Tail of the Storm

orders everyone toward the doors. The situation having been successfully defused, we proceeded to our rooms, like scolded children being sent to bed early, mumbling along the way about what a jerk that guy was.

I'm glad it didn't come to a fight. I did, however, rather enjoy it. It was a great diversiona vent for the stress. We would talk and laugh of it for a long time.

But if I ever see that guy again. .

We touch down at McGuire Air Force Base (better known to us as Quagmire AFB) after a grueling Atlantic crossing from Upper Heyford, and I again unsuccessfully conclude an argument with the gentleman at the billeting office. He gives me a voucher for our rooms at the Days Inn near the base, and as before, we are to double up. We're not just tired, we're tired of each other. We're not college kids anymorewe don't need roomies, we need rest. But orders are orders.

It seems we are continually frustrated almost everywhere we go in the desert operation, and I think it gets worse the closer we get to the States. It seems we have to do battle with every command post, maintenance officer, crew stage manager, and billeting office that we face. I know they consider us arrogant prima donnas, who expect to be catered to and serviced by all those who toil on the ground to support flying operations. I know of a few pilots who are like that, and they spoil it for the rest of is.

The root of the perception problem is that we fliers are accustomed to an entirely different way of viewing job accomplishmenta way that's often not understood by those whose jobs are more subjective. Either we get our job done, or we don't. There's simply no middle road. We put the ordnance on the target or miss and have to try again from scratch. We get the cargo and passengers to the destination or we don't. There's no gap between success and failure for us to slip comfortably into and bide for a while. If my orders are to get to Tabuk, and I don't see Tabuk out the window when I flip the fuel shutoff switches, my job is not done. However, if I did get there, on time and safely, then I'm categorically successful. And I expect other people whose job it is to fuel, fix, transport, and provide room and board to be equally successful.

Contrast this view of the job with that of a person whose objective is less clearly defined. The billeting situation at McGuire has become emotionally explosive. The base commander made the double-up decision for all crews going off base even when the motels have plenty of extra room. Rules were adopted against that years ago. It's hard to rest when your roommate is restless. His sleep patterns are different from yours. He wants to watch the Saints game while you sleep; you bang around, trying to get your laundry done while he's trying to crash. And besides, we're crammed together enough at the overseas bases and the endless hours in the air. We deserve some relief when we're back here in the land of plenty. So of course we challenged him about the policy. His excuse? In case of a surge operation, he wanted to have extra rooms available. Imagine that: a surge operation. What did he think we were in the middle of, for crying out loud? The only way we could have more of a surge was to build more C-141s and train more crews in, say, the next few days or weeks. Furthermore, did he have those extra rooms blocked? No, of course not. The government would have to pay for that. So his extra rooms were constantly subject to being taken by a Shriners' convention or a cheerleader festival or whatever. The motels were certainly not obligated to hold themwe asked them about it. It seemed like a petty matter, but the double-up policy at our major staging base proved to be about the most explosive and morale- shattering incident that befell us. I saw tempers go ballistic with people whom I knew to be mild mannered and tolerant.

At another Stateside base we decided to escape for a while, to get away from the Air Force, even if just for a couple of hours. We needed to get off base, to see some normal folks, to eat some quality food and recuperate from the rat race. We pondered how we would achieve this without having to pay taxi fare. Mike Gandy, my loadmaster, stated that George Fondren would have secured a government vehicle for such an excursion. I knew his statement was a not-so-thinly veiled challenge for me. I walked to the base motor pool and asked for a 'U-Drive' vehicle. The U-Drive program had been in effect for a while. The theory was that the Air Force had a complement of staff cars and utility trucks at each base, and someone high up had decided that they might as well be used rather than sit idly, although there had to be a legitimate reason for using them. I walked past a row of at least a dozen such vehicles and entered the motor pool building. When I asked for the use of a staff car, the answer was an emphatic no. 'Why not?' I asked.

'Because sir, we can't lend staff cars to flight crews. Crew buses are available to you.'

'Yes, but we've already asked if they'd take us off base and they said no. It's Sunday evening; the clubs are closed; we're tired of chow halls; we want a decent meal tonight. So we'd like to check out a vehicle.'

'Sorry, sir, but it's against our policy.'

'Whose policy?' I asked.

The sergeant shrugged. 'Well, ours, sir, the motor pool's.'

'Whose, in particular?' I pressed. 'What's the name? Show me where it's written, please.'

'Well. .' He took a deep breath and cut eyes toward the key rack as he thought hard and formulated his answer. I knew then that I had him. I smiled. George would have been proud of his old protege.

'There's several out there; we only need a sedan, and just for tonight. Even a truck will do.'

He gave in but saved a measure of face by giving us the smallest, shoddiest station wagon in the pool. As we squeezed into the car, a round of giggling erupted when Jeff Carter quipped that George would have gotten a nicer, bigger vehicle.

Yet most of our sources of frustration came from the operations sectorlike the time we were sent to the wrong base. We landed at King Fahd Air Base, just northwest of Dhahran. Our cargo of trucks and trailers, we learned, was destined for Dhahran Air Base. Someone had fumbled the ball. Not us. Our orders clearly read King Fahd. We'd done our job. But the ALCE insisted that we load the vehicles back up and fly them over to Dhahran, which was ten minutes' flying time. I argued that the trucks should be driven the thirty-minute drive to Dhahran, that it would cost thousands of pounds of extra fuel and hours added to our mission time to fly them over. The report came back over the radio that the colonel had made his decision and that he did not appreciate aircrews trying to run his business.

It took an hour to round up the trucks from wherever they had gone and reload them back on the Starlifter. Then we had to wait for a slot to become available over at Dhahran. Finally we flew over and unloaded the truckstwo hours after they could have been driven over. But then, while we were waiting for fuel to go back to Spain, we discovered a bad tire, and Dhahran was out of spares. So the ALCE began a search for a tire. First word came that the nearest spare was at McGuire AFB, New Jersey. We were in for a long wait. We began to download our gear. But then they found oneat King Fahd. Thirty minutes later, it arrived on a truck.

Every war that's been fought is replete with such repugnant displays of obstinacy in the face of threatened pride and ego. And I have come to the conclusion that lieutenant colonelsthough I have become oneare the worst offenders.

The lieutenants are cautious apprentices. The captains are the most energetic and resourceful of officers, and the majors are the ones who are the most streetwise and in touch with the lower ranks. But lieutenant colonels are a problem. They are the middle managers, mostly in mundane desk jobs, though the Persian Gulf surge had drawn many of them back to the cockpit. They recognize that their careers are on final approach, and they are panicking. They desperately want to make colonel and are mortally afraid of committing an error that will preclude such advancement. So the favorite tactic of the lieutenant colonel is to avoid mistakes by avoiding decision making. Procrastination, consultation, ultraconservatism, and buck-passing is the light colonel's modus operandi. There are exceptions, of course, but if you see a bottleneck, look closely and you'll probably find an LC nearby. Fortunately, most of the full colonels and general officers have achieved their career goals and have a more realistic outlook. And they are ready to act decisively but only if you can get through to them.

Still, the Gulf airlift fueled widespread frustration among all the ranks, including those who were ground bound. I complained to one wing commander about how his people were fueling the planes. They were in the habit of filling the jets with as much fuel as the zero-fuel weight would allow because it was easy on the drivers and pumpers, shorthanded as they claimed they were. They don't want to wait for me to arrive at the operations center, then calculate a proper fuel load and relay that information to them, as per regulations. But it seems that regulations work one way. I have to abide by the regs, but they don't. They can just top off the tanks at their convenience and get to the next job. But I don't want to carry fuel that I don't need. The extra weight costs extra fuel burned, causes seriously excessive engine wear when the weight requires max power takeoffs, and creates a hazard when something goes wrong. They don't have to worry about these problems, since they're not on board when number three engine blows up on takeoff and takes number four with it.