way across the dark Mississippi landscape.
'Cluck, cluck!'
'Cluck, cluck.'
'Cluck, cluck, cluck.'
'Paawk.'
As the weeks went by, the caper mushroomed into a monumental travesty. Jake didn't deserve it. Certainly no one blamed him for being so sore about it, but it followed him like a skulking shadow, and whenever he entered a room fingers abruptly pointed at suspected culprits, and accusations zipped like bullets. The great chicken raid became the ultimate topic to which all conversations evolved. And even as the weeks turned to months, our drill weekends were center stage for the spirited debates, which Jake astutely avoided. 'Who done it?' was the question on everyone's lips. A few tried to own up to it, but these we dismissed as depraved souls who were simply starving for attention. None who confessed would have had the guts to pull the deed off. As time went by, two prime suspects emerged from the investigations, and finally, several years after the unhappy eventeven after Jake's retirementa trial was held.
A visiting general was asked to serve as the judge. The defendant, Harold (Hac) Cross, our squadron commander, was represented by one Tom Clayton, who could talk loud and persuasively but whose tongue often became disengaged from his brain and ran afoul of authority. The prosecutor was Bill ('Chalky') Lutz, a smooth, articulate lawyer in civilian life, and the star witness was John Tarr, himself a major suspect. Then the trial began, officially taped by the base audiovisual department. We jeered and shouted as the grim facts unfolded and the judge rapped for order.
The first evidence was introduced and our flight surgeon, Doc Krueger, testified with a shocking graphic description, that they were indeed the bleached bones of a chicken. More testimony followed. But despite Clayton's pitiful attempts to implicate Tarr, the evidence mounted against the defendant. Tarr's observation that Hac had been seen that evening with grease on his fingers was corroborated. A witness for the defendant reported seeing a Tater Tot fall from Tarr's helmet bag yet produced no hard evidence. Witness after witness was questioned, and when the proceedings were finished, Cross was convicted. His sentence: the tab for the post-trial kegs and a career of shame. It was entirely too lenient.
Yet many still had lingering doubts and watched Tarr carefully until the day he retired, his preference for the domesticated yardbird not going unnoticed. Hac showed no remorse andas was his wayskillfully convinced many that he had gotten a bad rap. And the victim? He ignored his subpoena and chose not to attend the trial.
But even that was not to be the end of it. Until a couple of years agobefore so many faces changedyou could ignite an instant heated debate in any group by dropping a whispered suggestion as you passed, much as Tevye did about the sour horse deal in
'It was Hac!'
'Hell no, it was Tarr.'
'You dunce, you weren't even there that night.'
'What do you know? You weren't even in the unit then!'
'You're both wrong. It was Jimmy Taylor.'
'Taylor? Aw, get outta here!'
And so it went until long after you had left.
Thank God, there was one group among us that seemed to provide some measure of maturity and stability. For the most part, its members stayed to themselves and smiled with amusement at the antics, only rarely becoming actively involved. Yet they were not aloof, just apart. They were our navigators. Sadly, we lost them with the C-130s. On the C-141 they've been replaced by machines. But they were special peoplehighly skilled officers who knew a great deal not only about navigation but about air operations in general. The nav was often the aircraft commander's chief counsel, from whom he could garner a unique and fresh perspective. At times the copilot's opinion could be tainted with ego, inexperience, or even patronage. But the nav was more likely to be honest and unbiased, to offer counterpoint, to play the devil's advocate, to tell the AC what he didn't necessarily want to hear. And for that reason alone, the navigators were priceless.
Without a doubt the most unusual nav we had was Venn Fortinberry. Tall and dark-complexioned, with a weathered outdoorsman appearance, he looked like a young Gary Cooper. He held the rank of major and was a country gentleman farmer who showed up to navigate C-130s across continents and oceans, said as little as possible, and then withdrew into the Walthall County woods. Yet a maverick he was not. The taciturn Venn must have considered his role in life to be the impeccable performance of his job and to speak only when he had something relevant and obligatory to say. Thus when he did speak, heads swiveled receptively in his direction. It was his way to bait us with a pause while he spat tobacco before getting to the meat of his brief messages.
I once concocted a brilliant but risky scheme to expose Venn's emotions to the world, hoping that the disclosure would not be ugly.
When one pulls a practical joke on such a man as Venn, one must be prepared for the possibility that one will have to choose between administering an ass-whipping and receiving one. And I suspected that Venn was an able administrator. But I planned to be drunk with laughter at the conclusion of the affair and thus utterly defenseless. In this way I had avoided reprisal in past such antics. I hoped Venn would exhibit similar restraint. Nonetheless I proceeded.
The scene of the deed was Howard Air Force Base in the Panama Canal Zone. Volant Oak, as it was called, was one of the Air Force's best-kept secrets. It was an ongoing operation in which the militia were the star players. Air Guard and Reserve C-130s were dispatched in flights of four with eight crews and a complement of mechanics to the tropical base for service with the Southern Command. The two-week rotational tour of duty featured several airdrop training missions, with an occasional supply run down to South America to service the embassies. In between the flights the crews enjoyed numerous rounds of golf and tennis interspersed with lavish cook-outs, marathon poker games, and occasional forays up the Canal in pursuit of the big tasty peacock bass. It was a veritable paradise for sun worshipers, slumber seekers, tapestry shoppers, joggers, bingeful imbibers, and especially those who simply needed a respite from the rat race of their usual jobs. Howard was a world removed: an exotic, esoteric place of escape and release, masquerading as a site of duty and toil. It was, as we proclaimed, a thankless job, but someone had to do it. And it was there at the officer's quarters high on a bejungled hillside that we discovered them.
Out of the rain forest they came; first a bold vanguard, then the others. We watched with fascination as they slowly moved closer to our building, foraging in the grasses as they came. They were the most ridiculous-looking creatures I had ever seen, a hodgepodge of unrelated species thrown together as an afterthought from leftover parts in God's bench stock. The body was that of a monkey, with long, strong hind haunches that raised the rump and tilted the nose to the ground. The head was doglike, with a slender snout, featuring the ludicrous ears of a bear. The long tail, striped like a raccoon's, stuck straight up and swayed like a whip antenna on a sheriff's cruiser. One or two among us had heard of these strange creatures, but the closest name we could tag them with was kootymongas. I researched it later and learned that their proper name was coatimundis. But despite this revelation, our crude characterization stuck, and enticed by our alms of crackers and breads, the fanciful kootys became regular but wary visitors.
Venn's particular fascination with the kootys prompted me to roguery. He leaned on the railing outside his second floor room for hours each day chewing his tobacco, spit cup in hand, watching the kootys below as they became ever bolder in their approaches. I tested my plan by coaxing the beasts with cookies thrown down in a trail, and it worked splendidly. I found that I could lead them almost anywhere. But would they continue to nibble at the cookie trail up a flight of concrete stairs? The answer had to wait until Venn next flew at a time when I was off.
When that condition was met, I seized the opportunity. Venn was due back at about 1600, and I started half an hour earlier. I succeeded in wheedling a half dozen or so kootys, mostly young ones, up the stairs and down the walkway toward my room, sowing the cookie crumbs all along. When I paused to open the door, three of them spooked and plunged head first over the side, crashing to the ground, but nonetheworse for the fall, they all
