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Finally, he sort of puffed out his cheeks and exhaled. Looking down at his boots, he<br />
slowly shook his head then gazed out past the street at the lights of the flight line.<br />
The night mission was getting cranked up and the unmistakable whine of jet<br />
engines floated over the trees.<br />
For a second, I saw a younger version of the same man. Just like me, only flying<br />
his combat missions over the jungles of North Vietnam instead of the Iraqi plains.<br />
With rare insight, I thought of how hard it must be to sit and watch this when<br />
you’ve done it for real. Maybe that was the reason this guy was so angry. He was<br />
completely frustrated.<br />
The colonel looked up. “Captain. You are without a doubt the cockiest prick in<br />
an O’Club full of cocky pricks.” He stared out over the trees again for a few<br />
seconds, sniffed the jet fuel, and then looked back at me and sighed. “So here’s<br />
what’s gonna happen. You’re gonna call it a night. You keep your weapon, and you<br />
go back to your foul little hooch and get some sleep.”<br />
I blinked. He wasn’t going to kill me.<br />
“And don’t show up in the bar again with a gun.”<br />
I had an out. Brainless fighter jock that I was, even I could see that. So I got my<br />
heels together all on my own, straightened my slouch, and saluted like a cadet.<br />
“Yessir.”<br />
He gave me a direct, steady look and then slowly returned the salute. He started<br />
to turn away and then did something I didn’t expect and would never forget. He<br />
slowly held out his hand. Somewhat cautiously, I took it, and he nodded, shook<br />
once, and let go.<br />
“You’re still a pain in the ass. Now get the hell outta here before I stab you in<br />
the eye.”<br />
MY HOOCH WAS A TEN-BY-TEN WOODEN SHACK WITH A CORRUGATED tin roof and<br />
several pairs of feral cats that mated continuously in the tiny attic. The noise was<br />
interesting and the smell was repulsive. This hooch, and the others like it, would<br />
normally house two enlisted men who worked on jets. As it was, we had eight<br />
officers in each one. This spectacular feat of spatial geometry was only possible<br />
because we “hot-bunked.” That is, I shared a cot with another pilot, who flew night<br />
missions, and vice versa. Incidentally, he was an Italian who always left a fine layer<br />
of dark hair on the blanket. This stuck to my face, so I usually looked like a young<br />
werewolf with mange.<br />
In any event, there was a critical billeting shortage, and, naturally, the really
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