CAM TORRENS

WRITER • READER • RUNNER • RUMINATOR

Category: Blog Page 1 of 4

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

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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

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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

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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. 

Night in the Pokey

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On March 6, 2023

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

In which I’m stupid…

I know, I know…the crowd of folks I ran with are looking at this title and saying, “only one night? You must not have been tryin’!”

It’s taken me a long time to put these words down on something besides an SF-86. And I’m still not going to get too specific with names and dates, OK? Let’s go with pretty close to Y2K at a Purdue homecoming game.

I’m back in the States from my duty station in Germany, going through some requalification training in the mighty C-130 Hercules (4 Fans of Freedom, Hero of the Skies…horsepower. IYKYK.) I get the call from a close Air Force friend I’ve been stationed with twice and who never fails to bring out the wild side in me.

“Road trip!” he says. The next weekend finds us driving from St. Louis to West Lafayette, Indiana, for the Purdue Boilermaker’s homecoming game. My friend’s a grad, and he spends the entire drive up regaling me with tales of the Big Bass Drum, the Silver Twins, and Breakfast Club before the game.

The next day we’re sampling the first tradition—Breakfast Club. A giant costume-wearing, drink-swilling morning event that puts you in the right mood for kickoff. Although we’ve failed in the costume department, we’re swept into the excitement and I distinctly remember enjoying two Bloody Marys before it’s time to head to the game.

I’ve decided to ditch my jacket in the car, so I arrange to meet the rest of the guys at our seats. I make it to the stadium well before kickoff, but when I enter and glance at my tickets, it’s obvious I’m at the exact opposite end from where our seats are. And a couple levels up. The stadium is only a third full and being the savvy geometry expert I am, I calculate I could probably shave 20-30 steps off my trek to our seats by walking down to the first level walkway overlooking the field and working my way over from there. 

Halfway down the stairs, a young man in a security uniform—obviously working a side hustle to help pay for school—stops me and asks, “Where you headed?”

As I wave my ticket in front of him, I think about saying “the library?” but refrain and answer, “to my seat.”

“Let me see your ticket,” he says, and sticks out his hand.

I know exactly where my seat is, but that outstretched hand thing gets me every time and I hand him my ticket. He scans it and then looks me in the eye. “That’s the other end of the stadium. You need to go back up and walk around to the C-gate.”

I stifle my “no shit, Sherlock,” thought and nod, extending my hand for my ticket. “I know where my seat is. I’m cutting across this way.” I point past the security guard toward my intended path.

“No, you’re not.” He smiles. “You been drinking?”

Now, if you haven’t done the math, I’m in my 30s and am very comfortable with a little pre-game social lubrication and my legal right to enjoy it. I smile back. “Hell yes, brother,” I say, “Enjoyed a couple down at Breakfast Club. How about you?”

His smile drops. “We don’t allow drinking at our football games.” He takes my ticket and tears it in half. I’m too shocked to point out that I’m not drinking at the game and I step toward him, my arm reaching forward to retrieve my only proof that I paid for this event.

The guard’s eyes widen as he takes a step backwards, and he fumbles for a whistle. As the shrill blast causes heads to turn our way, I squint my eyes at him, and then turn to see who he’s calling. Two uniformed policemen are shuffling down the stairs toward me, the lead officer holding a mike to his mouth, lips moving.

I start to explain, but am quickly handcuffed and escorted to a patrol car. The police say they are charging me with public intoxication and I ask for a breathalyzer. They refuse, so I remain silent for my ride to the Tippecanoe County Jail.

I never get to explain myself. Turns out public intoxication is a Class B misdemeanor and the police do not require proof to charge someone. It’s just 12 hours in the slammer and then you’re free to go.

My friends got pretty worried about my absence. Not so worried that they missed any of the game (priorities are priorities) but worried enough that they called hospitals first before calling the police. They were there to pick me up around midnight and I had a few stories to share about my cellmates (I was the only guy in there for just 12 hours.)

I spent the next several months trying unsuccessfully to get the charge expunged from my records. I spent the next twenty years having to explain what happened that day every time I re-upped my security clearance.

Once, I interviewed for a job working in the White House. The day before the actual interview, two security guys were running the pre-interview checks with me. “How about we talk about the elephant in the room?” the first guy says, because he’s read my written account of my life story. I start telling the story and I’ve just gotten to the Breakfast Club when he interrupts and says, “Hey sir, we’re talking about your $40 charge past due to Sam’s Club.” (I’d been disputing said charge for three years) He continues, “If you want to interview tomorrow, you need to clear that debt.”

A phone call later, I was debt-free.

There is no moral to this story, but I’ve used it a few times to talk about judgment. Here’s the deal: On the one hand, I can whine about “I only had two drinks, he tore up my ticket, they wouldn’t give me a breathalyzer, blah, blah.”

Or I can look back and point to a single moment. When that young security guard said “You need to go back up and walk around to the C-gate,” I could have looked him in the eye and said, “Yes, Sir.”

And it all might have gone differently.

p.s. and I would’ve seen Drew Brees and those Silver Twins!

My Name is Enrique Garcia-Ayesta

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On February 6, 2023

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

My Name is Enrique Garcia-Ayesta

For those of you Princess Bride fans, none of Enrique’s acquaintances killed my father and they do not need to “prepare to die…” If you haven’t watched the movie, I’m sorry you’ve not only missed out on classic cinema but also endured an introduction to this blog which makes no sense.

 

Enrique, or “Henry,” as we called him from the moment he walked through our door, entered our life when I was a junior at Montesano High School circa 1982. Our family signed up to host a foreign exchange student for the year, specifying Spanish as our language preference (I took Spanish in high school) and male for gender (there was no world in which my parents were going to allow a female high-schooler to live across the hall from my bedroom.) Enrique hailed from Bilbao in northern Spain but never failed to remind us he was a Basque, not a Spaniard.

 

What a special year. Enrique joined the football team as a kicker (surprise!) and had no problem fitting in at our high school. We developed a close friendship that included climbing out our bedroom window to attend “keggers” on abandoned logging roads, and lamenting about how hard my father could be to get along with (Enrique gave my dad a 1979 translation of The Nietzsche Reader for Christmas.)

 

At the end of the spring semester, Enrique returned home and I turned my focus toward my senior year. We missed each other. Although we weren’t much in the way of letter writers, we continued to trade correspondence through my sophomore year of college, before losing touch.

 

Fast forward twenty years and I’m commanding a C-130 squadron in Arkansas and flying a drug interdiction support mission to eastern Columbia (yes, the same mission I wrote about here where I “bent” our airplane.) We’ve got an overnight in Panama City, Panama and are pretty pumped about our hotel after months of living in tents in Pakistan and Oman. We walk into the hotel lobby wearing “sanitized” flight suits (all patches and identification removed) so no one will suspect we are Americans on our way to Columbia.

 

Yeah, right.

 

I’m checking in at the desk and hear a voice behind me.

 

“Camerón?” The accent is on the last syllable, but I recognize someone is trying to say my name, rather than the Spanish word for “shrimp.” I turn, and Enrique smiles at me.

 

 

“Enrique!” I give him a hug, and we step back and look at each other.

 

His hand touches his thinning hair like he’s embarrassed about it, but then he points at my balding head and says, “I wasn’t sure it was you…”

 

Long story short—neither of us had ever been to Panama before. Enrique was moving from London to start a cell phone company in Panama City and was checking into the hotel until he could find long-term accommodations for his family. I met his Greek wife, Athina, and their son Ektor—Enrique was a family man!

 

I’ve written before about my love for coincidence—as an affirmation that the impossible is actually possible. What are the odds that the two of us would randomly cross paths in a Panamanian hotel?

 

Enrique and I stay in touch. Our emails are infrequent, but enough such that he can ask about our kids, and I know his son is at University and they have a daughter now.

 

I don’t think our reunion was chance. 

Hope Is Local

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On January 8, 2023

In Blog, Nonfiction, Ruminating

Hope Is Local

I grew up reciting the Pledge of Allegiance, took an oath, spent thirty years and one month serving my country, and still feel my heart swell at our anthem’s words “that our flag was still there.” I’ve always believed our country, our democracy, and our intent should present an example to others that the best way for a people to propagate freedom is to demonstrate their values by serving as what former President Reagan termed “this shining city on the hill.”

Ronald Reagan borrowed most of this phrase from seventeenth century Puritan governor John Winthrop, who never intended the metaphor to represent a democratic ideal but rather to serve as a warning that all eyes of the world were watching to see how a Protestant colony would govern themselves in the New World.

Political discourse has always been fraught with polemic arguments and wanton emotion. The difference this century is that we no longer interpret this dialogue through a newspaper report or magazine article. The miracle of social media allows us to witness firsthand the messy, complicated, and frustrating process of governing our country. When I bring up helpful advice retrieved from my middle school days, my seventh grader often admonishes me by saying, “That’s TMI, Papa. Too much information.” That’s how I feel about political debate in the current environment. TMI.

All eyes of the world are upon our “city.” If we are shaking our heads at our own leaders, then just imagine the example we are setting abroad. But I find myself turning apathetic—almost cynical—wondering what tools the common citizen has to combat the inertia gripping this country at the national level and taking the shine out of our city.

Growing up, I took road trips with my family in a yacht-length station wagon with fake wood paneling. I whiled away the hours by heckling my two younger sisters in the back seat. Once, after a sister-squeal too many, my dad shot one hand backward and cuffed me on the side of the head while maintaining perfect steering control with the other. I was unhurt, but it surprised the heck out of me. I felt the same type of surprise when the solution to my political apathy knocked on my front door.

Looking for hope? It’s right here at home.

The mayor of my town owns an auto repair shop and changes the oil in my car as often as I remember to have it done. (His reminders help.) He also leads a board of trustees that runs our community. I am amazed every day at how well they do their jobs.

Our local leaders are fixing chronic shortages in low-income housing and are directly addressing environmental damage on our town’s perimeter. Together, they are figuring out how to attract the tourists that keep our economic engine chugging without neglecting the essence that makes us a community. All in a nonpartisan effort to make our home better.

We live in a small town made up of a trifecta of worldviews. We’ve got the young folks barely hanging on out here as they guide river rafts, climb mountains, and try to make a living through outdoor adventure. They tend to lean to the left. There are also the local locals, longtime residents who pretty much make everything happen. They trend to the right. Finally, we’ve got the crowd that already made their fortune and are living their best lives in their mountain retirement home (or second home). It is hard to generalize with this crowd, but they are set in their ways, and they all lean one way or another.

Everybody here has a political worldview, but they don’t use it at the local level to divide or split us apart. Out here, we get things done. And in between making our community a better place, we celebrate together: an annual town dinner with rows of tables running the length of Main Street—all four blocks; an impromptu parade for a football team leaving for the state semifinals; and a Chocolate Walk celebrating local businesses.

I haven’t sworn off social media yet, but I’m proposing a new filter. I want to select “within ten miles” for my news feed because that’s where our country is getting things done. And that’s where I find hope. 

* My friend and talented author/essayist Jerry Fabyanic graciously included my essay above in his book Food for Thought: Essays on Mind and Spirit Volume Two published this past fall. If you’re interested in reading more, the collection is available on Amazon here.

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