Born one year before the "baby boom" began, Jeff Hunter seems perpetually one year behind his peers, or several years ahead of another group. At thirteen, Jeff had left 'normal' life to enter the priesthood. Two and one-half years later, he became a junior at a regular high school, academically far ahead of his peers, but socially two years further behind.
Jeff had been anxiously waiting to hear from the college of his choice, a small, coed Catholic school in western Iowa. Knowing he had procrastinated, perhaps too long, knowing that he did not have the kind of grades he should have had, he was full of anxiety that he would not be accepted for the coming semester, if at all. So it was with great apprehension that he opened the letter which had finally arrived, and with great joy that he read of his acceptance at Loras College, a small catholic liberal arts college in Western Iowa, sufficiently far from home.
Apparently, his entrance essay, and his 2100 score on the sat's had made the difference. His joy was to be short-lived. Late that night, too excited to sleep, while he was digging through his secret stash between the floor joists of his room, an argument between his parents drifted up through the floor grate.
"Well, aren't you going to tell him yourself," he heard his mothers voice, full of scorn and disdain. "I suppose you're going to leave it to me to tell him the bad news. I've been after you for months to tell him and you just put it off and put it off. I know that you were probably hoping he wouldn't be accepted, but now that he has, you can't hide it from him any longer."
"I don't have to tell him anything," Jeff's father replied. I never promised him anything. That money has always belonged to the whole family. So, the family needed it. So what? That's it. That's all there is to it! If he wants to go to school, let him pay for it himself. He can get a job and work his way through school. Lots of kids have done it before him. His dad's voice is rough with beer and brandy. He is increasingly fearful for his mother's safety as their voices rise.
"For Christ's sake Wes." (If his mom was taking the Lord's name in vain, this was indeed some serious shit.) "That's exactly what he's been doing. You know he's worked for that money for years, sometimes two jobs. And saving. How's he ever going to come up with enough money in two months to pay for books and tuition and everything else?"
"Aw, what the hell? He'll never make it in college anyway. He's only got "C" grades. And he's always walking around with his head up his ass, sniveling and crying and crap. Better I should put the money to good use than to piss it away on some stupid little college in Iowa."
About this time it became clear to Jeff that it was his very self they were arguing about.
"He's not whiny and he's not stupid. Just because he's quiet and creative is no reason for you to put him down. And maybe if you ever gave him some help and encouragement, maybe his grades would be higher."
"Bullshit! He's a goddam lazy pissant sissy."
"Even if he were, which he's not, does that give you the right to take his money that he's worked so hard for? Are you going to tell him yourself or are you too big a coward?"
"So I'm coward am I? You would say that. Same old shit. Always ready to put me down. I'll show you who's a coward!"
The sounds which now wafted up through the register like a foul odor, were not unfamiliar to Jeff. What he heard left no doubt that the blows had begun. Each blow was accompanied by an invective such as "bitch", "cunt", or "whore". This was not the first time Jeff would sit silent while his father beat his mother. It was himself he hated at these times; despised his piss ant chicken-shittedness, his cowardliness, his tiny, flabby body. He longed mightily to rush down and impose his body between his mother and his father's blows, but he could not overcome the abject terror he felt before his father's rage.
The topic at hand was obviously Jeff's savings account downtown.
Apparentl his dad had looted his college fund. Apparently there was now no money to finance school.Mom was right Even with the lucrative (for a seventeen-year-old) job he had held as a caddy at a country club with very wealthy members, he would never be able to save enough. Even if he also took back his former restaurant job, which Mathon would give him in a second.
It wasn't as if he had many options. His dad was right, too. With his mediocre grades, he was lucky to have been accepted at any college. It was probably his high scores on IQ (171) and SAT (2100) that got him in.
He was a loser. And it seemed he would remain a loser, would not get his chance to break out.
He was trained only as busboy, dish washer, cook, and caddy. The money from caddying was very good and could get a lot better with time and luck, but it was strictly seasonal. He could not now break the cycle as easily as he had thought. Now it seemed his dad was conspiring with fate to condemn him to a life of poverty and failure, to keep him the loser they both would always be.
Jeff resolved, however, to break out of this household as soon as he possibly could, however he could. He needed a plan. He needed a good, full time, year round job.
To his beloved sister Julie fell the unpleasant task of informing him that his cash, his link to the future, his lifeline, was no more. "Remember that fancy car and boat that Duane bought just before he left last summer," Julie began. "I know you thought he had made a lot of money at the store downtown, and, yes, it was a very good job, but the money he had to buy the car and boat, to go away, was all from his account down at the bank. Mom managed to pull it out, to rescue it and give it to Duane before dad could take it like he did all the rest. Yours and Ernie's, mine too! You know dad had to buy a car for his new job and new clothes and stuff. Mom was against it. She tried to stop him. For some reason, he hadn't gotten to Duane's money yet, so she was able to save it. As it was, she had trouble getting the bank to release the account to her, even though they had given the rest to him without her signature. She had to threaten to take them to court. She was only a woman, so they tried to tell her she had to have dad's signature, but he didn't need hers. So you see, champ, Duane's was the only money she was able to save. I'm sorry, champ. Is there any way you could swing it without that money?"
Jeff could only merely shake his head, afraid if he spoke, the hot, angry tears would spill over. He was determined not to give his father the satisfaction of his tears, especially in front of Julie.
Gaining control after a few moments, he finally spoke. "Five years! For five years I've saved that money. Almost three thousand dollars! How could I ever save that much in one summer?"
"Try not to judge dad too harshly," Julie said. "He really can't help what he is, what he does. He sees this new job as a once in a lifetime chance for him. Try not to carry all that anger around with you, it will just make your own life harder."
What Julie never did tell Jeff, what he discovered many years later, was that dad's looting of her account had prevented her planned elopement with George, delaying their marriage for more than a year.
Jeff became determined to leave as soon as possible. All through the rest of that long hot summer, he came and went as he pleased. Dad tried from time to time to place some restrictions on him, but he simply ignored them, basically daring a confrontation. By the end of August, he knew he could not, would not, bear another year, knew it was his last summer for a summer job.
Then one night, sitting in his room, reading one of the tomes from The Foundation Trilogy, loud sounds of his parents arguing wafted once more up through the old floor vent. Jeff never knew, never cared, what had started that terrible fight, except that it most likely came from a can and/or bottle. Dad's violent screams had been through the gamut of "whore" and "bitch" and a lexicon of other female derogatives, his volume increasing as each new round began. Jeff's mother's screams changed in pitch from offense to pain, he could take no more.
A series of red explosions went off in Jeff's brain. He rose from his bed and hurried to the Kitchen. His mother cowered in one corner, trapped against the Sears yellow Naugahyde and Formica breakfast nook. His blows rained on her, accompanied by another round of invective. Without thinking, Jeff interposed his puny young body between them. Several blows struck him. He was surprised at their ineffectiveness. Instinctively He began to press his palms against his father's chest and push him backward, advancing until he was nearly into the walk- in pantry. His father seemed to shrink before his eyes. Had he always been so short?
Now his mother was hovering behind him,afraid Jeff might harm her beloved husband. His dad's back came in contact with the fridge. Deflated, his arms fell to his sides.Jeff stepped in very close, their faces inches apart. "If you ever hit her again I'll kill you," he told his father. Wordless, his dad spat in his face. Jeff returned the favor. "Remember what I said. I'm not fucking around!" Jeff told him, then turned on his heel and strode from the room.
One late September evening, Jeff tossed a packet of papers on the table in front of his father. "Sign where the red exes are and don't fuck with me," Jeff said, the last words he was to speak to his father for a very long time.
The next morning Jeff reported to Milwaukee, riding rapidly North on the Electroliner, the same train his grandfather served as Superintendent of Dining Cars, to receive his physical exam and induction into the United States Air Force. He spent the night in a flea bag hotel, listening to a heavyweight fight during which some braggart newcomer named Cassius Clay knocked out his beloved champion Sonny Liston in less than two minutes, then flew off the next morning to Lackland AFB, San Antonio, Texas.
And so it was one one broiling hot summer day, Jeff's fine young ass ended up under the snarling tutelage of the small, coal black, extremely arrogant Master Sergeant John Henry Bippy, USAF TI par excellence.
Sergeant Bippy stood only five-three, but like his legendary namesake he was a mountain of a man. The original was a steel drivin' man. This John Henry was a recruit drivin' man. He always went the extra mile to add misery to the military skills he teaches. Jeff experiences extra trauma at his hands, having arrived at Lackland with his golf clubs slung over his shoulder, his recruiter having informed him that the base had an excellent golf course, failing, of course, to add that the excellent 18 hole club was on the far side of the base, reserved for officers. Beautiful San Antonio! Wonderful Texas! Day after day of sweltering heat and near desert conditions. Scorpions and sand spurs and cactus. And the grating, hateful sounding voice of John Henry Bippy, calling jeff a 'dipshit'.
Back home the trees were changing colors, golds and russets and scarlet. To his last day, Jeff will remain convinced that if the earth ever needs an enema, the tube will be placed in Texas, specifically, San Antonio.
Not being accustomed to being called dirty names twenty-four hours a day, Jeff barely squeeked through basic training. Two weeks later he was asking himself, "What have I done?" Jeff and military life simply did not agree; he had always had a difficult time showing respect to those stupider than himself. That description seemed to apply to everyone he met in the Air Force. While Jeff was in basic training, some genius general, Curtis LeMay, no doubt, had decided it was a waste of Air Force personnel to have airmen do KP one day a month; the cooks should handle it. So right away, the USAF needed thousands more cooks. Jeff became one of this numberless hoard. One of thirty such recruits sent to Eglin Air Force Base in northern Florida, he quickly became qualified as a cook, but KP was his regular duty. He was stuck in one filthy job, seemingly with one stinking stripe, no place to advance, no where to go that didn't already have guys like him trying to get away. for whatever remained of his military career.
In addition to KP duties, Jeff, by some odd quirk of fate or USAF logic, received a top-secret clearance to become a provisional Air Policeman, called into service as a cop during alerts, exercises and the like. Usually he was given a M-16 with no ammo and sent to guard some desolate slice of road in the middle of Eglin's vast forest, to prevent civilians from wandering into an exercise and getting their asses shot off.
On one occasion he was asked to patrol, for several hours of a test alert, a certain road inside the base proper. No one was to pass without authorization and a pass. No one. That included base Commander, Lt. Col Harry MacKnight's wife, whom the colonel had forgotten to tell about the alert. Despite her protestations, despite her very believable story that she needed to change cars with her husband to pick up their children from high school, despite the colonel being busy doing alert things so he could not be reached on his walkie-talkie thingy; Jeff refused to let her pass. He heard through the grapevine later that she caused quite an uproar when the alert ended. For a few hours, Jeff was a minor underground hero, for this was the same woman who had caused disruption for months by redecorating the dinning hall, making every cook and dishwasher's life more difficult. (One of her innovations had been to add thousands of plastic flowers that had to be constantly dusted.)
That summer, The various Air Force fighter wings held their annual competition in the vast forests of Eglin Air Force Base. One fighter wing (the equivalent of an army 'army' (as in Fifth Army) contains about 20 squadrons of 10 planes each, so approximately 1000 aircraft were involved, not counting the various support aircraft and ground vehicles. Jeff was given a poncho, box lunch, and the usual empty M-16 and told to guard a stretch of dirt road about six hundred miles from nowhere. Jeff heard the roar of jets in the distance constantly, but saw nothing and no one. Mid way through the first day, An AF jeep suddenly roared up beside him, blowing a ton of dust into the atmosphere and Jeff's face. "Hop in," an AP Tech Sergeant shouted at him
"Uh, sarge my orders are to maintain this post until my relief arrives at 1900 hours."
"Never mind the bullshit, airman, get in the fucking jeep!"
"Where are we going?"
"A couple a miles down the road, don't know where exactly. We'll know it when we see it. Some junk jockey got target fixation and took down a couple a miles of forest."
It took Jeff a few silent minutes, bumping along on the washboard road, to figure out the lingo meant a fighter pilot had crashed. "What the hell do they need me for?" He wondered. After about ten minutes of racing at breakneck speed, we paused briefly to pick up another sucker like me, then another. By the time the jeep became uncomfortably full we could see smoke ahead rising blackly into the hot blue Florida sky like an exclamation point of doom. Tech Sergeant Anderson paused almost long enough to disgorge us all before roaring away. "Report to Lieutenant Caparelli, he shouted over his shoulder before the dust clouded out his visage.
The scene was like something out of a fifties monster movie. Ripped and torn trunks of jack pine and live oak trees were thrown asunder as if Godzilla had roared through, slashing a path about thirty feet wide for as for as Jeff could see. Smoke rose from small fires all along the track. Spanish moss hung here and there as in a cheap horror film. The forest had been further damage by bulldozers and heavy trucks and fire trucks and emergency vehicles, all with yellow and red lights flashing. Though it was only early afternoon of a boiling hot Florida summer day, the air was gray with dust and smoke.
"You my clean-up detail?" a voice rang out to us."
"Don't know, Sir, Jeff answered, before noticing the shouter was a lithe blonde female about thirty with hips and gorgeous breasts not even the tight blue jacket could confine; the first female officer Jeff had encountered. "We were told to report to Lieutenant Caparelli."
"Do I look like a sir to you?"her voice was mellifluous,airy and light, if full of sarcasm.
"No Sir," Jeff stupidly replied.
The lieutenant, her skin a deep golden brown, Italian, Jeff guessed from her name, spoke through rich luscious lips with the tiniest hint of pink gloss. "Never mind. You are hopeless." She reached into the dark rear of a duece-and-a-half, hauling out several small boxes and laying them on the tailgate. "This box, she said, pointing, contains super zip lock bags. You will find them difficult to open and close. However, you must close them tightly each time you insert something, That is to say, do not walk around with the bag open, ever. Understood?"
"What will we be putting in the bag, Ma'am," one airman second asked.
"We'll get to that in a moment," the sexy officer replied.
Jeff was busy fantasizing about where he might like those luscious officer lips. He thought about sex about ten times an hour. His hated virginal status was a burden he was anxious to lay down.
"This box," sexy lips continued, contains protective face masks. You are to each take one and put it on. I highly suggest you put it on and do not remove it. This bag contains disposable plasticine gloves. You are to wear them at all times. Should you ever take one off to scratch your nose or whatever, it must be discarded and replaced immediately.
One very young looking E-2 raised his hand as if in school, but she dismissed him with a shrug of her shoulders that made her large breasts jiggle ever so slightly under her Ike jacket. "Okay," she said, "listen up. These are your instructions and I am only going to say them once. We are in a bit of a hurry here.
"This large broken trail you see here was caused by an aircraft, an F-102, to be specific. Its wings were shorn off by trees and lie mostly in fragments about you. About one half mile down this open space you will see what remains of the fuselage. Fifty feet further you will see the pilot's ejection seat. Unfortunately, the pilot was too low to eject. We have not found his remains but strongly suspect they are scattered over quite a large area. We have recovered his boots and parts of his lower legs, still with his seat assembly.
Your job is to search carefully, starting at the location of the fuselage and working forward as far as the forest will allow. You will unzip your bag if you see something you even wildly suspect might be a part of the pilot or his flight suit. You are not, repeat not to touch anything with your bare hands, nor to keep anything you find, Am I clear? Are there any questions?"
"You mean, Jeff stammered, we are supposed to pick up his, his. . . "
"Spit it out airman."
"Collect body parts?"
"Yes. Hopefully. Not up to the task?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Yes ma'am you are, or are not?"
Jeff had a quick urge to open his trousers and show her just how 'up' he could be, but quickly stuffed away that fantasy. "Yes ma'am," he said, "I can handle it."
"Well, get to it!" Even unmilitary Jeff recognized that as an order.
"For the next six hours, until dusk shut down the search, Jeff criss-crossed his portion of that torn jagged pathway of destruction, searching for any bit of cloth, any scrap of skin or bone that might possibly have had its origin in the cockpit of that plane. Jeff found a few small pieces of something resembling meat covered in torn burnt cloth. Those discoveries nearly made him retch. One of his comrades, however, came up with an empty flight helmet, holding it high and gloating at his discovery. Jeff was to learn from another airman, during debriefing late that night, that the helmet had contained some bloody hair and piece of flat bone, probably skull.
When the deuce-and-a-half dropped him at his barracks about eleven that night, he was bone tired, soaked in his own sweat and sore to his interior. He stood under the shower, hot as he could stand it, for nearly an hour, switching gradually to cold, attempting to get cool enough to sleep. He longed for a stiff drink. Despite the length and strength of the shower, despite the use of many ounces of Dr. Broner's Pure Castile Soap with peppermint oil, what stayed with him all night, to some degree, all his remaining life, was the odor or burnt and rotting human flesh which had hung heavily over the day-long search. That horrible stench might have kept him from sleep that night, had not the buxom vision of Lieutenant Caparelli risen to rescue him, in his fevered fantasies, to dominate him.
The next day was long boredom on the lonely road. Jeff had smuggled a book in his box lunch so at least he had Asimov to keep him company. The olfactory memory from the previous day rose frequently to nudge at him. After eating from is box lunch, chicken salad and c-ration peaches, he vomited heavily into the roadside bushes. Otherwise, the earmark of the day was ennui.
The following day, Wednesday of the first week of competition, had passed essentially as had the previous day until about two thirty P.M. By that time Jeff was nearly asleep. Even he was no so stupid as to succumb to the drag of the sandman while on (important) duty, but it was a struggle. Thank god jeff had again smuggled in a book, this time a Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes. Jeff was supposed to be standing, but who could stand for ten hours?
He was sitting on his spread out green poncho, deeply engrossed in Bradbury. The city the carnival of all dreams visits in the book seemed so familiar to Jeff that he had just turned to the mini biography of the author, to discover that Ray Brabury had indeed been born in Waukegan, Illinois, Jeff's home town.
Suddenly the air was filled with the mind-shattering noise of nearby jet engines as a F-104 screamed over head. Jeff leaped to his feat, leaving Ray Bradbury to fend for himself and dashing into the woods at the other side of the road. Again the fighter came screeching in, this time guns blazing.
In seconds Jeff's poncho and Box lunch were destroyed into minor fragments. M61, 22 millimeter cannon shells cannon shells and 50 caliber Gatling gun fire tore the ground and forest around Jeff to smoking rubble. Jeff hunted desperately, crawling on his belly through dense underbrush. "What the hell did I do with the damn damn walkie-talkie." he asked himself. Finally he located the radio, lying among old leaves, moments before he heard the scream of the returning 104. He held down the send button button on the radio, rather than clicking, and shouted as loudly as he could over the terrifying roar of the Jet engine.
"Goddamnit can anyone hear me this is Airman Hunter out on County road 173. Someone call off this fucking plane. He's shooting at em! I repeat Jet fighter, f104 firing on my position county road 173 elp. Tell him to quit shooting. Help can anyone hear me!" Jeff tried desperately to dig a foxhole with hs elbows as the Starfighter came in for a third run, guns blazing. "Dear god," Jeff prayed please don't let him have napalm."
When he released the button, a voice came back. "Please clear this frequency, this is an official US Air force communicatiuons frequency, get off this line at once. "Jeff pressed the send button once again. He could feel the warmth of the 104s trail as it lifted on its tail above him. "Fuck you goddammit, I am not getting off the line. You have got to call off this fucking a ircraft He is shooting at me, repeat, he is shooting at me! Airman Hunter, auxiliary police, on my station on route 173. Then he repeated the whole thing again before releasing the button.
Again the dazed voice returned. "Who is this. Who is on this line? Who is shooting at who?"
By now Jeff was really angry."Goddammit you stupid son of a bitch! Can't you understand English . My name is Airman Hunter, I amstationed at field nine. I am with the Auxiliary AP on my post in the middle of fucking god knows where, somewhere on county road 173 and there is a fucking F104 straffing me. Do you fucking hear me. Are you stupid?"
Once again, Jeff released the button, once again the same voice came back. "Airman Hunter?"
Push. "Yes sir. That's me."Release.
"You say someone is shooting at you?"
Push "Yes sir a 104 I think. Please sir if you could call him off." Release
"Exactly where are you?"
Push. "I wish I fucking knew sir. They never told me. Oh, excuse the fucking language sir. Sir. Listen please. Holding the button down Jeff held the walkie-talkie above his head, as the Starfighter roared in for another pass."
Release. "Holy shit airman, is that us firing at you?"
Push. "Y, y, yes sir p, please make them stop, please sir."
Apparently, whoever was on the other end had left the channel open. Jeff could hear him screaming. "Shit goddam. Cease Fire, General cease fire. Jesus Christ tell everybody to stop shooting. Bring everyone home. For god's sake. Airman. Airman Hunter. Are you still there?'
"Where would I go sir. Did you think I could outrun a Starfighter?"
"Very funny Airman. Is he still coming?"
"I don't know sir."
"Well go look."
"Do I have to sir? I mean. . ." Jeff decided to stall as long as possible.
"Yes Airman, just step out on the road and tell me what you see."
"Now sir?"
"Yes now airman."
"Is that an order sir"
"Yes airman, an order."
"You sound like an officer, but how do I know sir. I mean you could be just some dumb airman like me."
This is Fifth Wing commander Charles Henson. Colonel Charles Henson. Now go ahead. Step out on the road.'
"Yes sir."
Jeff crawled to the road as slowly as he could. He was in no hurry to expose himself to aerial assault. He made it to the road, got shakily to his feet. Urine ran down his legs to his boots, surprising him. He hadn't known his bladder had loosed. "Hell, Hunter," he told himself. Just be glad you didn't shit yourself."
He looked to the sky but could see nothing. Blessedly, he also heard nothing. "Thank you Lord, he prayed," though he wasn't sure who was responsible in the first place. "Did god create junk jockies?" he wondered.
He pressed the button. "Hello, Colonel Henson."
"Yes. Airman Hunter?"
"Yes sir?"
"Is he, is the aircraft gone?"
"Yes sir. Th, th, thank you very much sir. Excuse my language before, sir, I wasn't thinking very straight."
"Taht's perfectlu all right Airman hunter, you did well. "
"Th, th, th, thank you sir.I think i'll go faint now, good bye sir. "
Airman Hunter?"
"Yes sir?"
"Stand by to be picked up at your usual relief time. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir."
"And Airman?"
"Yes sir?"
"You are to say nothing to anyone about this. Do I make myself clear."
"you mean I haft'a stay here. And then go back to the barracks and not tell anyone?"
"Yes airman, that is exactly what I am ordering you to do. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir, but sir shouldn't I. . ."
"Shouldn't you what?"
"Well like go to sick bay or something?"
"Why are you hit, er, wounded?"
No sir, just shaken up, sir."
"Very good. Carry on as ordered,."
"Okay, er, yes sir!"
Jeff returned to his pancho, now a tattered ruin. He searched around for his weapon, lot of good it did him, finally found it about fifteen feet away. He had hoped it had been damaged in the attack so he could maybe explain, but then, they probably would have made him pay for it. Fucking Air Force! How had he ever gotten himself in such a situation. He screamed to the tops of the trees. "I don't belong here!"
He stripped off his uniform pants, hung them on a bush in the hot sun, used some elephant ear fern leaves to dry his crotch and ass, rolled his underwear up in a ball and tossed it into the forest as far as he could. He walked pantsless up and down the road for a few minutes wiping his balls with his hand every few steps. He didn't exactly get dry in the 90 plus humidity, but he managed to air out a bit. In a few more minutes his trousers were dry enough to put back on.
He could do nothing but wait. His Bradbury was trash. He stretched out on the flattened area from his poncho and tried to nap. His right hand kept shaking. His left seemed okay. But his right just wouldn't stop.
Jeff lay in the semi-shade; dappled sunlight played across his face in the way that always brought him close to nirvana, to peace, to a state near holiness. He did not sleep, but went away for a while to a place neither conscious nor unconscious, to blissful state of nothingness.
He was rudely awakened by the raucous repeated bleating of a jeep horn. An AP Airman First, Carter, his name tag said, yelled at him. "Come on Hunter, let's go. Watch is over. Games canceled for today. Let's go, get a move on."
The next day was blessedly boring again, that day, however. Jeff's replacement poncho was rolled up tight and stashed with his box lunch behind a tree. Jeff himself spent the day sitting off to the side of the road, deep I the shadows of a large live oak draped with Spanish Moss.
The exercises were originally scheduled to last for two weeks, but were abruptly canceled the next day, after another accident caused the deaths of several important military and civilian observe
Nearly a year later, again inexplicably, Jeff was called to the AP shack by Colonel Strong, the head of the AP. Set off in one corner of the base, was an area surrounded by a high cyclone fence and razor wire. The colonel told Jeff the area required a crypto security clearance, the highest possible. As such, the APs were responsible for security of this section, which had to do with missiles and 'crypto" whatever that was.
Colonel Strong wanted Jeff to be on a team to test the security coverage of the area. The idea was to see if the area could be penetrated without the proper security clearance. He could do almost anything within the bounds of safety and legality, but the colonel didn't want to know the plan ahead of time. Jeff was to deal directly with Colonel Strong and no one else. If he needed anything, he was to call Strong directly and use the code word "brown dog".
Jeff saluted, left the office and began his task. Completely ignoring whatever ideas the colonel might have, not waiting to be contacted by any other possible team members, disregarding instructions he had not yet received, Jeff decided to act as a lone wolf on this mission. An idea had come to him even before the colonel had finished speaking.
After all, he was a cook. He went to base supply and signed out for two dozen regulation Air Force Blue ball point pens,using Strong's authority. He stopped off at the mess hall to pack twelve "box lunches" of the sort they sent with troops who, for duty reasons, could not come to the mess hall. Often these boxes were considerably tastier than bland Air Force chow.
Back in the barracks, Jeff carefully wrote on and taped thin paper strips around all 24 ball points. The strip read simply "This is a bomb. You have been blown up." He put on fresh clean and starched cooks whites and white "cunt cap", clipping four of the ballpoints in his shirt pocket. Next he put a pen in each of the box lunches. The remaining pen he placed in his trouser pocket. He carried everything carefully out to the trunk of his car. Next, he called Colonel Strong's office. A nasal secretary's voice said, "Colonel Strong's office."
Jeff replied. "This is brown dog and I would like to speak to the colonel."
In a few minutes, the secretary came back on the line. "The Colonel cannot talk right now, but I am instructed to help you in any way I can."
"I need a normal Air Force Jeep without AP markings, delivered to the parking lot behind barracks 23. I need it I fifteen minutes and I need no one there when I pick it up and no questions." Jeff simply hung up, figuring the demands would carry more weight if they were more mysterious.
He drove his car to the lot behind building 24 and waited, checking his watch. In exactly 14 minutes, a nondescript blue Air Force jeep drove up, white star on the side surrounded by USAF. The driver, in AP uniform, got out, looked around briefly, shrugged and walked off toward AP headquarters.
Jeff waited an additional five minutes, then drove to lot 23, parked next to the jeep and quickly transferred the box lunches. He drove the Jeep quickly to the rear of the mess hall and went inside. "Hey Sergeant Mears, I need the big portable urn filled with coffee for the AP shack, they've got some kind of a big deal goin' on down there. Okay if I just take what's in the big Urn? I am in kind of a hurry, so is it okay, just this one time, if I don't refill the urn? Will you please take care of it for me?"
"All right Hunter. I donno about you hangin' around wit dem AP guys."
Well, sarge, it's better than doin' dishes or cleanin' the grease trap."
"Yeah, ya got somethn' dere all right. Go ahead Hunter, I'll fill da urn for ya."
"Thanks Sarge, I'm sure Colonel Strong will appreciate it."
"Hunter, I never could figger it out. How da hell did a guy like you ever end up in dis place?"
"It was easy, Jeff replied, pulling up his sleeve to display his tattoo: an eagle rampant over the globe
holding a banner in its talons, U.S.A.F. See this: Us Sure Are Fucked. That just about says it all."
"Ain't dat right. Jes' so's ya know, Hunter, I ain't doin' this fer no Colonel Strong nor no officer."
"Yeah, yeah sarge, we all know you hate officers. That's why you're still a staff sergeant after ten years."
"An Damn proud of it too! But I don't see you looking like no Zebra neither. Almost two years; ya autta be at least an Airman First by now."
"Yeah well, you know how that goes. There's thirty guys here just like me. You gonna give me a superior rating on my next eval sarge?"
"Always do Hunter, same as I do wit' dem thirty other guys. Har har."
As they chattered, Jeff has been filling the large five gallon urn with coffee so strong one could use it to remove barnacles. "Gotta go Sarge, thanks a lot."
"Yeah, go on, get otta here."
Jeff and sergeant Mears had a unique relationship. Mears had ten years in the Air fore and planned to stay as long as they would let him. Even so, he hated what he called "chickenshit military bullshit" like shined shoes and saluting. Mears, for reasons he never shared, hated officers almost as much as he hated the mess hall. He had taken a liking to Jeff from the beginning, probably because he saw Jeff as a kindred soul, trapped in a world where he didn't fit. Mears was from Chicago's near south side and prided himself in his 'dese', dems', and 'doses', and his love for 'Da Bears'. Jeff, who was from Waukegan, a scant forty five miles north, shared Mears' love for the bears, but not for those perpetual losers, the Cubs.
Loaded with food and coffee, Jeff drove straight over to the Crypto section, which everyone on base called simply, "the missile base" even though no one knew whether the area had anything to do with missiles.
The gate stood open, but at the gate shack, two imposing looking APs stood at parade rest, in front of the wooden arm across the road, weapons at port arms, chrome helmets gleaming. "What's your business here," the bigger one asked. Jeff knew him slightly, probably from the mess hall. If he remembered right his name was Johnson. He knew Johnson recognized him and he thought that a plus. "I came to blow the place up," Jeff said, hoping his laugh did not sound too phony, "I got some box lunches and some coffee. I guess there's some guys in there working through lunch. Don't ask me, I just deliver 'em. Oh, by the way, you guys need coffee in there?" Jeff asked, pointing at the gate shack.
Johnson visibly relaxed. Jeff hoisted the huge thermos out of the back of the Jeep. "Let me help you with that," the Airman First said, setting his rifle inside the gate shack and grabbing one handle of the Jug. Inside Jeff rapidly filled the guards' coffee pot. As Jeff turned to leave the guard house, Johnson said, "hey, wait a sec, you tryin' ta get me in trouble?"
Jeff froze. His balls retreated toward his belly. He was screwed now.
"Ya gotta sign in. Everybody's gotta sign in."
"Sorry," Jeff said, "I've never done this before." Reaching in his pocket he took out one of his 'pen bombs', signed the admittance sheet, A2C John Schmidt, (he was so tempted to add Jacob Jingleheimer), left the pen beside the clipboard, went back to the Jeep and drove into the highly restricted area. He parked outside the administration building and went inside, carrying a box lunch. At the counter, he signed the visitors sheet with another of his special pens, leaving it on the counter. An Airman Second approached the counter. "May I help you?" He looked at Jeff suspiciously.
Jeff could see through the CO's open office door that no one was there. He also saw the captain's name on a plaque on his desk. Yeah, I got a box lunch for Captain Benton," Jeff said, pushing it across the counter. "I got a big urn of coffee on the Jeep, you guys need some?"
The A2, looked around confused for a moment, went in the back, dropped the box lunch on the Captain's desk, grabbed his empty coffee pot and went back to Jeff. Together they went to the back of the Jeep and filled the empty pot. "Thanks a lot," the A2 said.
"No sweat," Jeff answered, stifling his grin. He moved on to the next building, parking in front. He had no idea what the purpose of the building was. Once inside, he was again required to sign in, again by an A2. Again he left the pen. His shirt pocket supply was dwindling, so he reached in his pants pocket and transferred a few. This building, at least this part of it, opened to a large room separated into about 20 cubicles. Half were empty. He went back to the Jeep loaded up his arms with as many of the boxes he could carry. He placed one on each of six empty desks, went back to the Jeep and got four more, found four more empty desks to place them on.
He drove to the next building, hefted the heavy coffee urn, carried it in and filled the first coffee container he saw, left a pen sitting beside the coffee pot and returned to his vehicle. Figuring he had pressed his luck as far as he should, he drove back through the gate waving to Johnson and smiling. He drove straight to Colonel Strong's office and asked to see the colonel. "By the way," he said to the desk clerk, "you guys need some coffee? I got a big pot out in the Jeep."
Since Colonel Strong was not in, Jeff decided to leave him a box lunch. "Make sure the Colonel gets that," he said to the A2, "he specifically said he wanted the chicken." On the way over, Jeff had inserted an additional message and two of the pens in the last remaining box lunch. The message read simply, "mission accomplished".
He filled the office's coffee urn, leaving a pen there, returned to lot 23, got out a cook's cloth and wiped down the entire interior of the Jeep, everything he had touched, front and back, left the keys in the ignition, strode back to lot 24, got in his car and drove back to his own barracks, building 40. Once there, he settled in for a nap, though the damn tree frogs were singing so loudly he slept fitfully.
Jeff waited and waited. One week passed. Two weeks. High ranking Air Policeman who came for chow glared at him. Low ranking A.P.s grinned foolishly. But he never heard a word. Oh he heard rumors. About the Crypto section. About how they had been working twelve on and twelve off for weeks now. About big wigs from The Pentagon visiting. Curiously, nowadays, when he drove past the Missile section on his way off base, the gate was always closed.
Privately, Jeff always thought he should have received some sort of commendation, a Service Star, maybe, for his contribution to tighter security. If not for that, then for having been fired upon. His hand had finally stopped shaking about two months after the experience. The only acknowledgment Jeff ever received for his sparkling accomplishment occurred about six weeks after his mad bomber spree. He was up to his elbows in soapy water, his cook's whites sopping wet from having washed dishes for twelve hundred hungry airmen, when Sergeant Mears tapped him on the shoulder. "Hunter," he began, "The CO wantsta see ya. He said right away."
"The Base Commander?" Jeff asked, thinking his time had come.
"Naw, stoopid, WO Clarence, da mess officer."
"Like this?" Jeff asked, gesturing to his sodden and refuse strewn uniform.
"He said right away. Dat's all I know. Da rest is up ta you."
"He in his office here in the mess hall, or over at admin'?"
"Naw, over here."
"Sarge, please can I grab a clean shirt, at least?" Jeff said.
"All right, Hunter, dis once."
"Thanks, Sarge, you are the best."
"Ya, ya, don't take it too far Hunter, you'll be suckin' me off next."
"Need a magnifying glass first, sarge. And tweezers."
As Jeff passed him he grabbed his elbow and steered him to an area behind the clipper machine where they cannot be overheard. "So," sarge says. " I heard sumbuddy caused a huge disturbance over at da AP headquarters and at da Missile base. I heard some folks even lost some rank, stripes fallin' like leaves in da rain."
"Is that right," I didn't hear nothing about that sarge."
"Funny ding, it was da same day you was over der on sum special duty er sumthin'."
"Like I said, I didn't hear nothing about it."
"Yeah, okay, Hunter," he said, smirking. "We'll jes' keep it dat way. But if I was you, I'd be careful. Dem guys carry guns ya know." Ending with a loud guffaw, he slapped Jeff on the back and ambled off, laughing and mumbling to himself.
Jeff grabbed a clean cook's jacket from the pile in the rear storage room, donned it and a clean hat while smoothing down his hair and wiping the toes of his boots on the backs of his pant legs. He knocked sharply on Warrant Officer Clarence's office door.
"Come in," a weary voice yelled from within.
"Airman Third Class Hunter reporting as ordered, Sir," Jeff snapped in fine military style, saluting sharply, standing at attention."
"Yeah, yeah, stand at ease," the mess officer said lazily, tossing off a lackadaisical answer to Jeff's salute.
"You wanted to see me, sir And sir, please excuse my app. . ."
"Yeah, okay Hunter, don't sweat it. Have a seat airman."
"Thank you sir," Jeff said, puzzled.
"I was shuffling through some papers on my desk the other day and I came a cross this," he said, tossing a sheaf of papers across the desk to Jeff who glanced down.
"It's an application to USAFI. You will notice that I have approved it. I penciled in 'highly recommended'."
"Oh my god, er, ah I mean, uh, thank you so much sir. This means a lot. . ." Jeff said.
"Easy Hunter, don't get carried away."
"Yes sir. I mean no sir, I mean. . ."
All of a sudden this old man, this officer begins speaking to Jeff as if he were a close friend. "Hunter," he says, I have been in the Air force longer than there has been an air force. I was a belly gunner on a B25 in WWII. Called it the Army Air Corps then. Twenty-one years I have been in. Never thought I'd be a damned officer. But then, what the hell, I have earned it. Now they are forcing me out. No more room any more for officers who come up through the ranks. Gotta have a degree, now. Forced retirement it's called. It's all I have ever done. Been in my whole adult life. Think I'm gonna be a highfalutin' chef when I get out? No chance of that. Not with experience in Air Force chow. Everyone knows it's crap."
He pauses to take a breath; Jeff ponders why he is telling him all this. "What the hell," he tells himself, "while I am sitting here listening to him jaw, I ain't washing dishes."
To Jeff's absolute amazement, The Warrant officer pulls a bottle of Scotch from his desk, swivels around to get two paper cups and pours them both a hefty shot. Now, Hunter, I want to drink a toast to your courage and ingenuity. Now I can't tell you why I am drinking to you. There was this rumor all over the officers club for a while, but Colonel Matheson and Colonel Strong have issued absolute orders that no one is to mention a certain incident that happened involving security a few weeks back. So I am not mentioning it. I can only say the fellow in this rumor is certainly bright enough and brave enough to go to college.
So, effective tomorrow, you are transferred to night shift, eight p.m. to four a.m. You will stay on that shift as long as you continue to take any college courses during the day. Upon my recommendation, your admission is automatic. Under USAFI, all courses you take will be absolutely free. You can take courses here on base or at Okaloosa/Walton Jr. College. The base courses are part of Florida State University in Tallahassee and conducted by professors from FSU. My hope is that you will get as many credits as possible while you are in, so you can concentrate on necessary stuff later. "
"To you," he says, tossing off the Scotch. Jeff follows suit, grimacing. "And to your success," he finishes.
Jeff rises, sensing the camaraderie has ended. Th, th, thank you very much, sir," he stammers. "And sir, I want you to know, er," Jeff is nearly in tears. "This is the first good thing the Air Force has ever done for me."
"You are dismissed Mr. Hunter. And, airman, you don't need to report back to the mess hall today. God knows what would happen if anyone smelled that you've been drinking. I'll clear it with the sergeant, but don't forget, tomorrow night at seven forty-five. Make me proud son. Don't let me down."
"Yes sir, I'll be there. And Thank you again, sir." This time Jeff means the salute, and WO Clarence returns it crisply.
.Jeff felt like singing as he meandered back to his barracks. The night shift! That meant he would be a real cook. He would have to wash dishes and clean up, but for only about fifty people. He could wash fifty dishes with one hand without getting wet.
"Fate works in strange and mysterious ways," Jeff thought. He would go to college, arriving there by the strangest, most truncated path he could have imagined. But College! Despite everything. And a good portion of it would be free. The rest, well he would get the G.I. Bill, but he would have to work. He could do that. He always had.
Jeff had been anxiously waiting to hear from the college of his choice, a small, coed Catholic school in western Iowa. Knowing he had procrastinated, perhaps too long, knowing that he did not have the kind of grades he should have had, he was full of anxiety that he would not be accepted for the coming semester, if at all. So it was with great apprehension that he opened the letter which had finally arrived, and with great joy that he read of his acceptance at Loras College, a small catholic liberal arts college in Western Iowa, sufficiently far from home.
Apparently, his entrance essay, and his 2100 score on the sat's had made the difference. His joy was to be short-lived. Late that night, too excited to sleep, while he was digging through his secret stash between the floor joists of his room, an argument between his parents drifted up through the floor grate.
"Well, aren't you going to tell him yourself," he heard his mothers voice, full of scorn and disdain. "I suppose you're going to leave it to me to tell him the bad news. I've been after you for months to tell him and you just put it off and put it off. I know that you were probably hoping he wouldn't be accepted, but now that he has, you can't hide it from him any longer."
"I don't have to tell him anything," Jeff's father replied. I never promised him anything. That money has always belonged to the whole family. So, the family needed it. So what? That's it. That's all there is to it! If he wants to go to school, let him pay for it himself. He can get a job and work his way through school. Lots of kids have done it before him. His dad's voice is rough with beer and brandy. He is increasingly fearful for his mother's safety as their voices rise.
"For Christ's sake Wes." (If his mom was taking the Lord's name in vain, this was indeed some serious shit.) "That's exactly what he's been doing. You know he's worked for that money for years, sometimes two jobs. And saving. How's he ever going to come up with enough money in two months to pay for books and tuition and everything else?"
"Aw, what the hell? He'll never make it in college anyway. He's only got "C" grades. And he's always walking around with his head up his ass, sniveling and crying and crap. Better I should put the money to good use than to piss it away on some stupid little college in Iowa."
About this time it became clear to Jeff that it was his very self they were arguing about.
"He's not whiny and he's not stupid. Just because he's quiet and creative is no reason for you to put him down. And maybe if you ever gave him some help and encouragement, maybe his grades would be higher."
"Bullshit! He's a goddam lazy pissant sissy."
"Even if he were, which he's not, does that give you the right to take his money that he's worked so hard for? Are you going to tell him yourself or are you too big a coward?"
"So I'm coward am I? You would say that. Same old shit. Always ready to put me down. I'll show you who's a coward!"
The sounds which now wafted up through the register like a foul odor, were not unfamiliar to Jeff. What he heard left no doubt that the blows had begun. Each blow was accompanied by an invective such as "bitch", "cunt", or "whore". This was not the first time Jeff would sit silent while his father beat his mother. It was himself he hated at these times; despised his piss ant chicken-shittedness, his cowardliness, his tiny, flabby body. He longed mightily to rush down and impose his body between his mother and his father's blows, but he could not overcome the abject terror he felt before his father's rage.
The topic at hand was obviously Jeff's savings account downtown.
Apparentl his dad had looted his college fund. Apparently there was now no money to finance school.Mom was right Even with the lucrative (for a seventeen-year-old) job he had held as a caddy at a country club with very wealthy members, he would never be able to save enough. Even if he also took back his former restaurant job, which Mathon would give him in a second.
It wasn't as if he had many options. His dad was right, too. With his mediocre grades, he was lucky to have been accepted at any college. It was probably his high scores on IQ (171) and SAT (2100) that got him in.
He was a loser. And it seemed he would remain a loser, would not get his chance to break out.
He was trained only as busboy, dish washer, cook, and caddy. The money from caddying was very good and could get a lot better with time and luck, but it was strictly seasonal. He could not now break the cycle as easily as he had thought. Now it seemed his dad was conspiring with fate to condemn him to a life of poverty and failure, to keep him the loser they both would always be.
Jeff resolved, however, to break out of this household as soon as he possibly could, however he could. He needed a plan. He needed a good, full time, year round job.
To his beloved sister Julie fell the unpleasant task of informing him that his cash, his link to the future, his lifeline, was no more. "Remember that fancy car and boat that Duane bought just before he left last summer," Julie began. "I know you thought he had made a lot of money at the store downtown, and, yes, it was a very good job, but the money he had to buy the car and boat, to go away, was all from his account down at the bank. Mom managed to pull it out, to rescue it and give it to Duane before dad could take it like he did all the rest. Yours and Ernie's, mine too! You know dad had to buy a car for his new job and new clothes and stuff. Mom was against it. She tried to stop him. For some reason, he hadn't gotten to Duane's money yet, so she was able to save it. As it was, she had trouble getting the bank to release the account to her, even though they had given the rest to him without her signature. She had to threaten to take them to court. She was only a woman, so they tried to tell her she had to have dad's signature, but he didn't need hers. So you see, champ, Duane's was the only money she was able to save. I'm sorry, champ. Is there any way you could swing it without that money?"
Jeff could only merely shake his head, afraid if he spoke, the hot, angry tears would spill over. He was determined not to give his father the satisfaction of his tears, especially in front of Julie.
Gaining control after a few moments, he finally spoke. "Five years! For five years I've saved that money. Almost three thousand dollars! How could I ever save that much in one summer?"
"Try not to judge dad too harshly," Julie said. "He really can't help what he is, what he does. He sees this new job as a once in a lifetime chance for him. Try not to carry all that anger around with you, it will just make your own life harder."
What Julie never did tell Jeff, what he discovered many years later, was that dad's looting of her account had prevented her planned elopement with George, delaying their marriage for more than a year.
Jeff became determined to leave as soon as possible. All through the rest of that long hot summer, he came and went as he pleased. Dad tried from time to time to place some restrictions on him, but he simply ignored them, basically daring a confrontation. By the end of August, he knew he could not, would not, bear another year, knew it was his last summer for a summer job.
Then one night, sitting in his room, reading one of the tomes from The Foundation Trilogy, loud sounds of his parents arguing wafted once more up through the old floor vent. Jeff never knew, never cared, what had started that terrible fight, except that it most likely came from a can and/or bottle. Dad's violent screams had been through the gamut of "whore" and "bitch" and a lexicon of other female derogatives, his volume increasing as each new round began. Jeff's mother's screams changed in pitch from offense to pain, he could take no more.
A series of red explosions went off in Jeff's brain. He rose from his bed and hurried to the Kitchen. His mother cowered in one corner, trapped against the Sears yellow Naugahyde and Formica breakfast nook. His blows rained on her, accompanied by another round of invective. Without thinking, Jeff interposed his puny young body between them. Several blows struck him. He was surprised at their ineffectiveness. Instinctively He began to press his palms against his father's chest and push him backward, advancing until he was nearly into the walk- in pantry. His father seemed to shrink before his eyes. Had he always been so short?
Now his mother was hovering behind him,afraid Jeff might harm her beloved husband. His dad's back came in contact with the fridge. Deflated, his arms fell to his sides.Jeff stepped in very close, their faces inches apart. "If you ever hit her again I'll kill you," he told his father. Wordless, his dad spat in his face. Jeff returned the favor. "Remember what I said. I'm not fucking around!" Jeff told him, then turned on his heel and strode from the room.
One late September evening, Jeff tossed a packet of papers on the table in front of his father. "Sign where the red exes are and don't fuck with me," Jeff said, the last words he was to speak to his father for a very long time.
The next morning Jeff reported to Milwaukee, riding rapidly North on the Electroliner, the same train his grandfather served as Superintendent of Dining Cars, to receive his physical exam and induction into the United States Air Force. He spent the night in a flea bag hotel, listening to a heavyweight fight during which some braggart newcomer named Cassius Clay knocked out his beloved champion Sonny Liston in less than two minutes, then flew off the next morning to Lackland AFB, San Antonio, Texas.
And so it was one one broiling hot summer day, Jeff's fine young ass ended up under the snarling tutelage of the small, coal black, extremely arrogant Master Sergeant John Henry Bippy, USAF TI par excellence.
Sergeant Bippy stood only five-three, but like his legendary namesake he was a mountain of a man. The original was a steel drivin' man. This John Henry was a recruit drivin' man. He always went the extra mile to add misery to the military skills he teaches. Jeff experiences extra trauma at his hands, having arrived at Lackland with his golf clubs slung over his shoulder, his recruiter having informed him that the base had an excellent golf course, failing, of course, to add that the excellent 18 hole club was on the far side of the base, reserved for officers. Beautiful San Antonio! Wonderful Texas! Day after day of sweltering heat and near desert conditions. Scorpions and sand spurs and cactus. And the grating, hateful sounding voice of John Henry Bippy, calling jeff a 'dipshit'.
Back home the trees were changing colors, golds and russets and scarlet. To his last day, Jeff will remain convinced that if the earth ever needs an enema, the tube will be placed in Texas, specifically, San Antonio.
Not being accustomed to being called dirty names twenty-four hours a day, Jeff barely squeeked through basic training. Two weeks later he was asking himself, "What have I done?" Jeff and military life simply did not agree; he had always had a difficult time showing respect to those stupider than himself. That description seemed to apply to everyone he met in the Air Force. While Jeff was in basic training, some genius general, Curtis LeMay, no doubt, had decided it was a waste of Air Force personnel to have airmen do KP one day a month; the cooks should handle it. So right away, the USAF needed thousands more cooks. Jeff became one of this numberless hoard. One of thirty such recruits sent to Eglin Air Force Base in northern Florida, he quickly became qualified as a cook, but KP was his regular duty. He was stuck in one filthy job, seemingly with one stinking stripe, no place to advance, no where to go that didn't already have guys like him trying to get away. for whatever remained of his military career.
In addition to KP duties, Jeff, by some odd quirk of fate or USAF logic, received a top-secret clearance to become a provisional Air Policeman, called into service as a cop during alerts, exercises and the like. Usually he was given a M-16 with no ammo and sent to guard some desolate slice of road in the middle of Eglin's vast forest, to prevent civilians from wandering into an exercise and getting their asses shot off.
On one occasion he was asked to patrol, for several hours of a test alert, a certain road inside the base proper. No one was to pass without authorization and a pass. No one. That included base Commander, Lt. Col Harry MacKnight's wife, whom the colonel had forgotten to tell about the alert. Despite her protestations, despite her very believable story that she needed to change cars with her husband to pick up their children from high school, despite the colonel being busy doing alert things so he could not be reached on his walkie-talkie thingy; Jeff refused to let her pass. He heard through the grapevine later that she caused quite an uproar when the alert ended. For a few hours, Jeff was a minor underground hero, for this was the same woman who had caused disruption for months by redecorating the dinning hall, making every cook and dishwasher's life more difficult. (One of her innovations had been to add thousands of plastic flowers that had to be constantly dusted.)
That summer, The various Air Force fighter wings held their annual competition in the vast forests of Eglin Air Force Base. One fighter wing (the equivalent of an army 'army' (as in Fifth Army) contains about 20 squadrons of 10 planes each, so approximately 1000 aircraft were involved, not counting the various support aircraft and ground vehicles. Jeff was given a poncho, box lunch, and the usual empty M-16 and told to guard a stretch of dirt road about six hundred miles from nowhere. Jeff heard the roar of jets in the distance constantly, but saw nothing and no one. Mid way through the first day, An AF jeep suddenly roared up beside him, blowing a ton of dust into the atmosphere and Jeff's face. "Hop in," an AP Tech Sergeant shouted at him
"Uh, sarge my orders are to maintain this post until my relief arrives at 1900 hours."
"Never mind the bullshit, airman, get in the fucking jeep!"
"Where are we going?"
"A couple a miles down the road, don't know where exactly. We'll know it when we see it. Some junk jockey got target fixation and took down a couple a miles of forest."
It took Jeff a few silent minutes, bumping along on the washboard road, to figure out the lingo meant a fighter pilot had crashed. "What the hell do they need me for?" He wondered. After about ten minutes of racing at breakneck speed, we paused briefly to pick up another sucker like me, then another. By the time the jeep became uncomfortably full we could see smoke ahead rising blackly into the hot blue Florida sky like an exclamation point of doom. Tech Sergeant Anderson paused almost long enough to disgorge us all before roaring away. "Report to Lieutenant Caparelli, he shouted over his shoulder before the dust clouded out his visage.
The scene was like something out of a fifties monster movie. Ripped and torn trunks of jack pine and live oak trees were thrown asunder as if Godzilla had roared through, slashing a path about thirty feet wide for as for as Jeff could see. Smoke rose from small fires all along the track. Spanish moss hung here and there as in a cheap horror film. The forest had been further damage by bulldozers and heavy trucks and fire trucks and emergency vehicles, all with yellow and red lights flashing. Though it was only early afternoon of a boiling hot Florida summer day, the air was gray with dust and smoke.
"You my clean-up detail?" a voice rang out to us."
"Don't know, Sir, Jeff answered, before noticing the shouter was a lithe blonde female about thirty with hips and gorgeous breasts not even the tight blue jacket could confine; the first female officer Jeff had encountered. "We were told to report to Lieutenant Caparelli."
"Do I look like a sir to you?"her voice was mellifluous,airy and light, if full of sarcasm.
"No Sir," Jeff stupidly replied.
The lieutenant, her skin a deep golden brown, Italian, Jeff guessed from her name, spoke through rich luscious lips with the tiniest hint of pink gloss. "Never mind. You are hopeless." She reached into the dark rear of a duece-and-a-half, hauling out several small boxes and laying them on the tailgate. "This box, she said, pointing, contains super zip lock bags. You will find them difficult to open and close. However, you must close them tightly each time you insert something, That is to say, do not walk around with the bag open, ever. Understood?"
"What will we be putting in the bag, Ma'am," one airman second asked.
"We'll get to that in a moment," the sexy officer replied.
Jeff was busy fantasizing about where he might like those luscious officer lips. He thought about sex about ten times an hour. His hated virginal status was a burden he was anxious to lay down.
"This box," sexy lips continued, contains protective face masks. You are to each take one and put it on. I highly suggest you put it on and do not remove it. This bag contains disposable plasticine gloves. You are to wear them at all times. Should you ever take one off to scratch your nose or whatever, it must be discarded and replaced immediately.
One very young looking E-2 raised his hand as if in school, but she dismissed him with a shrug of her shoulders that made her large breasts jiggle ever so slightly under her Ike jacket. "Okay," she said, "listen up. These are your instructions and I am only going to say them once. We are in a bit of a hurry here.
"This large broken trail you see here was caused by an aircraft, an F-102, to be specific. Its wings were shorn off by trees and lie mostly in fragments about you. About one half mile down this open space you will see what remains of the fuselage. Fifty feet further you will see the pilot's ejection seat. Unfortunately, the pilot was too low to eject. We have not found his remains but strongly suspect they are scattered over quite a large area. We have recovered his boots and parts of his lower legs, still with his seat assembly.
Your job is to search carefully, starting at the location of the fuselage and working forward as far as the forest will allow. You will unzip your bag if you see something you even wildly suspect might be a part of the pilot or his flight suit. You are not, repeat not to touch anything with your bare hands, nor to keep anything you find, Am I clear? Are there any questions?"
"You mean, Jeff stammered, we are supposed to pick up his, his. . . "
"Spit it out airman."
"Collect body parts?"
"Yes. Hopefully. Not up to the task?"
"Yes ma'am."
"Yes ma'am you are, or are not?"
Jeff had a quick urge to open his trousers and show her just how 'up' he could be, but quickly stuffed away that fantasy. "Yes ma'am," he said, "I can handle it."
"Well, get to it!" Even unmilitary Jeff recognized that as an order.
"For the next six hours, until dusk shut down the search, Jeff criss-crossed his portion of that torn jagged pathway of destruction, searching for any bit of cloth, any scrap of skin or bone that might possibly have had its origin in the cockpit of that plane. Jeff found a few small pieces of something resembling meat covered in torn burnt cloth. Those discoveries nearly made him retch. One of his comrades, however, came up with an empty flight helmet, holding it high and gloating at his discovery. Jeff was to learn from another airman, during debriefing late that night, that the helmet had contained some bloody hair and piece of flat bone, probably skull.
When the deuce-and-a-half dropped him at his barracks about eleven that night, he was bone tired, soaked in his own sweat and sore to his interior. He stood under the shower, hot as he could stand it, for nearly an hour, switching gradually to cold, attempting to get cool enough to sleep. He longed for a stiff drink. Despite the length and strength of the shower, despite the use of many ounces of Dr. Broner's Pure Castile Soap with peppermint oil, what stayed with him all night, to some degree, all his remaining life, was the odor or burnt and rotting human flesh which had hung heavily over the day-long search. That horrible stench might have kept him from sleep that night, had not the buxom vision of Lieutenant Caparelli risen to rescue him, in his fevered fantasies, to dominate him.
The next day was long boredom on the lonely road. Jeff had smuggled a book in his box lunch so at least he had Asimov to keep him company. The olfactory memory from the previous day rose frequently to nudge at him. After eating from is box lunch, chicken salad and c-ration peaches, he vomited heavily into the roadside bushes. Otherwise, the earmark of the day was ennui.
The following day, Wednesday of the first week of competition, had passed essentially as had the previous day until about two thirty P.M. By that time Jeff was nearly asleep. Even he was no so stupid as to succumb to the drag of the sandman while on (important) duty, but it was a struggle. Thank god jeff had again smuggled in a book, this time a Bradbury, Something Wicked This Way Comes. Jeff was supposed to be standing, but who could stand for ten hours?
He was sitting on his spread out green poncho, deeply engrossed in Bradbury. The city the carnival of all dreams visits in the book seemed so familiar to Jeff that he had just turned to the mini biography of the author, to discover that Ray Brabury had indeed been born in Waukegan, Illinois, Jeff's home town.
Suddenly the air was filled with the mind-shattering noise of nearby jet engines as a F-104 screamed over head. Jeff leaped to his feat, leaving Ray Bradbury to fend for himself and dashing into the woods at the other side of the road. Again the fighter came screeching in, this time guns blazing.
In seconds Jeff's poncho and Box lunch were destroyed into minor fragments. M61, 22 millimeter cannon shells cannon shells and 50 caliber Gatling gun fire tore the ground and forest around Jeff to smoking rubble. Jeff hunted desperately, crawling on his belly through dense underbrush. "What the hell did I do with the damn damn walkie-talkie." he asked himself. Finally he located the radio, lying among old leaves, moments before he heard the scream of the returning 104. He held down the send button button on the radio, rather than clicking, and shouted as loudly as he could over the terrifying roar of the Jet engine.
"Goddamnit can anyone hear me this is Airman Hunter out on County road 173. Someone call off this fucking plane. He's shooting at em! I repeat Jet fighter, f104 firing on my position county road 173 elp. Tell him to quit shooting. Help can anyone hear me!" Jeff tried desperately to dig a foxhole with hs elbows as the Starfighter came in for a third run, guns blazing. "Dear god," Jeff prayed please don't let him have napalm."
When he released the button, a voice came back. "Please clear this frequency, this is an official US Air force communicatiuons frequency, get off this line at once. "Jeff pressed the send button once again. He could feel the warmth of the 104s trail as it lifted on its tail above him. "Fuck you goddammit, I am not getting off the line. You have got to call off this fucking a ircraft He is shooting at me, repeat, he is shooting at me! Airman Hunter, auxiliary police, on my station on route 173. Then he repeated the whole thing again before releasing the button.
Again the dazed voice returned. "Who is this. Who is on this line? Who is shooting at who?"
By now Jeff was really angry."Goddammit you stupid son of a bitch! Can't you understand English . My name is Airman Hunter, I amstationed at field nine. I am with the Auxiliary AP on my post in the middle of fucking god knows where, somewhere on county road 173 and there is a fucking F104 straffing me. Do you fucking hear me. Are you stupid?"
Once again, Jeff released the button, once again the same voice came back. "Airman Hunter?"
Push. "Yes sir. That's me."Release.
"You say someone is shooting at you?"
Push "Yes sir a 104 I think. Please sir if you could call him off." Release
"Exactly where are you?"
Push. "I wish I fucking knew sir. They never told me. Oh, excuse the fucking language sir. Sir. Listen please. Holding the button down Jeff held the walkie-talkie above his head, as the Starfighter roared in for another pass."
Release. "Holy shit airman, is that us firing at you?"
Push. "Y, y, yes sir p, please make them stop, please sir."
Apparently, whoever was on the other end had left the channel open. Jeff could hear him screaming. "Shit goddam. Cease Fire, General cease fire. Jesus Christ tell everybody to stop shooting. Bring everyone home. For god's sake. Airman. Airman Hunter. Are you still there?'
"Where would I go sir. Did you think I could outrun a Starfighter?"
"Very funny Airman. Is he still coming?"
"I don't know sir."
"Well go look."
"Do I have to sir? I mean. . ." Jeff decided to stall as long as possible.
"Yes Airman, just step out on the road and tell me what you see."
"Now sir?"
"Yes now airman."
"Is that an order sir"
"Yes airman, an order."
"You sound like an officer, but how do I know sir. I mean you could be just some dumb airman like me."
This is Fifth Wing commander Charles Henson. Colonel Charles Henson. Now go ahead. Step out on the road.'
"Yes sir."
Jeff crawled to the road as slowly as he could. He was in no hurry to expose himself to aerial assault. He made it to the road, got shakily to his feet. Urine ran down his legs to his boots, surprising him. He hadn't known his bladder had loosed. "Hell, Hunter," he told himself. Just be glad you didn't shit yourself."
He looked to the sky but could see nothing. Blessedly, he also heard nothing. "Thank you Lord, he prayed," though he wasn't sure who was responsible in the first place. "Did god create junk jockies?" he wondered.
He pressed the button. "Hello, Colonel Henson."
"Yes. Airman Hunter?"
"Yes sir?"
"Is he, is the aircraft gone?"
"Yes sir. Th, th, thank you very much sir. Excuse my language before, sir, I wasn't thinking very straight."
"Taht's perfectlu all right Airman hunter, you did well. "
"Th, th, th, thank you sir.I think i'll go faint now, good bye sir. "
Airman Hunter?"
"Yes sir?"
"Stand by to be picked up at your usual relief time. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir."
"And Airman?"
"Yes sir?"
"You are to say nothing to anyone about this. Do I make myself clear."
"you mean I haft'a stay here. And then go back to the barracks and not tell anyone?"
"Yes airman, that is exactly what I am ordering you to do. Do you understand?"
"Yes sir, but sir shouldn't I. . ."
"Shouldn't you what?"
"Well like go to sick bay or something?"
"Why are you hit, er, wounded?"
No sir, just shaken up, sir."
"Very good. Carry on as ordered,."
"Okay, er, yes sir!"
Jeff returned to his pancho, now a tattered ruin. He searched around for his weapon, lot of good it did him, finally found it about fifteen feet away. He had hoped it had been damaged in the attack so he could maybe explain, but then, they probably would have made him pay for it. Fucking Air Force! How had he ever gotten himself in such a situation. He screamed to the tops of the trees. "I don't belong here!"
He stripped off his uniform pants, hung them on a bush in the hot sun, used some elephant ear fern leaves to dry his crotch and ass, rolled his underwear up in a ball and tossed it into the forest as far as he could. He walked pantsless up and down the road for a few minutes wiping his balls with his hand every few steps. He didn't exactly get dry in the 90 plus humidity, but he managed to air out a bit. In a few more minutes his trousers were dry enough to put back on.
He could do nothing but wait. His Bradbury was trash. He stretched out on the flattened area from his poncho and tried to nap. His right hand kept shaking. His left seemed okay. But his right just wouldn't stop.
Jeff lay in the semi-shade; dappled sunlight played across his face in the way that always brought him close to nirvana, to peace, to a state near holiness. He did not sleep, but went away for a while to a place neither conscious nor unconscious, to blissful state of nothingness.
He was rudely awakened by the raucous repeated bleating of a jeep horn. An AP Airman First, Carter, his name tag said, yelled at him. "Come on Hunter, let's go. Watch is over. Games canceled for today. Let's go, get a move on."
The next day was blessedly boring again, that day, however. Jeff's replacement poncho was rolled up tight and stashed with his box lunch behind a tree. Jeff himself spent the day sitting off to the side of the road, deep I the shadows of a large live oak draped with Spanish Moss.
The exercises were originally scheduled to last for two weeks, but were abruptly canceled the next day, after another accident caused the deaths of several important military and civilian observe
Nearly a year later, again inexplicably, Jeff was called to the AP shack by Colonel Strong, the head of the AP. Set off in one corner of the base, was an area surrounded by a high cyclone fence and razor wire. The colonel told Jeff the area required a crypto security clearance, the highest possible. As such, the APs were responsible for security of this section, which had to do with missiles and 'crypto" whatever that was.
Colonel Strong wanted Jeff to be on a team to test the security coverage of the area. The idea was to see if the area could be penetrated without the proper security clearance. He could do almost anything within the bounds of safety and legality, but the colonel didn't want to know the plan ahead of time. Jeff was to deal directly with Colonel Strong and no one else. If he needed anything, he was to call Strong directly and use the code word "brown dog".
Jeff saluted, left the office and began his task. Completely ignoring whatever ideas the colonel might have, not waiting to be contacted by any other possible team members, disregarding instructions he had not yet received, Jeff decided to act as a lone wolf on this mission. An idea had come to him even before the colonel had finished speaking.
After all, he was a cook. He went to base supply and signed out for two dozen regulation Air Force Blue ball point pens,using Strong's authority. He stopped off at the mess hall to pack twelve "box lunches" of the sort they sent with troops who, for duty reasons, could not come to the mess hall. Often these boxes were considerably tastier than bland Air Force chow.
Back in the barracks, Jeff carefully wrote on and taped thin paper strips around all 24 ball points. The strip read simply "This is a bomb. You have been blown up." He put on fresh clean and starched cooks whites and white "cunt cap", clipping four of the ballpoints in his shirt pocket. Next he put a pen in each of the box lunches. The remaining pen he placed in his trouser pocket. He carried everything carefully out to the trunk of his car. Next, he called Colonel Strong's office. A nasal secretary's voice said, "Colonel Strong's office."
Jeff replied. "This is brown dog and I would like to speak to the colonel."
In a few minutes, the secretary came back on the line. "The Colonel cannot talk right now, but I am instructed to help you in any way I can."
"I need a normal Air Force Jeep without AP markings, delivered to the parking lot behind barracks 23. I need it I fifteen minutes and I need no one there when I pick it up and no questions." Jeff simply hung up, figuring the demands would carry more weight if they were more mysterious.
He drove his car to the lot behind building 24 and waited, checking his watch. In exactly 14 minutes, a nondescript blue Air Force jeep drove up, white star on the side surrounded by USAF. The driver, in AP uniform, got out, looked around briefly, shrugged and walked off toward AP headquarters.
Jeff waited an additional five minutes, then drove to lot 23, parked next to the jeep and quickly transferred the box lunches. He drove the Jeep quickly to the rear of the mess hall and went inside. "Hey Sergeant Mears, I need the big portable urn filled with coffee for the AP shack, they've got some kind of a big deal goin' on down there. Okay if I just take what's in the big Urn? I am in kind of a hurry, so is it okay, just this one time, if I don't refill the urn? Will you please take care of it for me?"
"All right Hunter. I donno about you hangin' around wit dem AP guys."
Well, sarge, it's better than doin' dishes or cleanin' the grease trap."
"Yeah, ya got somethn' dere all right. Go ahead Hunter, I'll fill da urn for ya."
"Thanks Sarge, I'm sure Colonel Strong will appreciate it."
"Hunter, I never could figger it out. How da hell did a guy like you ever end up in dis place?"
"It was easy, Jeff replied, pulling up his sleeve to display his tattoo: an eagle rampant over the globe
holding a banner in its talons, U.S.A.F. See this: Us Sure Are Fucked. That just about says it all."
"Ain't dat right. Jes' so's ya know, Hunter, I ain't doin' this fer no Colonel Strong nor no officer."
"Yeah, yeah sarge, we all know you hate officers. That's why you're still a staff sergeant after ten years."
"An Damn proud of it too! But I don't see you looking like no Zebra neither. Almost two years; ya autta be at least an Airman First by now."
"Yeah well, you know how that goes. There's thirty guys here just like me. You gonna give me a superior rating on my next eval sarge?"
"Always do Hunter, same as I do wit' dem thirty other guys. Har har."
As they chattered, Jeff has been filling the large five gallon urn with coffee so strong one could use it to remove barnacles. "Gotta go Sarge, thanks a lot."
"Yeah, go on, get otta here."
Jeff and sergeant Mears had a unique relationship. Mears had ten years in the Air fore and planned to stay as long as they would let him. Even so, he hated what he called "chickenshit military bullshit" like shined shoes and saluting. Mears, for reasons he never shared, hated officers almost as much as he hated the mess hall. He had taken a liking to Jeff from the beginning, probably because he saw Jeff as a kindred soul, trapped in a world where he didn't fit. Mears was from Chicago's near south side and prided himself in his 'dese', dems', and 'doses', and his love for 'Da Bears'. Jeff, who was from Waukegan, a scant forty five miles north, shared Mears' love for the bears, but not for those perpetual losers, the Cubs.
Loaded with food and coffee, Jeff drove straight over to the Crypto section, which everyone on base called simply, "the missile base" even though no one knew whether the area had anything to do with missiles.
The gate stood open, but at the gate shack, two imposing looking APs stood at parade rest, in front of the wooden arm across the road, weapons at port arms, chrome helmets gleaming. "What's your business here," the bigger one asked. Jeff knew him slightly, probably from the mess hall. If he remembered right his name was Johnson. He knew Johnson recognized him and he thought that a plus. "I came to blow the place up," Jeff said, hoping his laugh did not sound too phony, "I got some box lunches and some coffee. I guess there's some guys in there working through lunch. Don't ask me, I just deliver 'em. Oh, by the way, you guys need coffee in there?" Jeff asked, pointing at the gate shack.
Johnson visibly relaxed. Jeff hoisted the huge thermos out of the back of the Jeep. "Let me help you with that," the Airman First said, setting his rifle inside the gate shack and grabbing one handle of the Jug. Inside Jeff rapidly filled the guards' coffee pot. As Jeff turned to leave the guard house, Johnson said, "hey, wait a sec, you tryin' ta get me in trouble?"
Jeff froze. His balls retreated toward his belly. He was screwed now.
"Ya gotta sign in. Everybody's gotta sign in."
"Sorry," Jeff said, "I've never done this before." Reaching in his pocket he took out one of his 'pen bombs', signed the admittance sheet, A2C John Schmidt, (he was so tempted to add Jacob Jingleheimer), left the pen beside the clipboard, went back to the Jeep and drove into the highly restricted area. He parked outside the administration building and went inside, carrying a box lunch. At the counter, he signed the visitors sheet with another of his special pens, leaving it on the counter. An Airman Second approached the counter. "May I help you?" He looked at Jeff suspiciously.
Jeff could see through the CO's open office door that no one was there. He also saw the captain's name on a plaque on his desk. Yeah, I got a box lunch for Captain Benton," Jeff said, pushing it across the counter. "I got a big urn of coffee on the Jeep, you guys need some?"
The A2, looked around confused for a moment, went in the back, dropped the box lunch on the Captain's desk, grabbed his empty coffee pot and went back to Jeff. Together they went to the back of the Jeep and filled the empty pot. "Thanks a lot," the A2 said.
"No sweat," Jeff answered, stifling his grin. He moved on to the next building, parking in front. He had no idea what the purpose of the building was. Once inside, he was again required to sign in, again by an A2. Again he left the pen. His shirt pocket supply was dwindling, so he reached in his pants pocket and transferred a few. This building, at least this part of it, opened to a large room separated into about 20 cubicles. Half were empty. He went back to the Jeep loaded up his arms with as many of the boxes he could carry. He placed one on each of six empty desks, went back to the Jeep and got four more, found four more empty desks to place them on.
He drove to the next building, hefted the heavy coffee urn, carried it in and filled the first coffee container he saw, left a pen sitting beside the coffee pot and returned to his vehicle. Figuring he had pressed his luck as far as he should, he drove back through the gate waving to Johnson and smiling. He drove straight to Colonel Strong's office and asked to see the colonel. "By the way," he said to the desk clerk, "you guys need some coffee? I got a big pot out in the Jeep."
Since Colonel Strong was not in, Jeff decided to leave him a box lunch. "Make sure the Colonel gets that," he said to the A2, "he specifically said he wanted the chicken." On the way over, Jeff had inserted an additional message and two of the pens in the last remaining box lunch. The message read simply, "mission accomplished".
He filled the office's coffee urn, leaving a pen there, returned to lot 23, got out a cook's cloth and wiped down the entire interior of the Jeep, everything he had touched, front and back, left the keys in the ignition, strode back to lot 24, got in his car and drove back to his own barracks, building 40. Once there, he settled in for a nap, though the damn tree frogs were singing so loudly he slept fitfully.
Jeff waited and waited. One week passed. Two weeks. High ranking Air Policeman who came for chow glared at him. Low ranking A.P.s grinned foolishly. But he never heard a word. Oh he heard rumors. About the Crypto section. About how they had been working twelve on and twelve off for weeks now. About big wigs from The Pentagon visiting. Curiously, nowadays, when he drove past the Missile section on his way off base, the gate was always closed.
Privately, Jeff always thought he should have received some sort of commendation, a Service Star, maybe, for his contribution to tighter security. If not for that, then for having been fired upon. His hand had finally stopped shaking about two months after the experience. The only acknowledgment Jeff ever received for his sparkling accomplishment occurred about six weeks after his mad bomber spree. He was up to his elbows in soapy water, his cook's whites sopping wet from having washed dishes for twelve hundred hungry airmen, when Sergeant Mears tapped him on the shoulder. "Hunter," he began, "The CO wantsta see ya. He said right away."
"The Base Commander?" Jeff asked, thinking his time had come.
"Naw, stoopid, WO Clarence, da mess officer."
"Like this?" Jeff asked, gesturing to his sodden and refuse strewn uniform.
"He said right away. Dat's all I know. Da rest is up ta you."
"He in his office here in the mess hall, or over at admin'?"
"Naw, over here."
"Sarge, please can I grab a clean shirt, at least?" Jeff said.
"All right, Hunter, dis once."
"Thanks, Sarge, you are the best."
"Ya, ya, don't take it too far Hunter, you'll be suckin' me off next."
"Need a magnifying glass first, sarge. And tweezers."
As Jeff passed him he grabbed his elbow and steered him to an area behind the clipper machine where they cannot be overheard. "So," sarge says. " I heard sumbuddy caused a huge disturbance over at da AP headquarters and at da Missile base. I heard some folks even lost some rank, stripes fallin' like leaves in da rain."
"Is that right," I didn't hear nothing about that sarge."
"Funny ding, it was da same day you was over der on sum special duty er sumthin'."
"Like I said, I didn't hear nothing about it."
"Yeah, okay, Hunter," he said, smirking. "We'll jes' keep it dat way. But if I was you, I'd be careful. Dem guys carry guns ya know." Ending with a loud guffaw, he slapped Jeff on the back and ambled off, laughing and mumbling to himself.
Jeff grabbed a clean cook's jacket from the pile in the rear storage room, donned it and a clean hat while smoothing down his hair and wiping the toes of his boots on the backs of his pant legs. He knocked sharply on Warrant Officer Clarence's office door.
"Come in," a weary voice yelled from within.
"Airman Third Class Hunter reporting as ordered, Sir," Jeff snapped in fine military style, saluting sharply, standing at attention."
"Yeah, yeah, stand at ease," the mess officer said lazily, tossing off a lackadaisical answer to Jeff's salute.
"You wanted to see me, sir And sir, please excuse my app. . ."
"Yeah, okay Hunter, don't sweat it. Have a seat airman."
"Thank you sir," Jeff said, puzzled.
"I was shuffling through some papers on my desk the other day and I came a cross this," he said, tossing a sheaf of papers across the desk to Jeff who glanced down.
"It's an application to USAFI. You will notice that I have approved it. I penciled in 'highly recommended'."
"Oh my god, er, ah I mean, uh, thank you so much sir. This means a lot. . ." Jeff said.
"Easy Hunter, don't get carried away."
"Yes sir. I mean no sir, I mean. . ."
All of a sudden this old man, this officer begins speaking to Jeff as if he were a close friend. "Hunter," he says, I have been in the Air force longer than there has been an air force. I was a belly gunner on a B25 in WWII. Called it the Army Air Corps then. Twenty-one years I have been in. Never thought I'd be a damned officer. But then, what the hell, I have earned it. Now they are forcing me out. No more room any more for officers who come up through the ranks. Gotta have a degree, now. Forced retirement it's called. It's all I have ever done. Been in my whole adult life. Think I'm gonna be a highfalutin' chef when I get out? No chance of that. Not with experience in Air Force chow. Everyone knows it's crap."
He pauses to take a breath; Jeff ponders why he is telling him all this. "What the hell," he tells himself, "while I am sitting here listening to him jaw, I ain't washing dishes."
To Jeff's absolute amazement, The Warrant officer pulls a bottle of Scotch from his desk, swivels around to get two paper cups and pours them both a hefty shot. Now, Hunter, I want to drink a toast to your courage and ingenuity. Now I can't tell you why I am drinking to you. There was this rumor all over the officers club for a while, but Colonel Matheson and Colonel Strong have issued absolute orders that no one is to mention a certain incident that happened involving security a few weeks back. So I am not mentioning it. I can only say the fellow in this rumor is certainly bright enough and brave enough to go to college.
So, effective tomorrow, you are transferred to night shift, eight p.m. to four a.m. You will stay on that shift as long as you continue to take any college courses during the day. Upon my recommendation, your admission is automatic. Under USAFI, all courses you take will be absolutely free. You can take courses here on base or at Okaloosa/Walton Jr. College. The base courses are part of Florida State University in Tallahassee and conducted by professors from FSU. My hope is that you will get as many credits as possible while you are in, so you can concentrate on necessary stuff later. "
"To you," he says, tossing off the Scotch. Jeff follows suit, grimacing. "And to your success," he finishes.
Jeff rises, sensing the camaraderie has ended. Th, th, thank you very much, sir," he stammers. "And sir, I want you to know, er," Jeff is nearly in tears. "This is the first good thing the Air Force has ever done for me."
"You are dismissed Mr. Hunter. And, airman, you don't need to report back to the mess hall today. God knows what would happen if anyone smelled that you've been drinking. I'll clear it with the sergeant, but don't forget, tomorrow night at seven forty-five. Make me proud son. Don't let me down."
"Yes sir, I'll be there. And Thank you again, sir." This time Jeff means the salute, and WO Clarence returns it crisply.
.Jeff felt like singing as he meandered back to his barracks. The night shift! That meant he would be a real cook. He would have to wash dishes and clean up, but for only about fifty people. He could wash fifty dishes with one hand without getting wet.
"Fate works in strange and mysterious ways," Jeff thought. He would go to college, arriving there by the strangest, most truncated path he could have imagined. But College! Despite everything. And a good portion of it would be free. The rest, well he would get the G.I. Bill, but he would have to work. He could do that. He always had.