“I mean, I take a look at Dog on my wing and he’s got his mask off he’s cracking up so bad. I’ve never seen him laugh that hard.” Gramps was on a roll.
“‘Roger, War Eagle… What crop is in the field?’
“And War Eagle loses it! ‘SIR — just bomb the fuckin’ field! NOW!’”
Gramps realized his voice was carrying too far and too loud. He looked around him with a half-apology on his face as he reduced his howls to a snicker. Rip tried to suppress his laughter, but failed miserably, Wilson noticed the bartender looked at them with a disapproving frown. What’s his problem? he thought. Or is it just me?
“Saint is upset and says, ‘Hey, soldier, watch the language on the radio. Do you know who this is?’
“War Eagle swallows it and says, ‘Sorry, sir, it’s a soybean field.’
“There’s a pause, and then this gruff voice comes on and says, ‘Shotgun flight, this is Colonel Johnson of the 2nd battalion, 16th Infantry, 1st Division’ … I dunno … Royal Armored Fusiliers, whatever. ‘If you fast movers can put a weapon on the field we’ve requested, do it!’
“‘Roger, sir,’ says Saint.
“‘Much obliged,’ the colonel responds, his voice dripping with sarcasm.”
Rip was wracked by convulsive laughter, and his eyes were glassy slits. Wilson had to grab him to keep him from falling off his stool. Wilson had gamely smiled through the embarrassment his XO had caused the squadron, but, for the most part, he just looked down and shook his head.
Rip was still laughing. “Was he a radio colonel or full bird?”
“He sounded like the real deal to me — he sounded like fuckin’ Patton!” Gramps’ answer elicited another roar from Rip.
“There’s one thing I want to know. Did he ever hit the field?” Wilson asked.
“Oh, yeah,” Gramps said, as he finished the story. “He drops a LGB right in the middle of the field.”
“War Eagle says, ‘Good hit, sir.’
“‘Roger, bomb impact assessment please?’ Saint asks, and War Eagle tells him 100 over 100, anything to get him out of there!”
“How do you paint a soybean field on the side of a jet?” Rip asked, with a chuckle. He was rewarded with a guffaw from Gramps.
Wilson groaned and looked across the pool. The flight attendants were now surrounded by a gaggle of Raven pilots who had tired of “basketball.” He was grateful Gramps hadn’t told the story with the JOs around, but by now, no doubt, the details of this flight had made it to the bunkroom. He made a mental note to find out who the wingman was for the flight when he got back to the ship.
“Your boys bagged a few over there,” Gramps said as he looked at the girls across the pool.
Wilson nodded. “In the process. Looks like it will be another big night at the Highlander.”
CHAPTER 34
One week later, Wilson returned from a night hop, deposited his flight gear in the paraloft, and plopped down in his ready room seat to watch the PLAT recovery of the last event. The CO was flying with Blade on an intercept hop against the Spartans, and Weed was out doing a night sea surface search around the strike group. Guido was at the duty desk watching “The Office” on the ship’s closed-circuit TV.
A copy of Navy Times was on the skipper’s footstool. Wilson picked it up and thumbed through the pages: articles about pay raises, new uniform standards, the usual stuff. He then came across a familiar section highlighted with photos of American personnel who had lost their lives in recent weeks in Iraq and Afghanistan. Most of the time the photos were formal poses, but he often found a boot camp photo of a 19-year-old Marine in dress uniform or a candid shot of a soldier. On occasion he came across a photo of a young woman, a girl really, or a senior officer. They were almost always young — too young.
When he scanned the photos in this issue, he found the photo of an Army major. Age 35. His own age. He wondered if the major had a family at home. Chances are he did.
The photo next to the major was of a young man in his early 20s. Clean shaven and wearing cammies, he had big, dark eyes, a full mouth and a square jawline. Just under the cap Wilson could make out bushy eyebrows. Something caused Wilson to dwell on this soldier. He looked at the name: Spec. Donnie Anderson.
He studied the photo again. Anderson. Anderson. Andy, let’s go! Was Andy short for Anderson? Was this “Bowser” from Balad Ruz? He stared at the photo of the fallen soldier. No unit, no hometown. Specialist? What the hell is that? Are JTACs Specialists? Balad Ruz was three weeks ago — would the Times publish a photo so soon, even if he lost his life the day after we worked with him?
Driven by the need to know, Wilson got up and logged on to the classified computer at the back of the ready room. He would contact the Air Wing rep on the CAOC staff in Doha, a naval flight officer on temporary duty from the Spartans.
Subject: JTAC track down
Hey, Biscuit, Flip.
I was working with a JTAC around Balad Ruz on New Year’s Eve; his call sign is “Bowser.” We were Nail 41 flight that day. Don’t know what unit he’s with but he did a good job and other guys in the wing have talked about him. Said he’s from Hardeeville, South Carolina. He may have rotated home but I want to send him an attaboy through his CO. Can you ask the JTAC guys there to track him down; name, unit and contact info? Thanks man.
It’s dark out here, you aren’t missing anything. They have cold beer where you’re at?
Thanks again,
Flip
He hit send and went back to his seat to watch the recovery. An hour later, after the uneventful recoveries of his squadronmates, he returned to the computer to check for an answer from Biscuit. One was waiting for him.
Subject: RE: JTAC track down
Flip, we tracked him down but bad news. “Bowser” was hit and killed two days after your hop with him. He entered a booby-trapped house in Balad Ruz after some of his buddies were hit inside. The hajis waited for rescuers to enter before they set off the bigger charge.
Apparently “Bowser” was the first to go to their aid. The house collapsed and he was killed. The only one though… another guy lost a foot.
His name was Spec. Donnie Anderson and he was from Hardeeville, SC. He was 20. He was a good JTAC; had a great mission effectiveness record.
Sorry, Flip,
Biscuit
Wilson felt his body going numb as he stared at the screen. Bowser—Specialist Anderson — was 20 years old, just days from going home to watch the playoffs. He was so excited to be going home to watch football “live,” as well as to leave that hellhole town. Wilson thought of Bowser’s photo in Navy Times: the square jaw, the distinctive features. Such a good-looking guy. Did he have a wife or girlfriend? Did he ever get to experience the love of a woman? he wondered. Whatever he experienced, his life was too short. Wilson’s throat tightened, and he swallowed hard.
That night in his rack Wilson’s mind drifted back to Bowser in Balad Ruz. Just a kid. Twenty! Though they had never met, fate had brought them together at a moment in time to fight a common enemy. Wilson wondered, Why am I alive and why is Bowser dead? Why is any of that fair? So young, so much to live for…