the Illyushin and noticed his startled reaction. He grabbed my hand and pumped it again while saying something that sounded deeply sincere.
I walked away pondering the stunned look on his face when I ripped off the name tag and commented to my old friend, George Fondren, at how astounded the man had been to receive my gift. But George had another idea. 'No,' he said. He paused to chuckle and shake his head in mock disgust over my naivete. 'The guy has just never seen Velcro before.'
Back at the Starlizzard, things were still in a quandary, although a platoon of Soviet soldiers was arriving to offload the cargo by hand. The stale ham sandwiches from our flight lunches had been consumed long since, and we began to wonder if we might spend the night in the 'Lockheed Hilton.' But then the enterprising George, who spreads political goodwill with watermelons and vise-grip handshakes, got a wild idea to wander over to the airport terminal. There we were, in a notorious police state, doing what we could have been arrested for at a large western airport. I was nervous about it, but I followed him across the busy ramp with airliners coming and going and entered the huge building.
We walked through crowded corridors and waiting areas, past concessions and ticket counters, nudging through crowds of civilians and soldiers. I don't think the adventurous George thought anything of it, but I was extremely self-conscious all the while. Here we were in the heart of communism, wearing strange flight suits with American flags on our shoulders. Thousands of heads turned and followed our progress through the terminal as we tried to look as if we had an official destination.
At length we passed a concession stand that had various pastries and cakes displayed. It was illegal to use foreign currency and would be foolish in an open forum like this, but we had no rubles. I sensed another impulse in George and slid away to an empty bench across the corridor. Watching, I saw a well-dressed elderly couple approach him. They began asking him questions in Russian, sensing his interest in the pastries. Soon they began fumbling through their pocketbooks, and he turned and pointed at me, holding up two fingers. Then it was done. He shook their hands and came over handing me the cake, which was uniquely delicious.
Shortly the same couple left their seats and approached us again, offering more money We wanted to give them some dollars in return but it was too dangerous, many eyes were on us. We could go to jail for that. We didn't want to take the money, but they insisted, and finally we accepted the five-ruble bill. Then George did the only thing we could have done to repay them, although I wondered if it might jeopardize the couple if they accepted. He tore off the Velcroed American flag on his left shoulder and handed it to the lady. I immediately followed suit, handing mine to the gentleman. The two stood there for a minute staring at the flags in their hands, and tears began to roll down their cheeks. Once again we shook their hands and wished them well. As we left they returned to their bench jabbing handkerchiefs at their faces, carefully cradling those little symbols of freedom and hope in their hands.
As we departed, I couldn't help but consider the odds. Out of the billions of human beings on earth, only a relative handful were born American. And yet I, fortunate beyond comprehension, was among them. I had pondered this notion before, but never had it seemed so profoundly clear as that night when our gear finally came up and we banked westward. We were headed home for Christmas, already blessed immeasurably.
Sixteen.
Crew Unrest
It has been an hour since we shut the Starlifter down here on the Dhahran ramp, and of course the crew bus has not yet appeared. Things have changed dramatically in the last couple of weeks in concert with the cease-fire. They dumped the pool-pilot practice and are now sending us downrange with basic two-pilot crews. The good news is that the twenty-two-hour days that were slaughtering us have now been halved. The bad news is that we lay over here in the desert. More accurately, we go into 'stage' herewe wait until an outbound mission is assigned us. It could be twelve hours from now or twelve days.
In the dimming light, some of the crew have moved into the shadows under the gargantuan wings and are sitting among their gear. I notice the cooler lid is hurriedly raised and lowered, and I hear some whooshing sounds. That has to be soft drinks. Surely my crew wouldn't drink beer here, where it is forbidden not only on any Air Force ramp in general but in the teetotaling Kingdom of Saudi Arabia in particular. Tell me it ain't so.
Finally the 'bus' arrives, a minivan into which we cram every cubic centimeter with our gear and pieces of ourselves and endure the crude remarks about cozy proximity and sexual orientation. But humor quickly ebbs as limbs begin to tingle from lack of blood. We pass a busy field hospital and rows of captured Iraqi tanks and armored personnel carriers and go through a couple of security checkpoints and onto a four-lane highway laden with military traffic.
After about ten minutes our abode comes into view the USAF barracks dubbed Eagletown. We pass through a couple of rows of tall fences with concertina wire curling along the top and drive past row after row of long, single- story prefabricated structures, all about the width of a double-wide mobile home. Beside each is a sandbagged air raid shelter.
We check in with the stage manager, who breaks the news that there is a lull in the airlift operations and that consequently we can expect an extended visit. He lethargically warns us that if we have any alcoholic contraband we must deposit it with him, then gives us our keys and room assignments.
My copilot, Mike Connerya Northwest Airlines pilot in civilian lifeand I throw our gear down on the floor in the eight-by-ten-foot room. There is no furniture except stacked bunk beds that are surprisingly comfortable. Already across the hall a thump, a door slam, running boots, and unintelligible yells indicate that my two engineers are perpetrating some sort of horseplay on the wary loadmaster. I pledge not to come to their assistance in the least if some disturbed sleeper from down the hall emerges with a crash axe to exact carnage.
The respite at the Eagletown barracks is not bad. The air conditioning is great, and there is little distraction. Were it not for the clamor of incoming crews, conditions would be perfect for a blissful hibernation, one long overdue.
Mike and I pick through our cold MREs and prepare to turn in when more thumps on the thin walls and a chorus of snickering bring us out to investigate. The two young engineers, Len Alvis and Chuck Lee, are pulling a foolish prank on the load, one Keith Burton. Len and Chuck are thin cigarette-suckers, ever full of pent-up energy and youth, both similar in build and behavior. They've been dubbed the squirrel brothers, namely Fluffy and Scruffy, by the salty load, and they in turn have labeled him the Possum. Keith is an experienced loadmaster, a tough ex-cop who patrolled the most violent precinct in Jackson until he burnt out from police work. He is a man I would not want to get into a fight with. I was riding in back once and watched as his voice boomed and echoed through the public address system above the din of the engines, boldly admonishing some elite and armed Special Forces soldiers to return to their seats.
'YOU BACK THERE! Yeah, YOU. Dammit, I told you to get back in your seats and strap in. NOW, DO IT!'
But I've found another man beneath that tough leather exterior. He once shared with me a long poem he had written about the Starlifter that belied his rugged image and exposed a great sentimentalist underneath.
Mike and I walk to Keith's room and find the squirrel brothers methodically at work, strapping the Possum into his bed. One is holding him down while the other is tightly ratcheting cargo straps over his legs and chest, binding his upper arms against his side. They giggle and guffaw while working, but we notice that the Possum isn't resisting in the least; in fact he's lying back, reading a paperback about World War II Flying Fortresses and listening contentedly to his Walkman. Mike walks away shaking his head over the foolish idea that two flight engineers would try to tie up a loadmaster with the tools of his own trade. We return to our bunks, and a couple of minutes later the hallway bursts with stampeding feet as we see the squirrels streak by with the Possum in close pursuit, straps lassoing.
After a long hibernation, I become restless. There is nothing else to do except walk or run around the perimeter road, or sit on the porch of the hooch and gaze at oil-smoked skyscapes. There is a TV room with video movies, but it is crowded and hot. Later I seize a chance to go off base to downtown Dhahran. The Air Force has begun bus service, and I ride down to the market area as the sun goes down.
The streets are alive with GIs, all clad in desert camo battle uniforms, strolling along in clusters; laughing, toting shopping bags, drinking nonalcoholic beer. Scores of industrious, turban-topped sidewalk vendors hawk
