CAM TORRENS

WRITER • READER • RUNNER • RUMINATOR

Author: Cam Torrens Page 1 of 4

God Speaks

By

On October 24, 2024

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

zhengzhou, china

After we sign the adoption papers in Zhengzhou, China, in 2012, two-year-old Luo Minqiang cries non-stop for twenty-four hours. It shouldn’t have come as a surprise. On the bus ride from our hotel to the ornate reception hall where we would meet our two newest sons and sign the papers, I’d overheard the Chinese escorts whispering to each other about one of the boys we would adopt.


哪个家庭？Which family?


公交车后座的一家人。The one sitting at the back of the bus.


他们知道吗？Do they know?


知道什么？Know what?


为什么以前的家人不收养那个男孩。我想这是因为他不停地哭泣。Why the previous family didn’t adopt that boy? I think it’s because he never stops crying.


They have no idea I speak Mandarin. I had no idea there might be a problem with our new son.


At the crowded reception hall, we meet both of our new sons. Crying Luo, who we have already named Joshua. And Ma Defu, who will go by Matthew in our family. Three-year-old Matthew is quiet and shy, clearly uncertain about what is happening. A white man and woman with two kids of their own are trying to make him smile, while another Chinese kid he’s never met sits next to him bawling his eyes out.


The adoption agency requires us to spend the night in a Zhengzhou hotel with our new sons. For the other adopting parents, this is expected. Their international flights aren’t scheduled until the next day. Our family is the outlier. I work at the US Embassy in Beijing, an eight-hour drive north in our Honda minivan.


Joshua refuses to lie in bed, instead wedging himself into a seated position between the bed and the wall, sniffling and crying throughout the night. Matthew sleeps. Max and Elizabeth, our two children who traveled with us for the adoption give each other nervous glances, as they wonder if this is the new normal.


Just after two in the morning, I wake to silence. I turn on the lamp next to our bed, illuminating wide eyes and the petrified stare of the newest addition to our family. He begins crying anew.


The next day’s road trip starts slow as we detour around countless construction projects in this city of ten million. I make a joke about not needing a horn when we have Joshua’s bawling to warn the drivers blocking our exit. No one laughs.


Finally, we enter the expressway north, sighing in relief at six lanes of pristine blacktop and hardly a car in sight. Our son Max, tired of trying to make Joshua stop crying, leans forward. “Can we watch Finding Nemo?” He almost shouts to be heard over Joshua’s wails.


Linda and I trade glances. We’ve asked our older kids to pay attention to our two new ones on the ride home. It’s only been forty-five minutes. A long forty-five minutes.


“Sure,” Linda says.


Five minutes later, the only sound from the rear of the van is the high-pitched voice of an exuberant clownfish excited about his first day of school. A glance in the rearview mirror confirms the familiar slack-jaw expression Max and Elizabeth wear when mesmerized by the screen. Matthew sports a grin I’ve never seen before. But Joshua? Joshua’s eyes are wide, not like the night prior, too terrorized to sleep, but unblinking as if he’s in awe.


He stops crying.


Linda twists in her seat to take it all in. “Thank God.”


She turns back and our eyes meet. I wonder if she’s thinking the same thing I am. Her words “Thank God” can be used as an expression. But the literal meaning of those two words—thanking a heavenly father—has a recency and poignancy that still staggers me.


###


Two years earlier we had decided to adopt again. Linda had given birth to our two oldest children in the late ‘90s. At the turn of the millennium, we adopted a son from Russia and two years later, a daughter from China. Neither Linda nor I were getting any younger. We wanted more kids and the stateside adoption bureaucratic process didn’t fit a dual military couple on the move every couple of years. Overseas adoptions cost more—the bureaucracy on both ends all collected a share for their efforts—but we were both officers and it wouldn’t break the bank. Our first two adoptions felt like we’d found missing pieces to our family puzzle. But not all the pieces. We were ready for another child.


Immersed in Mandarin language training in Washington DC in advance of the Air Attaché job in China, my role in the adoption process was to nod my head a lot and say, “Sounds great.” Linda dove into the paperwork and started the ball rolling. She also homeschooled our youngest three kids. The next-door neighbors homeschooled as well and “recess” on the backyard trampoline often lasted much longer than fifteen minutes. One of the neighbor’s children Sophie was missing an arm and a leg. Over the course of the eighteen-month overlap with our neighbors, we came to realize the young girl wasn’t missing anything. We were the ones who noticed she was different. Nothing about her handicaps seemed to bother her.


The first time we had adopted from China, we glossed over the options for adopting a handicapped child. Although we considered ourselves a caring family, our activities were centered around movement—school, sports, travel—and we weren’t ready to alter our lifestyle.


Sophie changed our perspective. We didn’t have to do anything special when she came to our house to play. Like the rest of the kids, she ran fast and hard. She laughed when kids fell off the trampoline and cried when one of my kids pushed her. We knew how to deal with this.


Once we dove into the options for adopting a handicapped child, we debunked the rumor that you could only adopt girls from China. Checking the handicapped box opened the door to a choice. We decided on a boy and carefully studied the detailed questionnaire, answering which handicaps we were willing to consider and which ones we weren’t. Before we left for China, we had a match. Ma Defu was a two-year-old boy missing his right arm below the elbow. We were ecstatic about Ma Defu joining our family. The bad news was a year-long wait for the bureaucracy to accept our application. The good news was that we’d be living in China when it came time to pick him up.


Four months after our China move, our match was approved. We only had to wait another six months for the pickup date. The frustration of knowing our new son lived in an orphanage only eight hours south of us seemed worse than if we were still separated by the Pacific Ocean.


Another two months passed. Linda received a phone call on a Friday afternoon while I was at work. The adoption agency asked if we would consider adopting two boys instead of one.


“One. We marked one on the application,” Linda clarified. “What’s going on? Why this phone call now when we’re only four months out from adopting our son?”


The agency worker explained they had an orphanage with a two-year-old boy from the same province as Ma Defu. He had a cleft palate and had already had one surgery to repair it. More would be needed. His name was Luo. Luo Minqiang.


“But why a telephone call? Why isn’t he available for adoption by others using the normal process?”


“He was,” the woman said. “The family came last week. Something happened. We don’t know whether it was something back home, or here in China, but they changed their minds.” The woman was quiet for a moment. “He already has a passport. There will be a discount if you adopt two children.”


“We don’t care about discounts. When do you need to know?”


“A week.”


Linda shared the news that night. We spent hours discussing the situation.


What does “needs further surgeries” mean?


Two more kids? It was already going to be a big step going from four to five kids. A half dozen?


We don’t know anything about him.


We circled around the topic the next day, both agreeing that it was tough to just say no when you knew a child needed a family. We didn’t know why the first family changed their mind. It seemed wrong to pass judgment. What if they had suffered a tragedy that changed their decision? The child was only two, so probably too young to understand that the family had come to China for him and left without him. So, there would be more families. It didn’t have to be us.


Sunday, we attended the non-denominational church that had assumed an important role in our lives since moving to China. Linda and I fell somewhere between C & E Christians (Christmas and Easter attendees) and the die-hards who spent more time in church than at home. We both believed in a higher power. But I was willing to skip a Sunday for a Seahawks game and Linda wouldn’t mind missing for a tennis tournament if the dates conflicted.


Instead of a sermon, the pastor turned the dais over to an older gentleman to give a presentation on an orphanage he ran outside of Beijing. He had been doing this work for over thirty years and provided tens of Chinese children with opportunities besides US adoption, raising them to be productive members in a Chinese society where family is of supreme cultural importance.


Ashe highlighted the successes of his labors, my insides tingled. My hands trembled. This man wasn’t putting himself on a pedestal. He wasn’t emotional about his 30-year mission to help these kids. He simply explained that he had the means to provide for these kids, he had the love to share, and these children needed both.


I grasped Linda’s hand. She squeezed mine. The rest of the talk was a blur. My heart pounded as I ran through his argument.


We have the means.


We have the love.


Two boys have the need. Not one.


After the service concluded, congregation members pressed forward to talk to the man with the orphanage. Linda and I found ourselves in the back of the foyer. I was still shaken.


“Did you—?” My voice trailed away. Even though we both believed, we didn’t actually talk about God very often.


“I felt it,” Linda answered milliseconds after I asked my question.


My adrenaline still raced and Linda’s answer was all I needed to admit what I thought had happened. “It felt like God was speaking to us. Telling us what to do. Did you feel that?”


Linda nodded. “We’re going to do it, aren’t we?”


“We are.”


God might have spoken directly to us, but we were still reticent about embracing in the middle of the church foyer. I reached my arm around her shoulders and pulled her closer.


“We are,” I repeated.


###


“Thank God,” Linda says, at the silence Joshua has gifted us, courtesy of Walt Disney broadcasting inside our Honda minivan. We trade that knowing glance but don’t discuss it.


I offer a silent prayer, rationalizing that if God spoke to us without using his outdoor voice, then certainly he’ll be able to understand my mental words of gratitude.


Thank you, Lord, for opening our eyes. For opening our hearts. And for providing us a chance to love these two boys. Thank you, Lord.


Amen.

Sam’s Club

By

On September 24, 2024

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

DWIGHT D. EISENHOWER EXECUTIVE OFFICE BUILDING

Checking in at the lobby of the Dwight D. Eisenhower Executive Office Building is simple. They have my name pulled up on their computer and an escort ready to take me to the Office of Security Investigation.


“Grab a seat, Sir. The team will be right with you.” A young woman in a pantsuit smiles as she motions toward a long table picketed with a chair in the middle on the far side and two chairs on the other. All that’s missing is a one-way window and a dangling light bulb to complete the interrogation room I’ve imagined—and dreaded—since learning I’m interviewing for a job working next door in the White House.

 

This is my second visit to this historic structure. Five years ago, it was called The Old Executive Office Building, and I faced another panel as a national finalist for a White House Fellowship. Although uncertain how today will go, I’m guessing my 1998 interviews with actress Mary Steenbergen, and former National Security Advisor Robert “Bud” MacFarlane will seem like softballs in comparison.


I walk around the table, moving towards the lone chair, and wave to the woman as she departs. I settle into my seat and concentrate on my breathing. In through the nose, out through the mouth. This interview doesn’t have anything to do with the job I’ve been asked to apply for. It’s the hurdle required to enter the White House tomorrow and convince them I’m the right guy to carry a piece of luggage they call the “football.”


We’re at the end of deployment preparation back in the C-130 squadron I command at Little Rock Air Force Base in Arkansas. I’ll fly commercial from this interview and catch up with my squadron in Qatar for three months of IRAQI FREEDOM support out of Al Udeid Air Base. My unit spared me no mercy as I departed to compete for this potential future job.


“Hey, boss. I heard you didn’t make it past the first day when you tried to walk on the Academy football team. Now you’re going to carry a football for the President?”


“Sir, I predict you’ll spend ten percent of your time carrying that suitcase and ninety percent making coffee. Probably FooFoo coffee too.”


“Someone I knew did that job. You wear your service dress the whole time and stand around at cocktail parties. Good luck. I’d take the fucking desert over that.”

 

I take their shit because that’s how I roll—admitting they’re right while looking for opportunities to hurl an insult back where I can. They know what’s going on. I know what’s going on.


It’s not really a football. But it is a 45-pound suitcase holding the president’s launch codes for the United States’ nuclear arsenal. Military aides from all four services have been carrying the nuclear “football” since the end of the Eisenhower administration. How ironic that I won’t carry it unless I pass my trials today in this building named after Old Ike.


What kind of self-respecting warrior is interested in a nameless, faceless job following around the commander-in-chief with a satchel in hand? It’s a pretty easy answer: an officer who has reached the pinnacle of his O-5 operational career as a commander and knows his or her only chance to remain in the cockpit is to command at the colonel, and maybe, the general officer level. For some reason, the only officers who don’t find themselves on the promotion fast-track after carrying the football for the President are the ones who are asked to leave the job for some egregious error in judgment—usually influenced by thinking with alcohol addling their brain, or their dick in their hand, or both. Everyone else walks away from the tour for an operational command at the Colonel/Captain rank.


That’s what I want. I’m already slated for a year of Air War College next summer, followed by two or three years behind a desk—probably at the Pentagon—before competing to fly planes again. If I can snag this gig, it’ll be two years of hell—admittedly peppered with some interesting experiences—but also a chance to skip War College and the staff tour for an early shot at O-6 command.


I’m confident about tomorrow’s White House interview. The panel consists of the sitting aides who carry the “football.” They’re all a year or two older than I am and I’m guessing they’re less interested in finding out how much I know than they are in determining whether I’m a team player. That’s what I would look for. No one wants to work with an asshole. Rumor has it one—an asshole—slipped through the selection process during the Clinton administration and ruined it for the rest of the aides. They spent most of their tour hiding from the First Lady, minimizing their time in uniform, and as far away from the First Family as procedures allowed.


But today’s security interview? I’m not as confident. This job requires a squeaky-clean resume. While my Air Force performance rates as excellent in many areas, even outstanding in others—if you believe my inflated performance reports—I do have a skeleton or two in my closet. Not like I killed my drill sergeant in basic training and hid the body, but a couple of times out with the boys, where things took a surprising twist.


I’ve told these stories already to the Department of Defense teams that interview me for my security clearance every five years. No one messes with those screenings. If you don’t tell them everything, they go digging. And if they find out you haven’t been straight with them, you’re pretty much done serving in the military. But those security guys are checking for just one thing—whether you’ve done something so bad—Farm animals? Stolen lunch money?—that a foreign government could blackmail you into divulging military secrets if they found out about it. That means if the security personnel pass you, they have no reason to run and tell the rest of the Air Force all the bad stuff you’ve admitted to. Separate stovepipes. I’m hoping the military security clearance stovepipe crosses miles away from the White House security screening stovepipe.


Two men enter the room, all smiles. Both wear sportscoats and loafers, a look that tells me they probably don’t spend much time next door with Bush 43.


The first to enter introduces the other. “Cam, this is Bob Stevens. I’m Mike. Mike Tracy. Thanks for dropping by. This is just a formality, but it’s kind of a necessary one, you know?”


I match their smiles and nod, but there’s no way in hell the relaxed demeanor is putting me at ease.


They start in on the questions and I begin to wonder if I’ve been too optimistic. I’ve heard these questions before.


Bob starts, pausing between each question for my answer.


“Have you ever plotted to overthrow the US government?”


“Have you ever been a member of the communist party?”


“Have you ever had any financial difficulties or declared bankruptcy?”


The questions sound so serious but I’ve heard them all. And I’m guilty of none of them. When they reach the question “Have you ever been convicted of a felony?” I answer “no” with confidence, even though we’re treading close to the issue making me nervous today.


Bob finishes the questions on his list and nods at Mike. “That’s all I got.”


I want to sigh in relief, but that’s a tell, so I just let the air slowly out of my mouth as my muscles relax.


“Mike?” Bob says.


I suck a breath back in.


“Yeah, Cam. Good interview. I think we both know what’s left though, right?” Mike waits for me to answer.


“Uh, what?” I say, on the minute chance this is some line he uses to get guys talking.

“Why don’t you talk to us about the elephant in the room?”


This time I audibly exhale, then suck in a breath and spill my guts.


“I’ve filled this out on my security form with the Air Force multiple times. It was a misdemeanor, not a felony. Purdue vs. Wisconsin. We were downtown for Breakfast Club before the game. Couple of Bloody Marys and then this young security guard started hassling me about coming in the wrong end of the stadium as I was looking for our seats. He tore up my tickets, I grabbed them, and—”


Mike cuts me off. “Cam, stop right there.”


I stop.


“We got that. You spent twelve hours in the pokey for public intoxication. We already know about that from the stuff DoD sent over. Can’t say it was your smartest move, but you know…things happen.” He nods at his partner. “Right, Bob?”


“Shut up, Mike.”


“Then, what—”


“It was the question about financials.”


“What?” I’m baffled. I’m married to an Air Force officer who outranks me. We make good money. We don’t even have a car payment.“We’ve got some houses,” I say. “But the mortgages are good. Nothing’s overdue.”


Mike nods. “What do you know about Sam’s Club?”


“Nothing. We don’t shop there. They screwed us over on a membership thing a couple of years back and my wife is boycotting them. They tried to say we owed them $20, and she’s been disputing it ever since. She’s big on principle.”


“It’s $40,” Bob says.


“What?”


“Not $20. You’ve owed $40 to Sam’s Club for over three years.”


“Like I said—”


Mike must be the interrupter of the team because he shuts me down again. “Cam. We don’t actually care. I mean, sure, we care about principle and all that. Good on your wife. But if you want to interview tomorrow, you’re going to have to clear that debt today. Principle or not. Do you understand?”


“I can call my wife and she can work it out with them.”


“Do you have a credit card?” Mike says.


I nod.


Mike turns to Bob. “You still got that number?” Bob shoves his folder toward Mike and taps on a yellow sticky with his pen. Mike nods toward a phone at the end of the table. “If it were me? White House job? I wouldn’t go calling my principled wife.” He pulls the sticky off and hands it to me. “Here’s the number. We’re going to wait outside. Just pay it, Cam.”


So I do.


###


Six of us interview in the West Wing the next day. One of them is a classmate from the Air Force Academy and we do dinner together that night. We all stay at the same hotel. When we return to the rooms, the front desk gives a message to my classmate and then to me. We’ve been asked to return for another round of interviews the next morning.


A limo picks us both up the next morning and drops us off on the asphalt loop to the West Wing. Classmate Johnny “Q” Quintas interviews first and high-fives me on the way out. My interview flows as I expected. I’m not an expert at reading faces, but the three other officers—they leave the incumbent Air Force officer out so as not to bias their selection—all seem responsive to my answers.


Q and I both have Blackberry work phones and the selection team tells us they will call when they have results. We decide to hang out together.


I get the first call.


“Fantastic interview, Cam. So tough to choose between you two. We ended up deciding to go with Q.”


I tilt the Blackberry down and mouth to Q, “You got it.”


To his credit, he tries to make a face that looks like he’s sorry for me but it’s all mixed up with his excitement at getting the job. In the end, he goes with a wide grin. I might have done the same.


I’m disappointed. I wish I could say it’s because I want to serve our country and our highest elected official by protecting the codes to our most lethal instrument of power. That’s not it, though. Six officers competed for the job. One got it. It wasn’t me. That’s what stings. And I can’t blame it on Sam’s Club.


That night I fly to Bahrain with a four-hour layover in Paris. By the time I board my connection, my pity party is over. I’ve got a squadron of 33 aircraft and 275 personnel to command in a war that started 9 months ago. I’ve got a follow-on assignment to War College where I’ll be able to reconnect with my family after all these deployments. 


Life is good.


I picture Bob and Mike laughing at the Air Force officer spilling his guts about his night in jail. Then I imagine myself telling the same story at the recreation tent at Al Udeid where I’m limited to three weak-ass beers and there’s no danger of intoxication. My aircrews are going to be roaring.


Fucking Sam’s Club.

THE WEST WING

Mission Complete

By

On May 20, 2024

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

North Korean Guard Post

In early 2009, halfway through my one-year wing command tour in Kuwait, my three-star commander drops in on his way from Al Udeid Air Base to Baghdad International Airport. He claims he’s just popping in for a hello. He asks me to drive him around the base so he can pat our hard-charging airmen on the back. I know from experience he likes to shoot the shit with the young airmen making the mission happen. I enjoy watching him in action and am always envious of how much he can get done in a day while making time for gestures such as this. I also suspect he has an ulterior motive.

         “Halfway done with your tour, Cam. How do you think it’s going?”

I’m driving my boss from our US corner of the Kuwaiti base on the ten-minute drive to the flight line. “Record amounts of cargo and troops moved last year, Sir. The guys are killing the mission.”

         “Right. I meant ‘how do you think you are doing?’”

         Not my favorite kind of question. If I tell him how great I’m doing, I come across as full of myself. If I claim that I’m not doing well—after bragging about our wing’s production this past year—it comes across as false modesty.

         “Good, Sir. I feel like I have a handle on ops. I’m working on some projects that will leave the wing better than when our team came in.”

         The general nods. “Yep. You’re doing good. Let’s talk about your next assignment. We’re less than six months out. You know where you’re going, right?”

         “The Pentagon?” I try to keep the dread out of my voice. We’ve touched on this topic before. I’m a young wing commander and this tour is the operational pinnacle for a colonel. I won’t be seriously considered for promotion to the next rank for another five years. The plan is to put me in a highly visible staff job at the Pentagon during that period and see if I shine enough to make rank at the end.

         “Yep.” He obviously detects something in my voice. “Why? You have other options you want me to look at?”

         I take a deep breath. I’ve been thinking about this conversation for a month, but the general’s visit is a surprise. Working fourteen-hour days for five years at the Pentagon will destroy my marriage. My wife hasn’t told me this—hasn’t even hinted at it, yet I know in my gut it’s true. I spent two years working day and night in South Korea for an Army four-star who had a reputation for never sleeping. Last year, I served as the deputy commander for the largest air wing in Europe, manhandling the paperwork so my boss could go out and shake hands like my current commander is doing today. This year is supposed to be everything I’ve worked for. But my wife and four children are living in a rental in Colorado, counting the days until I get back. Now I face a five-year grind at the Pentagon, battling the bureaucracy, just to see if I might get promoted? And then what? Even if I was lucky enough to make one-star, I might get one assignment around airplanes, but the rest of my jobs would be pretty far removed from the action. I’ve researched an alternative.

         “I’d like to go to China, Sir. Air Attaché.”

         “That’s not a promotable position.”

My hands sweat on the steering wheel as I sense my boss turning his head in my direction. “I know. But here’s the thing, Sir. I took four years of Chinese at the Academy. I wrote papers at Air War College on the Taiwan issue. The current air attaché in Beijing is supposed to leave right when I’d finish attaché training. There can’t be a ton of colonels qualified for the job.” I glance at my passenger. “Plus, I can take my family.”

“You can take your family to the Pentagon.”

“Sir.”

The general either laughs or snorts—I can’t tell which. “Right. I know what you’re saying.”

Seven months later, I in-process at the Joint Military Attaché School outside of Washington DC. The next twenty-two months include a year of one-on-one training in Mandarin Chinese, five months of attaché training, and another five months of Mandarin, which includes a one-month language immersion in Beijing.

US military attachés work for the Defense Intelligence Agency, but they are not spies. An attaché is supposed to be an expert in the country in which they are assigned. They represent the United States at formal functions, coordinate with the host nation’s military, and report back to the United States on their in-country observations. That last duty is often misinterpreted by the public as spying on a nation. The key characteristic of that part of the job is that the attaché is required to collect their information using overt means. Covert operations are against the “rules.” Military attachés are fully credentialed diplomats with permission to travel about the host country, observe the culture, and talk to people.

Military interaction is easier in some countries than in others. When the Air Force Attaché in London wants to know about the secret training the UK is conducting in some far-flung region of the world, the British military will take the attaché into a classified vault and give them a briefing. When the Air Force Attaché in Moscow wants to know more about the range and load capacity of Russia’s long-range bombers, the information is more difficult to collect.

China is not on the list of “easy” countries.

I tackle my Chinese studies with the same fervor I brought to flight training. My tutoring is four hours a day, and I put another four hours in each night trying to master the language. Turns out learning to fly airplanes is easier than Mandarin fluency. Eight hours of language study leaves me sixteen for the family. We take full advantage of our two-year stint in DC. Home-schooling the kids, we maximize our visits to museums and cultural sites. We take the unused leave I’ve collected over the previous four years and travel to visit relatives. My visions of reconnecting with the family are realized.

My struggles with Mandarin are personal failures. I easily meet the language minimums for my new job, but remain frustrated that my fluency is at the fourth-grade level rather than a high school graduate. My peers remind me I’ll be having conversations with Chinese fighter pilots and, if they’re anything like US fighter pilots, fourth-grade level Chinese might be overkill.

During my one-month language immersion, I stay with a middle-aged Chinese couple in downtown Beijing. The husband takes it upon himself to improve my Mandarin skills through rounds of baijiu, a Chinese grain alcohol which smells like the formaldehyde preserving the frogs in 10th grade Biology. With each shot, my conversational skills advance. We return to the tiny apartment and I try to shower in a cramped closet-sized bathroom containing a sink, toilet, and washing machine. After attempting to explain how I’ve inadvertently knocked my host wife’s underwear from the drying rack into the toilet, I realize I’m not as fluent as I had hoped.

I’ve asked for this job to spend more time with the family. But I’ve also taken the position because the culture fascinates me. We adopted our youngest daughter from China in 2004, and during our attaché training in DC, we apply to adopt another child while living in China.

Although my intentions for the job are personal, old habits die hard. I’ve poured everything into my training because I want to do the job right. More than that, I want to matter. I want to do things in China which impact US national interests. I leave the US a tad nervous about that. Old China hands assure me the Chinese military won’t talk to me. They joke that I’ll be eating for my country at two events a week, ranging from the Bolivian Armed Forces Day to Eid al-Fitr at the Saudi Embassy. When I ask them about the third leg of the mission—the observing and reporting, they don’t say much.

We move in to a diplomatic compound ten miles north of the Embassy in mid-summer of 2011. Twenty-four hours after landing, I’m decked out in full military ceremonial regalia representing the US Air Force at China’s BaYi Day, their annual armed forces holiday. A driver delivers my wife and me to the event, and I briefly meet my Chinese Air Force counterparts. My uniform is uncomfortable, the ceremony is boring, and I engage in no meaningful conversations. I’m even more uncomfortable about my new job.

Autumn in Beijing is smoggy. My fellow attachés assure me the winds make fall the clearest season of the year. I spend most of my time meeting all the people my predecessor has advised me are essential to befriend. The People’s Liberation Army Air Force (PLAAF) throws a welcome dinner for me, and I’m surprised to find it a more casual affair than I expected. I’d always assumed boilermakers were a uniquely American invention, but discover the Chinese have put a twist on it by dropping shots of red wine into beer. I stop at one.

I attend more formal events and notice I’m getting the new-guy treatment. Experienced attachés are assigned Germany’s Oktoberfest and Norway’s renowned National Day with fourteen varieties of salmon. I attend Nigeria’s Independence Day alone.

Three months into the job, I recognize my least favorite parts will always be representation at formal events and military-to-military cooperation. But I’m enjoying my time in and around Beijing, observing the people, the infrastructure, and learning more about the culture.

In December, long-time leader of North Korea, Kim Jong Il passes away. Back in 2005, I spent two years of my military career designing exercises which simulated a North Korean attack on South Korea and am still intimately familiar with the geopolitics surrounding the two Koreas. South Korea sees itself as a “shrimp between two whales,” where the US is the whale they are allied with and China is the whale which recalcitrant North Korea is partnered with. The immediate threat of another North Korean invasion of the south has remained as constant over the past 58 years as Beijing’s daily smog warning. Anything that happens in North Korea is of vital interest to both the US and China.

Our office is tasked with that thing we’re supposed to do—observe and report. Specifically, we are to look for three things: an uptick in Chinese military movement on the North Korean border, an increase in North Korean refugees trying to enter China, or any unusual activity. We put together a plan that puts several attaché teams at various border crossings along the Yalu River.

My boss and I take a crossing at the midpoint of the border about halfway between Dandong, where the Yalu empties into the Yellow Sea, and the Tumen River, close to Vladivostok where we had adopted our second oldest son in 2001. We fly into Changchun, the capital of Jilin province, and spend the night before procuring ground transportation for the seven-hour drive to the Yalu River. A cold front originating in Siberia has dropped the temperatures to zero degrees Fahrenheit in the capital city. Fortunately our car’s heater appears accustomed to working overtime.

Halfway to the Yalu, the frozen plains transition to wooded mountains and snow-packed roads. We’re grateful for the heater and functional windshield wiper fluid, but regretting not inspecting our tires before leaving. Well-worn tread makes hairpin turns a challenge as we climb over a pass near the extinct Changbai volcano and descend into the Yalu river valley.

At the border, we set up by the only bridge and settle in for observation. The temperature has dropped another twenty degrees since Changchun. It’s the coldest place I’ve ever been. The defrost can’t keep up on the car which means we’re having a tough time seeing what’s happening outside the windows. I step outside with my camera.

The bridge has a Chinese guard on the Chinese side. No guard is in sight on the North Korean end. No one is crossing the bridge. In front of us, North Koreans climb down to the river. Most are retrieving water from gaps in the ice and lugging it back up the bank to their village. Everything on the North Korean side of the river stands in stark contrast to the Chinese side. The village where we will spend the night has white buildings, red signs, electric lights, and bustling activity. The North Korean village is defined by gray. Smothered in haze there is no evidence of electrical power on that side of the river. The only people visible are North Korean guards and families approaching the river.

I make it five minutes before ripping the door open, diving inside, and telling my boss it’s his turn. It takes another two minutes before my fingers thaw enough to thumb through my pictures. Ten minutes later—my supervisor seems better suited for the cold than myself—it’s my turn again. Again, the bridge is unused. This time, instead of a water run, a family is doing laundry in the river. A woman plunges clothes through a hole in the ice and wrings them underwater. Then she pulls them out, wrings them once again, and tosses them at her children’s feet. My mouth drops as one of the kids picks up the clothing and drops it in a wheelbarrow. The garment is frozen solid and sounds like someone tossed in a rock. The Yalu is volcanic-sourced and obviously never freezes.

We alternate bridge-watch duty with drives up and down the roads along the river, looking for any sign of refugee or military activity.  Nobody crosses a bridge during our entire trip. However, we note footprints indicating North Koreans are traversing back and forth into China on parts of the river where it is frozen all the way across. The path is one that tens of people are taking—probably for food, cigarettes, or booze—and not the trail you would expect to see for an exodus of thousands. There is no major refugee flow here.

Military activity is nonexistent on the border. We don’t see a single Chinese military vehicle during our two-day stay. North Korean security vehicles show up intermittently at the entrance to the bridge but exhibit no unusual activity. Nobody is massing forces in this part of the country.

We return to Changchun the same way we took to the border. Normally, we’d take an alternative route to observe different things, but the snow has us nervous and backtracking is a route we know the car can handle. Besides, this route is at least three hours shorter than any other. The zero degrees in Changchun is sounding warm right now.

“What did you think?” My boss asks.

“I think we can tell everyone nothing’s going on in our section. What did you think?”

“Same. Pretty cool though.”

My boss is understating our experience. I’ve never done anything like this before in my life. We traveled to China’s extreme north, barreled over snow-packed mountain passes to the border of one of the most notorious dictatorships in the world, and saw poverty and repression we’d only read about in newspapers and intelligence reports.

“Coolest thing I’ve ever expected to do in this job.” I can’t stop grinning. “If it’s all going to be like this, I’m putting in for an extension.”

“Nope. No extensions—you are required to turn in your diplomatic credentials exactly three years after you got here. And you’ve got more receptions and PLA meetings waiting for you when you get back.”

I roll my eyes.

“But you’re going to see some serious shit over the next couple years. If you liked this, you’re going to like the assignment.” He pauses. “They warned you before you took this job, you wouldn’t get promoted, right?”

I imagine being six months in to a four-year Pentagon tour spending my mornings on briefings to convince Congress to support the Air Force’s latest weapon system proposal, and my afternoons making sure the coffee is fresh and the PowerPoint slides are in order for a meeting of three-and four-star generals. Then slugging a ride back to a townhouse that may or may not contain a family.

“They did, Boss. They did.”

Laundry on the Yalu

Round Chambered—Ready to Fire

By

On April 21, 2024

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

Names changed FOR PRIVACY

My non-stop post-9-11 deployments inexorably creep west across Asia. Less than a year after the towers fall, I relinquish my stateside command, and take a deployed C-130 unit launching sorties from Jacobabad, Pakistan, and airdropping supplies to special forces at night in the rugged Afghanistan mountains. Eighteen months later, in early 2003, I command a hybrid squadron of active duty and air national guard C-130s flying out of Seeb, Oman for the initial invasion of Iraq. Now, in autumn of the same year, I command my fourth squadron in fifteen months, another hybrid unit operating from Al Udeid Air Base, Qatar.

 

Every new deployment moves closer to Baghdad. The longer the conflict persists, the more our armed forces’ infrastructure and bureaucracy balloon. The military machine cannot help itself—give us forty-eight hours and we’ll erect a tent city for three thousand personnel. A month and we’ll contract with Green Beans Coffee, then sign a negotiated agreement with the host nation to serve beer within our base boundaries. Contrary to the Air Force-bashing myths, I’ve never seen plans for a golf course at a deployed location, but I did command a base in Kuwait where my service had built a swimming pool.

 

Al Udeid—or, The Deid—is the hub of this inevitable growth. It serves as both the Central Command’s Air Force Headquarters, and as the launchpad for the largest concentration of combat aircraft in the Middle East. Fighters and bombers line the ramp. Air refueling and cargo planes use the mile-long asphalt tarmac like a giant bingo board, parking in perfect rows and columns.

 

A typical C-130 squadron contains 12 airplanes. My new unit flies 36 of the lumbering four-engine aircraft and includes 50 six-person aircrews. It’s the largest operational C-130 unit ever put together.

 

Before exiting my tent for the in-brief with the operations group commander, I pause at my ops officer’s bunk.

 

“What do you figure this fighter guy will think about three-hundred C-130 guys moving in to his base?” I ask Lt Col Bill Rudd

 

The fighter pilot mafia runs the Air Force. An F-16 three-star general leads the headquarters. Another F-16 one-star commands the wing. And the 379th Air Expeditionary Group—the unit my squadron falls under—is run by an F-15 colonel. There’s more testosterone floating around this base than the beach volleyball scene in Top Gun.

 

Rudd laughs. “You know better than that, Sir. Those fighter dudes don’t think about us at all.”

 

He’s not wrong. My new boss worries about targeting, friendly fire, downed airmen, and all the sexy kinetic action a flier expects during a prolonged air campaign. After five minutes of “welcome to Al Udeid,” Colonel Black sends me out the door with his commander’s intent: “You know what to do—so do it.”

 

Another commander might have been disappointed at the lack of guidance from their supervisor. I’m not. The fewer fingers he has in my business the more time for me to escape my make-shift office, either walking the ramp talking to flight crews and maintainers, or hopping onboard with an aircrew and flying missions. I stop by the schedulers desk and put myself on a mission to Baghdad later in the week.

 

Seventy-two hours. That’s how long my squadron manages to stay under Col Black’s radar. When I return from the late-night Baghdad mission, my ops officer greets me at the plane.

 

“Boss, we got an issue. Two of them, in fact. I need to brief you before you go in and see Col Black.”

 

“What do we got?”

 

“We got two planes impounded, each for a missing M9 round.”

 

I squint at Rudd. The M9 is the semi-automatic pistol that replaced the Smith & Wesson revolvers used by the Air Force until 1985. The M9 shoots 9mm rounds. A missing round—especially in an aircraft—is a serious problem. If a maintenance technician gets off the aircraft with fewer tools than he or she entered with, that aircraft is impounded until the tool is found, or a multi-day inspection is completed. Same procedure for a missing bullet.

 

But how can our crews lose an ammunition round? We store our weapons in the C-130’s locked gun box, each loaded with a full magazine and a round in the chamber. Before we takeoff, each aircrew member retrieves the 9mm from the gun box and holsters the weapon for the flight. When we land, we stow the M-9s back in the gun box. You can’t lose a round unless you fire the weapon and require a reload. And if we got guys firing weapons during our missions, I would have already heard about it.

 

“Two aircraft? What the fuck, Rudd?”

 

“I know. I can brief you on the way in.”

 

I ask my copilot to finish filling out the flight paperwork. Rudd gives me the details on the way back to the squadron.

 

“It’s the Guard guys. One loadmaster lost a round clearing his weapon on the ramp. The other plane had a navigator lose one right next to the gun box.”

 

“But why–?”

 

“Let me finish, boss. The Guard guys don’t like our system. They’re asking how they can confirm there’s really a round in the chamber when they pull the M9 from the gun box? How do they know the weapon is good to go unless they do a function check? So they’re clearing the round, to make sure it’s there, reloading the mag and chambering the round.”

 

I shake my head. “Unnecessary. We’ve told them it’s got a round in the chamber. And Life Support inspects the weapons every week.” I keep my voice even, but I’m pissed. This is the type of thing that always plagues active-duty and guard unit relationships. We active duty aircrew always think the guard runs things fast and loose—just a bunch of good ol’ boys with keys to an airplane. They all think we active-duty guys got a stick up our ass, and only pull it out if we lack a pencil and need something to write a new set of rules with. “I’ll go see the boss. You put out a read file reiterating our procedure. I want the duty officer personally briefing each crew.”

 

“Roger.” Rudd stares at his feet.

 

“What?”

 

“They kind of got a point, boss. The guard aircraft commander told me that if he’s flying one of our active duty aircraft into a combat zone, he has the right to make sure everything works.”

 

“Put out the read file, Bill. Let’s fix this. I’ll go see the Colonel.”

 

Col Black is none too impressed. I endure a ten-minute lecture about how impounded aircraft are useless, this is a matter of attention to detail, and how it cost us two missions that soldiers in combat are relying on. Actually, we had a spare aircraft and were able to come up with another, so we haven’t lost the missions. But I keep that to myself and answer with ‘yes sirs’ at all the appropriate moments. Before my dismissal, Col Black surprises me with a declaration I’ve never heard from a boss before. “Torrens, if this shit happens again, it’s on you. I’ll have you on the first plane out of here and find someone who knows how to run your unit.”

 

I’ve worked for a several commanders with a temper. The issue tonight is no joking matter. But I’ve never been told this is strike two before.

 

“Got it, sir.” I salute.

 

Col Black doesn’t return it. “Go fix it.”

 

Rudd already has the read file printed by the time I return. The duty officer is briefing early morning crews on our procedure—and the reiterated prohibition not to clear weapons on the flightline or in the aircraft.

 

I grab four hours of sleep in my tent. At breakfast, I seek out the guard’s only chief master sergeant, Chief Barnes, who sits with a major I met when they first arrived. They’ve both heard about last night’s events. The chief isn’t happy about the lost objects—the rounds—but makes the same argument as Rudd. “You can’t send guys into combat without knowing whether their weapons are functional.”

 

“Bullshit, Chief. We do it all the time with our flare system.” The flares are what the C-130 uses as decoys when evading heat-seeking surface-to-air missiles. “We don’t launch flares out in flight to see if they work. We trust the folks who installed them.”

 

“Bullshit back at you, Sir. You run a systems check on the flares in the cockpit before takeoff. That’s more than you’re letting the aircrew do with their M9s.”

 

Chief Barnes is right—I hadn’t considered that before.

 

For the next two days, everything on the schedule runs smooth. The two impounded aircraft are back flying. The first was operational within four hours after maintainers found the missing round. The second was on the ground for a full day and night before the inspection cleared the aircraft to fly. The bullet was never found. Meanwhile, I’m touring other flying squadrons around the base to see how they work the weapons issue. The fighter units all have armories where they store their weapons with clearing barrels where aircrew can individually function check and load their weapons. Transit cargo and refueling aircraft use a gun box like we do, but they’ve personally checked their M9s before leaving the US at their home-station armories.

 

I call home to the tech sergeant running our stateside armory and ask him questions about how to set one up. It’s a hell of a lot of work—at least a three-week process if we have to order a clearing barrel from out of theater. I make a checklist of everything that needs to be done. I spend another day thinking about it.

 

That night we lose another round in the plane.

 

I try for the first word when I walk into Col Black’s office, but instead of the irate commander I encountered the first time this happened, my boss seems almost serene.

 

“Cam. Thanks for coming by. This isn’t working.”

 

“I know, Sir. I thought the guidance we put out would do it, but—”

 

Col Black interrupts. “I’m not talking about your guidance. I’m talking about you working for me. It’s not working out. I’m replacing you.”

 

My stomach feels like it’s dropped through the floor of the forty-foot trailer in which we sit. I’m unsure why I’m surprised. Col Black told me there wouldn’t be another chance. I know he doesn’t have time for this shit. This very serious shit. But I’ve never been fired before.

 

“Sir, I have a plan.”

 

“I do, too. I’ll be working the phones tomorrow sourcing your replacement. You’re in command until they get here. Don’t fuck things up in the meantime or I’ll send you home with paperwork as well. That is all.”

 

I give myself a single minute on the walk back to my unit for a pity party. A couple of “fucks” muttered under my breath. A brief glance at the sky with an accompanying “why?” But by the time I walk through the door I have a plan. We’re building an armory. I’ve got two major goals—build a system that works, so our bumbling bullet issue goes away. And finish it before my replacement arrives.

 

I don’t know who Col Black has told about my impending loss of command, but I’m not telling my unit until the door hits me in the ass on the way out. They all know something is up, though, because I’m full-court-pressing this armory issue every waking hour. I know my home-station troops are wondering what’s gotten into their normally even-keeled commander. The guard members aren’t surprised at my honed focus—they just think that stick in my ass somehow got wedged tighter.

 

The deputy ops group commander stops by life support. He finds me personally supervising construction while encouraging the civil engineering airmen voluntarily helping us out. Pulling me aside, the deputy asks questions about this new armory and what processes we’ll use. Before he leaves, he tells me my replacement hasn’t left the states yet.

 

On the third night, life support personnel transfer the weapons from the C-130s to the new armory. We have the required clearing barrel on order, but our maintenance metals team was able to fashion a temporary one out of a 55-gallon drum. Fortunately, we’ve had no more lost bullets while we were building our solution. The next morning, we’re operational.

 

Col Black pops in two days later.

 

“Show me this armory,” he says.

 

I walk him through what we’ve built and explain our processes. He nods at all the right spots. We both know building and using an armory isn’t rocket science. He’s probably wondering why it took a genius like himself to make these “we’ve always used the gun box”C-130 guys start doing things the fighter way. I just wonder if he’ll reconsider firing me.

 

“Your replacement is delayed for an issue at his home-station squadron. I need you to run things until he gets it squared away. I’ll keep you in the loop.”

 

“Yes, Sir.” There’s no way I’m letting on how relieved I am at the delay. But I am. Now that we’ve solved the problem, I’m even less excited about telling my subordinates I’m fired. So I don’t.

 

Three weeks later, Col Black stops me in the chow hall. “Looks like that armory’s working out OK. Any issues?”

 

“Working great, Sir. No issues.”

 

“Guess you guys fixed the problem.”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

“I’m calling off your replacement. But you’re still on probation. Anything else and you’re gone. Understand?”

 

“Yes, Sir.”

 

Another commander might suspect Col Black has been toying with me. Using empty threats to get me to move faster.

 

I don’t.

 

My unit created a problem for him. I’m responsible for that unit. He decided to fire me. Now he’s changed his mind. I don’t care if he’s an asshole. I don’t want to be fired. I take my second chance and run with it.

 

Our aircrews thrive for the remaining three months of the deployment. When an earthquake nails Bam, Iran, we make headlines flying the first US military aircraft into Iran since the botched hostage rescue of 1980. Col Black starts smiling at me. My shattered confidence slowly returns to fighting form. The relationship between the guard and my unit is strong—the guard crews might have been frustrated at our rules and procedures, but they like our team. My active-duty guys feel the same way—they respect their guard counterparts. I’m proud of what we’ve accomplished.

 

When we pack up to fly stateside, we exchange goodbyes on the tarmac. Chief Barnes slaps me on the back.

 

“You made it, Sir.”

 

The only person I’ve shared my “almost-fired” story with is my ops officer, Bill Rudd.

 

“Yep.” I still don’t plan on sharing the experience with anyone else.

 

Chief Barnes grins. “Come on, boss. We all knew. No one wanted you to get fired. The guys think you’re OK.”

 

I’m surprised but try not to show it. “Well, I appreciate them falling in line with the armory. Saved us from losing more bullets.”

 

“Hmmm.”

 

“What?”

 

“It helped, I agree. But some of our guys are gun guys. They just can’t help themselves with those end-of-the-ramp function checks.”

 

“They were still doing it?” I gape at the Chief. I can’t believe it.

 

“One or two.”

 

“Thank God they didn’t lose any more ammo.”

 

Chief Barnes slaps me on the back. “No, Sir. You should thank God they brought extra bullets for when they did!”

Grace on the Gulf

By

On March 6, 2024

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

Names changed FOR PRIVACY

When I enter my office, the blast of air conditioning instantly deep freezes my sweaty desert Cammies. I drop into the chair behind my desk, and check another box on my ‘to-do’ list, even though I don’t feel like I’ve done anything. Although the US Air Force has maintained a footprint at this remote Kuwaiti Air Base since the early 1990s, we didn’t start running one-year tours here until the US invaded Iraq in 2003. I’m the sixth Colonel selected to lead this base. This is Day Three of “walking and talking” to my new troops, who are crammed into temporary buildings on an appendage of the airfield the Kuwaitis provide. I recognize how important face-to-face contact is with my subordinates, but my eyes can’t help but drift to the middle item on the list—my theater orientation flight to Baghdad, Iraq, next Thursday. The worst part of command is reduced flight frequency. I’ll have too many obligations to the seven-thousand servicemen and women at this base to fly as often as I want. That said, the best part of command is that I have to fly. You don’t run an operational air base without proving your credibility as an operator.

 

At the bottom of the list are more meetings. Meet the judge advocate general, meet the Office of Special Investigation detachment commander, connect with the chaplain.

 

Whoa. I pencil the last one in above my theater orientation flight. Can’t hurt to fit in the chaplain’s visit before I fly into a combat zone.

 

My vice commander, Pete Quindlen, pokes his head into my office. “Boss, we got an issue.”

 

“What’s up?”

 

“General Ahmad wants you in his office like ten minutes ago. And I’m pretty sure I know why.”

 

I stand. “Walk with me. What happened?”

 

Pete steps aside as I exit my office, then tucks in beside me down the short cinderblock-lined hall. My executive officer stands as I nod at her. “Already heard, Sir. Good luck.”

 

“Gate security on the north side stopped General Ahmad and wouldn’t let him on to our section,” my vice says. “When they asked for his ID, he told them he didn’t need it because it’s his base. We’re his guests.”

 

“Shit. He’s right. That’s exactly what he told us the first day. Our guys are supposed to give him, and whoever is with him, access anytime he needs it.”

 

“Right. Except the SF guys rotated in the same day you and I did. They didn’t get the memo.”

 

I leave my number two within the confines of our half-mile-by-half-mile US compound to fix the gate issue with the SF squadron commander. I’m sweating from the fifty meter walk to my vehicle, then cold again when I crank the air conditioning on my way to General Ahmad’s office. They say it takes several weeks to get used to 118-degree daytime highs. I’m not so sure.

 

A young Kuwaiti officer ushers me through the door. General Ahmad greets me with a bristly-beard triple kiss that I’m still getting used to before he waves me to a chair. His aide brings me a cup of tea. The general eyes are warm as he asks about my family. I’m impressed with his recall—we only met three days ago, yet he remembers my wife’s name.

 

Fifteen minutes of conversation pass and I’m struggling to keep my mouth shut. I want to apologize and explain to General Ahmad what we are doing to fix the issue. I want to assure him this will not happen again.

 

Finally, during a two-second pause in conversation, I say, “General, about today—”

 

General Ahmad raises his hand with a slight smile. “Cam. Is it fixed?”

 

“Yes, Sir. I am briefing—”

 

The general raises his hand again. “I’m sure you have taken care of this. What I called you to my office for was to invite you to join my brothers and I on Thursday evening for dinner. Will you be able to join us?”

 

He’s rocked me on my heels just a bit. I feel like a second lieutenant, ready to beg for a second chance, and General Ahmad is inviting me to join his family to break bread? But Thursday is the day I’ve blocked off as my flying day. Or at least it used to be.

 

“Yes, sir. I’ll be there.”

 

So begins the most important relationship of my year. After the liberation of Kuwait by coalition forces in 1991, the Kuwaitis have been grateful and gracious hosts. But that was seventeen years ago, and stories abound about US leaders in Kuwait who have taken their hosts’ hospitality for granted. The US three-star in charge of our Air Force in Central Command tells me to “keep our Airmen in line, deliver everything the combat commanders want anywhere and anytime, and—most of all—don’t piss off the Kuwaitis.”

 

I juggle my schedule and fly Monday night instead. It’s a standard troop haul to Baghdad International. Standard, in that we’ve done a lot of these over the last five years. Non-standard, in that back home we aren’t concerned about an errant surface-to-air missile or small arms fire greeting us upon arrival. I’ve got an instructor with me for my first flight in theater, and she signs me off as “good to go” when we return to Kuwait. Sure, I was going to have to screw up pretty badly for a captain to tell the wing commander he needed another qualification flight, but I recognized the flight went well. Training works—and I’ve spent the last three months re-qualifying in the same model C-130E I initially flew as a first lieutenant.

 

Pete Quindlen joins me on the drive across the desert for dinner at General Ahmad’s on Thursday night. We leave the base at five and it takes an hour to follow the general’s directions. Like an ocean horizon, the sand stretches before us to the sky. Unlike the sea, roads crisscross the dusty main highway, and English signs are scarce. One of our security forces teams tails us with estimated GPS coordinates for our destination. I’m sure they’re laughing at our meandering route, but I had to ask them to join us. No matter how secure we believe we are in this country, I’d have my ass handed to me if my boss found out my deputy and I both left the base at the same time to drive off into the Kuwaiti desert.

 

When we arrive, I’m surprised at the set-up. I knew we would be outside because General Ahmad told us we should bring a jacket. He didn’t tell me we’d be eating in tents. The compound is a canvas C-shape with a tent on the left for service staff, a tent on the right for dining, and an open tent bridging the two others with chairs arranged close to a fire.

 

The general greets us with his trademark kisses and whispers in my ear, “You can greet my brothers whatever way you feel comfortable. A handshake is okay. They will not be offended.”

 

Pete and I move through the line of men all dressed the same—white disdashas with a white keffiyeh held on their head with a black cord—as General Ahmad does introductions. As I shake hands with the last man, the general says, “Now you have met twenty-one of my twenty-two brothers. Khaled could not make it tonight. Welcome to my family.”

 

My jaw drops. I give Pete a ‘we’re not in Kansas anymore, Toto’ glance. He appears as impressed as I am.

 

“Sounds like your mother is an incredible woman.”

 

The general laughs, to my relief. I’ve just violated my training on cultural sensitivity with my observation.

 

“Four mothers. My father had four wives. Mine was the first.”

 

Now I really have questions. Four wives? How does that work? Four bedrooms under one roof or four residences his father rotates between? But now is not the time.

 

General Ahmad ushers Pete and me into the main tent and has us sit at his side by the small fire between the chairs. We drink tea and talk. We drink more tea and talk some more. Three hours later, and an equal number of bathroom breaks, we are still drinking tea. I’m wondering what the plan is for dinner. Finally, at 11 o’clock, two trucks show up and back toward the side of the tents. Men lay down plastic wrap—the kind I’d use if I was repainting my kitchen—and distribute large dishes of food across the tent floor. I keep waiting for General Ahmad to make a move toward the dinner tent, but he just smiles and as the staff continues hauling in more and more food. I can identify cumin, garlic, maybe saffron—although I’m unsure if I recognize the scent or note the color of the rice dishes passing by. Back at the base, I’d be asleep by this time—or flying—but certainly done with dinner. My stomach rumbles.

 

The meal is something out of The Arabian Nights—or at least how I would imagine a traditional Arab feast. Exotic casseroles, salads, rice, bread, and hummus, all arranged around the body of a goat.

 

My paradigm of traditional formality quickly shifts, however, when we begin to eat. We reach from our cross-legged positions and scoop the meat into our mouths with our right hands, then squeeze rice balls with our grease-laden fingers to chase the goat meat. A challenge for Pete and me, as we studiously avoid using our left hand to help pack our bites together. I knew when we accepted the invitation that alcohol wouldn’t be an option, but I can’t help thinking I’m experiencing the Kuwaiti version of an American tailgate party—a loud, man-dominated, bro-fest minus booze and a corn hole game.

 

General Ahmad graciously ensures that our security team, positioned in the parking lot, is also provided food. Men arrive to pull up the plastic wrap and dispose of the leftovers. I love this experience. A taste of the “real” Kuwait I suspect most never get. But it’s past midnight and we’ve got work tomorrow. General Ahmad pulls me back to the fire and offers coffee. We sit for two more hours talking about family, nibbling on a variety of dates and knafeh dishes.

 

“What did you think?” Pete asks on the way home.

 

“Totally different experience than I expected. But I’m kind of glad it’s over. By the time we get back to base, we’ll have been gone eight hours.”

 

Pete laughs.

 

“What?”

 

“General Ahmad told me they do this every Thursday. And you’re invited every time.”

 

“Are you shitting me?”

 

“I shit you not.” Pete waits a couple of seconds before continuing. “He did say the last commander would sometimes send his vice commander in his place if his schedule didn’t allow him to make a week. I debated on whether to share that with you.”

 

“Asshole. Every other week then, OK?” This was a once-in-a-lifetime meal. I don’t want it to become routine.

 

“Yes, Sir.”

I recognize the importance of host nation relations. This is the part of the job I had most dreaded upon arrival. It’s not that I can’t talk to people or am uninterested in other cultures. I simply prefer doing things rather than socializing. Even at a stateside assignment, a cocktail party is torture. I’d rather shovel my neighbor’s snowy driveway than sit at her table and share dinner. A middle-of-the-night low-level training flight across Northern Arkansas, culminating in an airdrop, is what rocks my boat. Not the Air Force annual formal dinner and dance.


General Ahmad seems to recognize my issues. Likely it’s something he’s observed in previous commanders as well. Throughout the year, we become closer—breaking bread every other Thursday, Tuesday morning tea on base, and brief stops to say hello on the American portion of his base. When the US pushes for deployment of C-17s to the Kuwaiti base, General Ahmad and I work closely to build an operational plan for bedding down and employing the strategic airlifter. The proposed addition of four C-17s rotating through the base easily adds hundreds of support personnel and a requirement to temporarily house transiting aircrew. There are plenty of politics involved, but the relationship that General Ahmad and I have forged is strong. He backs the US proposal and takes it to his government for approval. My bosses are impressed. Only Pete and I know the real truth. Our Kuwaiti general is far better at this relationship building thing than we are.


In the spring, General Ahmad takes me fishing. He’s already had Pete out twice and has been urging me to join him. We motor out of the harbor in a 14-foot white and blue fiberglass boat on a blistering hot morning. As we point toward the center of the bay, the general shows me how to rig the spin-cast poles with mullet, explaining we’re after queenfish while close to the shore. We’ll switch to 5-inch lures in the deeper water as we hunt for grouper and snapper. The bay is placid on this windless morning, almost like a sheen of oil is preventing the formation of waves. As we slow to trolling speed, my shirt begins to stick to my chest in the heat.


Luck evades us for the first hour and we switch to lures. Fifteen minutes later, when General Ahmad reels in his line, I move to do the same.


“Keep fishing, Cam. I must pray.”


For the next ten minutes, I watch my line while periodically glancing at the general’s prone figure facing east back toward the harbor. When he finishes, he lets out his line again and we continue our fruitless pursuit of these fish he’s been bragging about.


“Is it awkward for you when I pray?” the general asks.


This is a first. We’ve talked about a lot of things this year, but religion is not one of them. “No. I pray too. I’m a Christian. I just don’t do it the same way.” I smile. “Or near as often.”


General Ahmad grins. “I knew you were a Christian. This is one of the reasons I like you so much.”


“General, I hope this doesn’t come out the wrong way, but I’ve never heard a Muslim say what you just said—that they like a foreigner because they are Christian.”


The general’s pole bends and my eyes widen before I realize he’s just bringing in his line a bit. “Okay, you might be right. Most Muslims wouldn’t put it the way I did. But I will tell you something. Almost any Muslim will tell you that if they are going to choose one of two people for a friend, one a Christian, the other a non-believer, they will choose the Christian every time.”


I think I understand what General Ahmad is showing me, but I hadn’t put it together before today. Probably because I’ve been more worried about my flying schedule than bilateral relations with Kuwait. This man who has opened up his base and his family to me is a man acting how I believe a Christian should act. He loves God with all his heart. He’s been loving me—his neighbor—as well.


“Do you know why?” the general asks.


I do. But I want to hear him say it. “Why?”


“Because even though I believe many parts of your religion are not accurate—which I’m sure is how you also feel about my religion—we both believe in the same God. We feel that we can trust someone more if they believe in a greater power, if they have faith in that God. Because then we can expect them to act with grace.”


And there it is. My mentor teaches me a final lesson on a fishing boat in Kuwait Bay.


We sit for another half hour without even a bite. I debate whether I should make a joke about feeding a man a fish versus teaching a man to fish, but decide against it.


Everything has already been said.

Untouchable

By

On February 1, 2024

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

Names changed to protect the innocent

My Air Force Academy roommate Brent juts his head over my shoulder as I reach for the slot handle. Reno casinos in the late ‘80s don’t sport fancy electronic buttons or LED lighting.

 

I pull.

 

“How about we get a six-pack and head to my room, Big Boy?” he whispers in my ear.

 

We’re three freshmen on a squadron orientation visit to McClellan Air Force Base in California, now living it up in Reno, Nevada on an 18-hour pass. None of us are old enough to drink. Our meager supply of money rapidly disappears into the slot machines.

 

Numbers, diamonds, and cherries tumble behind the glass.

 

“You come up with cash for beer or a hotel room and I’m yours,” I say.

 

One diamond. Two diamonds. Brent grabs my shoulders.

 

The third diamond drops. Lights flash above the machine. A siren wails. Nickels rain like hailstones into the machine’s tray. I turn to my squadron mate, all thoughts of homophobic rejoinders disappearing faster than the coins from my bucket.

 

“Guess you’re off the hook for finding money, brother,” I say. “Let’s go tell Jeff.”

 

Brent’s jaw hangs loose. His eyes widen as he focuses on the totalizer. I turn back to the machine just as it freezes at 3,000.

 

“Did you just win three thousand bucks?”

 

“No. I just won three thousand nickels.”

 

Brent doesn’t respond. I turn again. He’s counting his fingers.

 

“It’s a hundred and fifty.” I shake my head. “Multiply the three and the five, and then use the right number of zeros.”

 

“Fuck. I thought you were rich.”

 

“Nope. But now we’re sleeping inside tonight. And you can quit drinking Cokes.” I point at the glass in his hand. “I’m going to cash this in. Let’s see if we can still get a room. Get Jeff. And find someone to buy us beer.”

 

I can’t believe our luck. All we’ve been lacking on this dash over the California mountains to Reno, Nevada, is beer money and a place to stay. Now we have both.

 

We’ve actually been lucky from the start of this trip. When they give us this pass, back at the California base, most of my classmates opt for the two obvious choices. Walk downtown while people stare at the uniforms we freshmen cadets are required to wear all year, or return to our billeting rooms and sleep in peace until the bus departs for the return flight. Sleep sounds enticing. Unlike the Academy, no upperclassmen will haze us on this field trip.

 

Brent and Jeff are on board with my idea of “taking the road less traveled.”

 

“Reno, baby. Reno. Let’s hit the slots.”

 

“I got fifty bucks.” Brent says.

 

Jeff has forty.  

 

I nod. “We’ll figure it out.”

 

We borrow civilian clothes from upperclassmen and finagle a ride to a rental car facility. In our first encounter with luck, karma, fate—whatever—we talk the guy behind the counter into renting a car to three 18-year-olds by simply flashing our military IDs and leaving behind a Federal Credit Union check filled out with an exorbitant deposit.

 

We take I-80 east for the two-hour drive, pushing our four-door Pontiac Grand Am to its limits. The sedan struggles up to the Donner Summit, then barrels down the other side. I’m driving. Jeff has a map unfolded on his lap, calling out landmarks in the dark.

 

“That’s Donner Lake on our right.”

 

“It’s dark,” Brent says.

 

“Tahoe is only seven miles south.” Jeff points.

 

“We can’t see, dude,” I say. A runaway truck ramp sign flashes by, letting us know the option is only a mile ahead. “You guys ever taken one of those?”

 

“One of what?” Brent says from the back seat.

 

“Those truck ramp things. I mean, what stops the truck? The up-slope, or the gravel, or what?”

 

“Probably both,” Jeff says. “Depends on how deep the gravel is?”

 

As we approach the ramp, I flip on my brights and we peer up the steep, gray strip disappearing into the trees.

 

“Let’s not find out,” Jeff suggests. “We got beer, gambling, and ladies waiting for us just thirty miles ahead.”

 

“Reno, baby!” I shout.

 

We’re not exactly acting like one would expect our nation’s future military planners to operate. We know we have to have the car back by noon tomorrow. We know we’ll need to return it with a full tank of gas. We know we want to gamble, drink, and catch a bit of sleep before we drive back—in that priority order. So the plan is to play the slots—none of us has any expertise at the tables—until we’re down to enough money to get someone to buy beer and fill up the rental tank when we get back to Sacramento. We’ll sleep in the car.

 

Flexibility is the key to airpower…they’ve drilled this mantra into our heads since we marched up the Bring Me Men ramp at the Academy. My nickel-slot jackpot has changed the equation. We adapt.

 

The lady at the casino’s hotel reception appears nonplussed at three young men requesting a room at one in the morning.

 

“All we have left is the penthouse suite. Two beds and a rollaway. Would that work?”

 

“A suite?” Jeff says. “How much are we talking?”

 

“It’s normally $300. But I’m not going to be able to fill it at this hour. Would $75 work for you gentlemen?”

 

Brent coughs. I’m already reaching for my winnings.

 

Jeff glances at both of us before turning back to the receptionist. “That would be acceptable.”

 

I fill out the paperwork. She gives me a single metal key.

 

“Return the key before eleven tomorrow. You can pay your minibar bill then.”

 

We walk to the elevator without speaking. As soon as the doors close, we let loose.

 

“She said minibar.”

 

“I heard it.”

 

“Penthouse suite?”

 

We spend the next two hours drinking mini-bottles of booze while looking over downtown Reno from our whirlpool bath. There’s the awkward moment where we’re trying to figure out if we really want to climb nude into the honeymoon jacuzzi, but a shot apiece lowers our inhibitions. No one wants to drive back to California in wet underwear. Hell, we don’t even want to fall asleep and waste our deluxe accommodations.

 

We crest Donner Summit westbound the next morning. Jeff hasn’t touched his coffee. His excitement over lakes and mountains during yesterday’s drive to Reno appears to have been overcome by the night’s events. Brent sleeps in the back seat. I’m sucking down my coffee and already eyeing Jeff’s. I’m tired, but not really hungover. I had a bad experience with Canadian Mist in my high school years. I’m not the spokesperson for moderation, but the minibar only had hard alcohol. I hadn’t had much.

 

“No one’s going to believe us,” I say.

 

“What?” Jeff’s voice is monotone.

 

“The rest of the guys. Remember Rob said he was going to sleep the whole rest of the time in billeting? Now we come back and tell them we gambled in Reno, nailed the jackpot, and drank booze in the penthouse suite until morning? We’re gods.”

 

“Gods…” Jeff drops his head in what might be a nod. Brent says nothing.

 

A runaway truck sign flashes by again. It’s not the same one, because we’re on the Sacramento side of the pass. I glance at Jeff. He doesn’t notice, eyes pointed straight ahead, his mouth slightly open.

 

I ease off the gas and hit the truck ramp at sixty miles an hour.

 

“Fuck!” Jeff yells.

 

In less than fifty feet, we’re stopped. I see gravel only a foot below my window. I turn to Jeff, realizing I’ve got his full attention.

 

“What the hell?” Jeff’s eyes are wide.

 

Brent pulls himself up from the rear floor well. “What did you just do?”

 

“I wanted to see what would happen.” I cringe at my own words. It’s the stupidest thing I’ve ever done and the only thing more stupid is my reason. I have no idea why I’ve sunk a rental car into a runaway truck ramp after the night of our lives.

 

To Jeff and Brent’s credit, they only call me a dumbass twice before transitioning into “what do we do now?” mode. The car has stalled. I turn off the key. We roll down the windows and climb through them to exit the vehicle.

 

“No sense even trying to start it and back out,” Brent says. “Too deep.”

 

I nod. Jeff shakes his head.

 

Fifteen minutes later, a California Highway Patrolman stops to assist. He stares at us through his windshield before exiting. I can only imagine what he’s thinking.

 

The patrolman asks if we’re okay. Then he requests our identification. “You gentlemen lose your brakes?”

 

I know I’m not supposed to lie, cheat, or steal, but the thought crosses my mind anyway.

 

I step forward. “No, Sir. It’s my fault. I wanted to see what would happen.” Those words again. Except this time, the phrase elicits a stare that seems simultaneously to say “you dumbass kid,” and “wait until they hear about this back at headquarters.”

 

The patrolman checks the car. He radios for a tow truck, then returns to his vehicle while we wait. When the truck arrives, I catch snippets of the officer’s conversation.

 

“Cadets…Air Force…eighteen.” Then, “right—future of our country.”

 

The truck takes only five minutes to get the rental back on the pavement. The officer encourages me to give the car a go. It starts right up. The sides of the sedan are covered in dust and streaked with light scratches from the gravel. I leave the Grand Am running, joining Jeff and Brent while the patrolman and tow truck operator talk.

 

“Three hundred,” Jeff says. “Hell, probably two hundred just for the ticket.”

 

“Tow might be two hundred plus. And ticket might be more.” Brent stares at his feet.

 

They’re both wrong. The officer lets us off with a warning.

 

“You boys aren’t the brightest I’ve come across, but I just want to thank you in advance for serving our country. Don’t pull a dumbass stunt like this again.”

 

We each give a version of “No, sir.”

 

The tow truck operator charges us thirty bucks. “Only took me five minutes. Plus, the time to get here.” He smiles. “Good luck in the Air Force.”

 

In Sacramento, we stop at an auto parts store and buy rags and rubbing compound. We buff out the scratches in the parking lot before filling up the Grand Am with gas and returning it. The rental company accepts the car without questions. We don’t share our story.

 

Two weeks later, the three of us are drinking 3.2% beer at Arnold Hall, the on-campus hangout specifically built for those of us too young to have car privileges or drink outside the gates. We’re telling our story to freshmen from another squadron. They’ve just returned from their field trip to an operational base. Unlike our squadron, they didn’t get any time off.

 

It takes a lot of 3.2% beer to get a buzz going, but we’re determined young men. By the time Arnold Hall closes, we’re bloated and loaded.

 

As we stagger across the terrazzo toward our dorms, I pull Jeff to a stop in front of a display aircraft.

 

“You see that F-104 in front of us?” I ask.

 

“Yeah?”

 

“Five bucks says you can’t climb on top of it.”

 

“Five bucks says I can.” Jeff moves toward the plane.

 

“Naked, you god,” I say.

Yellowface – Review

By

On November 28, 2023

In Blog, Book Reviews, Nonfiction, Reading

 BY R.F. Kuang

I’ve read great satire before. I also read plenty of books on writing and publishing. The blend of this style and these subjects in RF Kuang’s novel Yellowface makes it un-put-downable, especially for writers/authors. Allow me to make some observations: – Satire comes off best when the author appears to poke fun at themselves. Mark Twain’s prose in The Innocents Abroad wouldn’t have had the same bite if written by Oscar Wilde (notwithstanding the fact that Wilde would have been 15 years of age at the time of publication.) Yellowface’s humor bowls the reader over both because of HOW she wrote it and because SHE wrote it. Way more powerful than if written by Emily Henry who I admire as a humorous writer who has written about the publishing industry. – Some readers read satire for satire’s sake, but Kuang goes further. A well-known author once taught in a workshop that a book has to contain absolute truths (facts,) but will be remembered for its profound truth (the reader being able to picture themselves dealing with a similar conflict.) Fact: Diverse voices have been overlooked before in publishing. Fact: The industry is attempting to resolve this. Fact: If you’re not bringing diversity to the table, there are fewer opportunities for publishing work.

But here’s the profound truth that Kuang displays to readers–how would you react to these absolute truths if the changed publishing environment affected you, personally, as a writer? – I scanned a couple of other reviews that complained the translation of social media posts to the print version of Yellowface was awkward. Pro tip: listen to this book on audio! The pacing, tension, and transitions are all seamless. Here’s my take–satire makes the reader laugh but also has the serious purpose of highlighting societal dilemmas. The author isn’t obligated to solve the issue. Instead, their job is to put it into a form we can talk about. Kuang does this brilliantly in a page-flipping, fun, read. Thank you!

A Fever in the Heartland – Review

By

On October 23, 2023

In Blog, Book Reviews, Nonfiction, Reading

 BY TIMOTHY EGAN

Timothy Egan, author of “The Worst Hard Time” has put together another deep dive into a dark and turbulent chapter of American history. His latest bestseller, “A Fever in the Heartland,” focuses on the rise of the Ku Klux Klan during the Roaring Twenties. At the epicenter of this disturbing tale looms the enigmatic personality of D.C. Stephenson, a man whose charisma and cunning tactics eventually put him in the position of Grand Dragon of the KKK in Indiana, where he served as the chief architect of the Klan’s explosive expansion across the Midwest.

 

Egan presents Stephenson’s character as a study in paradoxes—the Klansman bore a magnetic presence, and deftly tailored his life story to suit his ambitions. His influence was monumental, and the KKK’s xenophobic, hateful ideology gained traction, mainly through his use of the age-old tools of power–violence, graft, demagoguery, and back-scratching.

 

In the backdrop of the Klan’s ascension, a seemingly powerless figure, Madge Oberholtzer, emerges as an unexpected agent of change. Egan explains how her tragic fate becomes intertwined with Stephenson’s, leading to a dramatic revelation of his true character–that of a sadistic sexual predator. It is her harrowing testimony and the trial that follows that eventually brings the Klan to its knees.

 

Egan’s a brilliant storyteller. He paints a vivid and haunting picture of an era marked by hatred, intolerance, and the dangerous charisma of a man who harnessed these forces to advance his own ambitions. “A Fever in the Heartland” is a must-read for the youth of today.

 

Why? Because although the issues might change, there will always be leaders lacking in character but swollen with ambition who will stoke the fires of intolerance for their own end. Egan calls those people symptoms of the problem, not the problem itself. That might be true, but I argue we can use those symptoms to recognize an impending perilous path for our country.

 

Watch for this: a charismatic personality who tries to use controversial rhetoric to win over the working-class/rural population while simultaneously banning party dissent. Throw in allegations of misconduct ignored by that same personality because they feel they are above the law.

 

These are symptoms of a problem. Character trumps all when it comes to leadership. If you can’t point to a leader and tell your kids “This is who you should aspire to emulate,” then you can’t listen to that same leader, even if they seem to make sense.

In Whom Do We Trust?

By

On June 25, 2023

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

In Whom Do We Trust?

In early January 2003, I command a squadron of over 500 operations and maintenance personnel and 18 C-130 transport aircraft based in Little Rock Air Force Base, Arkansas. Our mission is to deliver combat troops and supplies anytime and anywhere, either by parachutes out the back end of the plane, or by landing on whatever flat surface is available. A mantle of trust drapes my shoulders. My loyalty is unquestionable, but I’m hesitant to reciprocate that trust. 

I’m cynical about a war twelve years earlier, where we declared victory but allowed a tyrant to resume his role as the leader of Iraq. I’m jaded over a presidential election that took the US Supreme Court weeks to adjudicate. I’m frustrated because I just returned from a deployment to Afghanistan where it seems our country is no closer to finding the mastermind of 9-11, and instead, appears to be manufacturing reasons to shift our focus from Osama bin Laden to Saddam Hussein. Poised at the prime of my operational career, I’m so wrapped up in how to keep my team at the leading edge of the fight that I offer nothing but complaints towards those working at the strategic level. When anyone over the age of fifty tries to give me the big picture, I stare at them like they’ve got a dick growing out of their forehead.

 

My midday summons to my commander’s office doesn’t help.

 

“I don’t have the details. All I know is we’re not stopping short this time. Be prepared to head out in less than a month. Questions?” My boss might be under the age of fifty, but his lack of specifics about our upcoming deployment just outside the border of Iraq inspires little confidence.

 

I stride across the street to my squadron, mulling over my boss’s words. So much for commander’s intent. The only useful information I cull from our meeting is I need to have my squadron ready to deploy to the Middle East in less than a month. I smile, then check to see if anyone’s watching the newest squadron commander talking to himself. I don’t need more guidance. I might not control where we’re going and what we are fighting for, but I’ve sure as hell got a unit that knows how to get out of Dodge, set up an operating base, and get shit done.

 

We spend the next five weeks prepping the crews with airdrop training at night and short-field landings on unimproved surfaces. My ops officer runs that training and I make sure I hop in the aircraft commander’s seat enough that I’ll be ready to fly in the lead wherever we end up going. I study the crews flying with me. Although I am the senior and most experienced aviator in the unit, commander duties keep me out of the cockpit and on the ground more than other pilots. I need a crew that’s been flying their asses off. Not just to make up for my recent lack of flight hours, but also because when the shit hits the fan, I need a crew I can bond with—one that I trust.

 

The basic crew on a C-130 is six: pilot, copilot, navigator, flight engineer, and two loadmasters. We’ll probably take a mechanic if we land in the combat zone, but I’m not worried about who that will be. My maintenance leaders will send me the best airman they got. I’ve already filled most of the flying crew, as well. My enlisted positions are senior NCOs that earned their rank through performance and common sense. My navigator used to fly with me in my last unit when I was a major. The toughest decision I make before departing our home base is who will be my copilot—my number two. My staff recommends two lieutenants to fly with me before we leave—so that I can make the choice myself. Andy Smith and Deanna Franks.

 

My ops staff assumes I’ll pick Andy. I suspect the only reason they don’t just assign him to me is so I’ll think I’m deciding and not them. Andy’s a good ol’ boy with a reputation for smooth flying, a raunchy sense of humor, and the ability to make a crew bond quicker than a middle-schooler’s tongue on a frozen flagpole. You can count on him to buy the first round, know the name of the girlfriend of the youngest guy on the crew, and fly better than half our aircraft commanders. A week before we leave, I take him out on a night tactical airdrop training mission and let him fly the plane for twenty minutes in formation. The rumors about his flying instincts are true. Hands of glass.

 

On the run-in to the airdrop, I run our plane one hundred feet higher than we plan. I do it on purpose, gauging Andy’s reaction. He doesn’t say a word. He is supposed to—the copilot keeps the pilot on airspeed and altitude while backing the navigator up to make sure the plane is going in the right direction. On the return flight to base, Andy rips a fart, tells a bad joke, and has the whole crew laughing—including me. We have an hour left on our mission and are scheduled to practice short-field landings using our night-vision goggles. This is an aircraft commander qualification and I’m the one doing the landings. After the whole ‘silent Andy’ thing with my airdrop altitude, I consider coming in high on the short-field landing just to see if he will point it out. But these night assault landings are nothing to mess around with, so I table that plan.

 

I screw it up anyway—carrying too much speed across the overrun. When I pull the power, we float out of the zone, my wheels touching six hundred feet down the runway instead of the required five hundred feet or less. I should take it around, but don’t. Mashing the brakes, I lift the throttle handles and pull them into reverse, bringing the plane to a stop.

 

“Nice, Sir!” Andy bobs his NVGs up and down like an agreeable grasshopper. “You just got it in the zone.”

 

An endorphin rush blooms in my chest and I quell it. The hardest thing about command isn’t the increase in responsibility, but the people always telling me what an expert pilot I am, calling me an awesome commander, and hinting how much they like me. Every time it happens, I get that rush; and it takes all my effort to remind myself I’m not invincible just because I’m in command.

 

Am I wrong about my botched landing? Did I land in the zone? I turn to our flight engineer, who sits behind and between us pilots. His goggles sway back and forth. Truth. I landed long. 

         

Two nights later, I fly the same profile with Deanna Franks, my other copilot candidate. Deanna’s reputation precedes. When it comes to hands-on flying, everyone in the unit considers her the best copilot. She won the Triple Nickel Award in flight school for flying an evaluation where she was never more than five knots off airspeed, fifty feet off altitude or five degrees off heading for the hour-long flight.

 

But she’s also known for what she’s not. Not one of the guys. Not like she acts anti-social or anything, but she just doesn’t seem to be interested in playing the game when it comes to aircrew hijinks. The jokes about each other’s mothers disappear, nobody burps, and if someone has to cut loose after a round of bad burritos, you can be sure no one else will laugh about it.

 

Our airdrop mission with Deanna goes on time and on target. I don’t get the chance to test her reaction to my flying one hundred feet high because she never lets me. At fifty feet error, she calls it out, and I return to altitude. When the navigator mixes up on a turn, Deanna knows exactly where we are and steers us back on track. I let her fly the plane home, and she flies a rock-solid formation lead. When complimented in debrief, I fess up and tell the other two crews the copilot was flying, not me.

 

I decompress with a beer at home, my usual method for sleep enhancement, and ponder who I want flying in my right seat. Andy’s good. I like him and so does the rest of the crew. He might be just what we need to bring our crew together for the mission. But what is that mission? I’m not convinced our nation’s leadership knows. My boss across the street claims not to know. All I can do is trust my crews will do the right thing when they finally find out what that thing is.

 

“Nice, Sir!” Andy’s praise after my botched landing rings in my head. Fucking can’t trust him, either.

My crew—with Deanna in the copilot’s seat—deploys to Oman a week later, and we shuttle supplies around the Gulf, waiting for the war to start. I get the call to grab a flight to Qatar, where headquarters plans the mission everyone’s whispering about. At the end of the day, I fly back to Oman with big news for my unit. We’re going to lead 50 C-130s over the top of Baghdad International Airport and airdrop paratroopers and equipment from the 82nd Airborne for the initial invasion of Iraq. 

The planners pick a date at the end of the following week—a night with the least amount of moon. The last thing we want is to be highlighted across the Baghdad sky like Santa’s reindeer, our slow-moving aircraft easing pickings for Iraq’s antiquated anti-aircraft artillery. I brief my unit on the mission early in the day so we can use the afternoon for sleep before our late-night alert.

 

The wake-up happens on time, a hand shaking my shoulder, rousting me from atop a dank sleeping bag spread across my cot. My crew only suspects something is off when we enter the operations building. Instead of a crowded room of bleary-eyed aircrew, it’s just us—my crew of six. When I ask the obvious question, no one knows why—only what. My tactics shop gives us the lowdown.

 

“The mission over Baghdad has changed. No more airdrop. They’ve found an Iraqi Air Force runway called Tallil that we can use. It’s only a half-hour flight into Iraq from the Kuwaiti border. We think the runway is clear. You guys are going to take a runway-opening team in tonight and everyone else is going to fly up to Kuwait, pick up the Army dudes, and fly them in behind you.”

 

I nod. “What happened with the airdrop? Why the last-minute change?” The captain briefing me that the start of the war has completely changed in the last eight hours was twelve years old the last time we attacked Saddam Hussein. Should I call headquarters and check myself? I take a breath. These are my guys…trust them.

 

“Fuck if we—sorry, Sir. They haven’t told us why. They just sent all the planning stuff and told us to do this. When you pick up the team in Kuwait on your way in, the Army intel team there is supposed to give you more information on the field.”

 

“Anybody tell the loadmasters? They’re going to need to re-rig everything in the back end of the plane.”

 

My young captain, he of the errant F-bomb, turns to his planning partner and raises his eyebrows. The other guy shrugs.

 

“Shit. I don’t think so, Sir. We’ve been working on this.”

 

I turn to my copilot, Deanna. “Go let them know the new mission. Chad and I will start planning.”

 

“Got it, Sir.”

 

I’ve not questioned my final copilot decision once on this deployment. Deanna’s flying continues to be flawless and when they told us our crew would lead the assault on Baghdad, she buried herself in the planning, memorized the mission, and emerged as the leader of our group of copilots. The reason I can send her out to the ramp to pass a message instead of planning this new mission into Iraq is because I know she’ll tell the loadmasters exactly what they need to know and she’ll instantly catch up when she returns to help plan.

 

Three hours later, we’re airborne out of Kuwait, after loading up the runway-opening team and their trailer. Intel updates us on the Iraqi runway status while we load the plane. Best they can tell, the runway surface is rough, with potholes and loose gravel, but there’s no evidence they’ve erected any obstacles to discourage planes from landing. Of course, the photos are several days old.

 

We run our combat entry checklists, don our night-vision goggles, and drop to three hundred feet above the desert floor. It’s dark—pitch black. Something to do with that original plan of picking a moonless night, I remind my crew. Now that we’re going in low, I’m wishing we had a bit of moonlight so the night goggles would work better. I set my radar altimeter at 250 feet so I’ll have a warning if we inadvertently descend too low. The desert air—fetid, like we’re picking up the smell of the shit used to fertilize village crops—jets from the vents, but fails to prevent the sweat soaking the inside of my body armor.

 

Fifteen miles from the field, the terrain features pop out in black and green contours. The city of Nasiriyah lies just northeast of our runway, its lights confirming we’re on course, and the gunfire flashes in and around the town remind us we’re not in Kansas anymore. They also remind me that headquarters was wrong about no fighting reported near the airfield. We turn early to intercept the runway course and as we roll out on a seven-mile final, our navigator lets us know he’s picked up the landing surface on his ground-mapping radar.

 

At five miles to go, I yank the throttles to idle, slowing the aircraft to a speed that allows us to drop our landing gear and flaps. As the airspeed drops to 130 knots, I spot the runway in front of me and point the aircraft toward the first hundred feet, while scanning down the strip for obstacles.

 

“How’s the runway look?” I call over the intercom.

 

The navigator leans over Deanna’s shoulder and keys his mike. “Looks clear.”

 

I start out of the three-hundred-foot altitude I’ve maintained since the border on a three-degree glide slope toward the landing zone. It’s not like we have to land in a five-hundred foot zone for this mission, but I need an approach that allows me to stop quickly if we encounter an obstacle or take the plane back in the air if we call it off.

 

Passing through a hundred feet, Deanna breaks from the checklist. “Bank left! Land there!” she calls out—not in a panic, but not tentatively either. She’s giving me an order.

 

I get the adrenaline rush again, but this time it’s not from someone providing praise, but from the fear of being wrong. What if Deanna is wrong? But there’s no time.

 

I roll the lumbering cargo plane into a thirty-degree bank turn and then immediately counter-roll to line up with whatever Deanna’s finger points at. A broad, paved surface opens in front of me and I’m already in a flare when I realize what’s happened. We’d lined ourselves up on radar on the long, narrow taxiway, thinking it was a runway. When we were close enough to identify it, we’d seen what we wanted to see—a long paved strip—and missed the fact that there were several equally long strips to the left of it, including the main runway.

 

As the wheels touch down, I smash on the brakes, cover the nose steering wheel with my hand and turn my head slightly toward Deanna. “Thanks for—”

 

“Pothole on the right. Turn your way!”

 

I whip my head back to the runway and twist the nose steering wheel gently, angling away from the hole, and bringing the aircraft to a stop. My heart still pounds, but the cramping in my gut has disappeared. We’re on the ground.

 

The next thirty minutes seem like five. The commander of the runway-opening team tells us where he wants to set up. We keep the engines running while the loadmasters unload the trailer. The dank desert smell, so distinct at altitude, now assaults us through the open doors and ramp. In the cockpit, we’ve got that post-adrenaline relief thing going on and we’re high-fiving each other.

 

“First US aircraft in, baby…Red Devils lead the way,” our flight engineer croons. Across the cockpit our ever-stoic copilot, Deanna, wears a big grin plastered underneath her night-vision goggles.

 

“Pilot, load?” The loadmaster’s voice pitches high over the intercom.

 

“Go ahead, load.”

 

“I’ve got three unidentified personnel approaching the plane opposite from the set-up team. What do you want me to do?”

 

In my side window, I try to spot what the load sees. “Do you have your 9mm?” It’s a stupid question. We all have our weapons strapped to our chests.

 

“It’s pointed at them. Do you want me to shoot? They don’t look like they are trying to attack. One of them’s carrying a box or something. The other two have their hands raised.”

 

Like my reaction to Deanna’s command, my response is immediate. “Your call. Not unless you think they’re a threat.”

 

The figures are US Army aviators. Turns out, we aren’t the first US aircraft into Iraq for this war. These guys’ helicopter crashed near the field two days ago and holed up, waiting for the good guys to arrive so they could get a ride back to Kuwait. We help them load the helicopter’s black box, get them strapped in, and take off for our low-level return to Kuwait.

 

The helicopter pilot stands behind my seat on the flight back.

 

“What was your plan if we didn’t show up?”

 

“Wait for someone like you to show up. We knew you would, eventually.”

 

“Do you think they had a plan to get you guys?”

 

“Don’t know,” the helo pilot says. “Don’t trust those headquarters guys. All you can depend on out here is your crew.”

 

I look across the cockpit at Deanna. She’s scribbling coordinates on her kneepad, but seems to sense my eyes upon her. She turns her head, but I can’t read her expression under her night-vision goggles.

 

“You ready for the Combat Exit checklist, Sir?” 

 

I pause for a second and then nod. “Yep. Crew, pilot: Combat Exit checklist.”

Please…Walk on the Grass

By

On April 14, 2023

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

Please...Walk on the Grass

On March 18th, 1945, Private William D. McGee, a medical aid man in the 304th Infantry Regiment, made a night crossing of the Mosel River in Germany with his unit in an effort to capture the town of Mulheim. When two of his comrades were wounded crossing a minefield, Pvt McGee voluntarily entered the minefield to save their lives. After carrying one man to safety, he returned for the second. McGee stepped on a mine and it exploded. Despite his injuries, he ordered his fellow soldiers not to rescue him and risk their own safety. Pvt McGee died the next day from his injuries and was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor.

Flash forward 78 years. It’s spring break for our two 8th-graders and we’ve decided on a trip to Europe—our first return to the continent since we moved away from Germany almost fifteen years ago. Matt and Josh have never been there.

Our daughter is stationed overseas in the service and we’re meeting her in Luxembourg, then relaxing in the Belgian countryside before she and my wife will run the Paris Marathon together.

It’s in Luxembourg, at the American Cemetery and Memorial visitor center where we read about Pvt McGee’s story. Our sons study the large maps displaying the WWII battlefields in Europe and learn where their grandfather navigated his B-17 across the English Channel, and where their great-grandfather dropped bombs from his B-25, flying north from Italy to Germany, low-level though the Alps.

The maps are interesting, but after hearing about Pvt McGee, Matt and Josh want to see his grave. We scan the crosses, looking for the gold emblem marking a Medal of Honor internment. Behind us, we hear a voice in broken English.

“Please. Please walk on the grass.”

I feel guilty. I’m unable to speak French and the security guard is obviously doing his best to keep our family off the immaculate green grass surrounding the markers.

“Sorry, sorry,” I say. “We’ll stay on the walkways.” Matt and Josh tuck in behind me, not wanting to be the ones in trouble.

“No.” The guard shakes his head. “You don’t understand.” He points out to the sea of markers, and I realize his English is not broken at all. “You cannot pay them respect for what they have done from this walkway. You must walk on the grass to see their graves.”

And we do. We find Pvt McGee’s marker and talk about his story. We find another Medal of Honor recipient Sgt Day G. Turner, and recall his citation describing how his 9-man squad captured 25 enemy soldiers after losing 6 of their own because Sgt Turner refused to surrender. We pause at the marker of Harry P. Palmer, from Colorado. We don’t know Palmer’s story, but we talk about what it would be like to know someone from our state who died in battle.

Our boys’ memories of London Bridge, the Eiffel Tower, and an awesome Indian restaurant in Belgium may eventually fade. I don’t think they will forget their visit to the Luxembourg American Cemetery. 

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