He floored the accelerator now, venting his anger at the Air Force. Now, on account of the delays on the trip, he had to worry about reporting in late. He probably should have telephoned but he didn’t have a clue about how to place a long-distance call around here. He also hadn’t had a haircut in three weeks. Fairly had briefed the squadron before leaving Egypt that they had better show up at least looking like officers. “I’ll have anyone’s ass that checks in looking like a Cro-Magnon. You may not be sanitary but you’ll look military, make a good first impression.”
Everyone understood that he was relaying Colonel Mad Stanley Morris’ words.
Jack arrived now at a small village and drove through, not seeing anything that looked like a barber shop. On the far side of the village, at a traffic circle, he spotted a young woman washing the window of a small shop. A sign said: “The Hair Fair.” Was his lousy luck changing? He pulled up in front, rolled his window down. “Excuse me, miss, can you tell me where RAF Stonewood is, and where I might find a barber shop?”
The woman studied Jack and his bright yellow car. “Take the second left” — she pointed to a road on the opposite side of the circle — “and carry on down the road a half mile. Can’t miss it. We don’t have a barber here, but I do cut hair, except we’re closed on Mondays.” She added, “You can get one tomorrow at the base. Their barber shop should be open then.”
“That’ll be about twenty-four hours too late. You know how the military is.”
“No, I really don’t, I’m afraid.”
“Any chance of your shop doing some unscheduled business?” He got out of his car. “I’m in a jam. I’m new here and if I show up at the base with long hair my commander will probably shave my head and then slit my throat.”
“Pity.” She actually smiled then. “Well, come along, we can’t have a bald corpse.” She led Jack into the shop and sat him in a chair. She quickly combed his hair. “I would rather wash your hair first. It is a bit gritty.”
“Well, I’ve been on the road for ten days. Go ahead, have at it.” She took off her smock, revealing a pleasantly full figure, nice breasts, small waist and big hips. Her tight jeans accentuated her rear. A regular earth mother, Jack thought, built for comfort.
While she washed his hair he learned that her name was Gillian and she owned the shop. When she had finished trimming his hair she stood behind him, surveying her handiwork in the mirror in front of Jack. “That’s great.” And it was.
“Right. That will be three pounds-fifty.”
He stood up and checked his wallet, and groaned, “I think I spent most of my English money filling up with gas at Felixstowe. Wait a minute.” He rifled his pockets, counting what he had left.
Gillian stood back, irritated and amused.
“I’ve got one pound-ten. Can you take a traveler’s check?”
“Not to worry. Pay me the next time you’re through. I don’t have my cash box here anyway.”
“Thanks, I really appreciate it… ”
Gillian watched him drive away, attracted to this Yank in spite of herself. “Wherever do they find them?” And then reminded herself of the old War War Two saying she’d heard from her father about the American GIs: “They’re overpaid, oversexed and over here.”
At RAF Stonewood four men were landscaping around a newly erected sign:
RAF STONEWOOD
HOME OF THE 45TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING
U.S. COMMANDER — COL J. STANLEY MORRIS
RAF COMMANDER — GRP CMDR D. CHILDS
Two civilians were putting the finishing touches on a new guard shack, and Jack noticed that the big water tower to the immediate left had received a fresh coat of paint in the standard orange-and-white checkerboard pattern. A gate guard checked his orders and identification, then with a sharp salute stepped back and said, “Welcome to RAF Stonewood, Lieutenant Locke. Please obey the twenty-mile-an-hour speed limit.”
An uneasy feeling came over him as he entered the base… he could see Morris’ influence everywhere; the base sparkled with new paint and was squeaky clean. A sullen young airman cleaning up in front of wing headquarters gave him directions to his squadron. Driving slowly through the base he had to be impressed by the level of activity. New construction was going on everywhere. From the number of men at work he guessed that a full-scale Prime Beef construction team was on-base. Near the Base Exchange a flash of familiar auburn hair caught his attention, and a second look confirmed that it was Connie Fairly, his squadron commander’s wife. “Hey, lady,” he called, “where’s the action?”
“If you mean the 379th, carry on down the road, love, turn left and follow the crowds.” Her attempt at a limey accent broke down in a laugh that had lost none of its charm.
Jack found the squadron near the flight line. Parked in the open were six F-4Es with the freshly painted letters “SW” on their tails. Inside the squadron everyone was busy with construction or painting. A burly dark-haired major Jack had never met ambled over, extending a huge hand. “I’m Bull Morgan. Glad to meet you.”
Jack nodded. Morgan was a legend, infamous for his flying, drinking, womanizing and total disdain for constituted authority. They said that when threatened with a court-martial in Vietnam he had told a colonel to “fuck off. The keys are in the bird if you want to fly it.” Morgan would never be promoted again, but Jack doubted if he cared. Never mind legend, though, Jack decided. He’d play it straight for now. He was in enough trouble. “Good afternoon, sir, Lieutenant Locke. I’m just off the ferry and need to sign in.”
“Good” — the amiable giant grinned — “the admin office is upstairs. They’ll take care of you. Check into the BOQ, get changed and get your buns back here. We’ve got a lot of poundin’ and paintin’ to do before Mad Stanley will let us start to fly.”
Upstairs an efficient sergeant, newly arrived from the States, started the paperwork that would make Jack a part of Stonewood. Pounding on a typewriter, he kept up a constant stream of chatter. Within minutes Jack learned the black sergeant’s name was Macon Jefferson, from Cleveland, and that Mike Fairly was still the squadron commander, the 378th had a new commander — Lieutenant Colonel Charles Jenkins — because Morris had fired the old one, the new squadron Operations officer for the 379th was Bull Morgan, and Mad Stanley Morris was indeed mad.
“This place,” the sergeant told Jack, “is about to become Disneyland East. Worse, English beer is piss. And without my talents this squadron’s gonna be swamped by chickenshit paperwork.” He handed Jack a ration card, an in-processing checklist, an appointment with the wing commander and some final advice on Colonel Morris.
“Mad Stanley wants to make general so bad he can taste it at both ends,” Jefferson warned. “And he’s going to use this wing to do it. He’s trying to be a carbon copy of Sundown Cunningham, even rolls an unlit cigar around in his mouth. He’s made early promotion on every rank since captain. He’s a fast burner, uses people for fuel. Good luck on your interview with him tomorrow.”
Jack only smiled, not telling the sergeant he knew all about Morris. At least the man was consistent. Morris had been on-base less than a week.