“Royally pissed,” to quote his sergeant, the major called the Inspector General’s office at Third Air Force and filed an anonymous complaint — the wing’s Combat Status Report was highly inflated.
The next day two lieutenant colonels from the IG appeared in Morris’ office to tell him they were conducting a no-notice inspection of the command post. Morris’ secretary told them that Morris and the wing’s vice-commander were at a conference in Germany and wouldn’t be back until the next day. The two IG officers shrugged and went to the command post, where Yaru-Lau laid out the problem for them. “Colonel Morris has directed that I report our combat status as a one. But we’re only flying enough tactical training sorties to rate a five, maybe a four. Also, Maintenance is only keeping enough aircraft fixed and flying to rate a three.”
The two lieutenant colonels reviewed the sortie and maintenance rates, drafted a one-page report and forwarded it to the Pentagon and Third Air Force. No one told Morris when he returned that two officers from the IG had spent an hour in his command post while he was away. What he didn’t know could hurt him… they hoped.
Cunningham had read the one-page report and set it aside, letting his anger cool down before he decided what to do. The report had been on his desk over a day when his private telephone rang.
“Lawrence” — Ruth Cunningham’s voice sparkled — “we’ve been invited to a wedding this Saturday for two of your officers, a Colonel Waters and a Captain Marshall. I believe I’ve already met the bride at a reception. It’ll be at the Marshalls’ home and I’d like to attend.”
Cunningham grunted a yes and then buzzed his aide, telling him when he wanted Morris relieved and who was to replace him.”
The two women hovered behind Sara adjusting the old Spanish mantilla over her hair. The white lace shawl had been in the Marshall family for over a hundred years and had been worn as a bridal veil by four generations of Marshall brides, ever since a young John Marshall brought it home for his bride after making his first voyage as a third mate on a clipper ship. Sara’s mother, Martha Marshall, had selected a subtle off-white material for the wedding dress that blended perfectly with the mantilla, creating the soft effect she wanted. Sara stood up, letting her mother appraise the elegantly simple knee-length dress for the last time. “It’s perfect, Mother,” was all she could say, seeing tears form in her mother’s eyes.
“I was just thinking about our names,” Ruth Cunningham said, changing the subject. “Martha, Sara, and Ruth. You’d think we were a bunch of minister’s wives. Should we be stern and sour?” Her gambit didn’t work. Martha began to cry, no longer able to hold back.
“I’m sorry,” she said, “I’m happy for Sara, but Louis is upset because of their age difference.”
Ruth brightened. “I wouldn’t worry too much about that. Just look at Muddy. He’s younger looking than most thirty-five-year-olds, and certainly in better condition. Your daughter is not marrying the most eligible bachelor in this town, only the most desirable.”
Sara put her arms around her mother. You’re going to have some beautiful grandchildren.”
The French windows had been thrown open, letting the unusually warm fall day spill into the room. The Air Force chaplain marrying them stood with his back to the French windows while the guests arranged themselves in a semi-circle in front of him. Sara’s father escorted his daughter to the chaplain and gave her hand to Waters.
And so they became Colonel and Mrs. Anthony Waters. After the couple had been congratulated by the guests and Sara thoroughly kissed by Cunningham, the general took the couple aside. “I’ve got a honeymoon present for you. I want you to go through the commander’s refresher course for flying F-4s at Luke. Your class starts a week from Monday. It’s important that you make this class, Muddy.”
Waters’ muscles tensed. “Thank you, sir. We’ll make it.” He silently was furious, suspecting that the general knew about his wife and daughter’s deaths at Luke the first time he had been stationed there.
Sara read his thoughts. “There’s no way he could have known about your first marriage and what happened at Luke,” she said, after the general had walked off. “We’ll do this one together, but I wonder why the rush?”
“I don’t know, but it looks like we are going to an F-4 unit. And damn soon. Not much time, so let’s make the most of it… ”
The communications technician ripped the message off the telecommunications bank at Stonewood, annoyed at the garbled text. She was going to request a retransmission when she noticed the message was directed to the attention of the Communications Squadron commander for decoding. She called for her first sergeant, who took the message and told her never to mention that it had been received or she had seen it. The NCO sealed the message in an envelope and called the lieutenant colonel in charge of the squadron, who rushed over to the communications center.
Seeing that the first two lines were decode instructions, the lieutenant colonel dismissed the NCO and called the wing’s vice-commander and judge advocate as witnesses before proceeding any further. The two men looked over his shoulder as he finished decoding the message:
EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY COL J. STANLEY MORRIS IS RELIEVED OF COMMAND OF 45TH TACTICAL FIGHTER WING. COL WILLIAM L. BRADLEY WILL ASSUME COMMAND PENDING ARRIVAL OF NEW COMMANDER. COMMANDER THIRD AIR FORCE IS ACTION AUTHORITY. ACTION AUTHORITY WILL NOTIFY AND RELIEVE COL MORRIS NLT 2200Z.
“Well, I’ll be damned,” the Judge Advocate said.
Colonel Bradley felt his stomach turn sour. “I’ll contact General Percival for instructions. He has to act by ten tonight. Until he tells Morris, we do nothing. I’ll be in the command post. Needless to say, don’t tell anyone.” The vice commander’s call to Third Air Force was too late. Percival had received another message and was enroute to Stonewood.
James Percival, the commander of Third Air Force, entered the command post at 9:45 and directed the controller to get Colonel Morris to the wing commander’s office immediately. “Bill, I am sorry this had to happen, but you’ll have to be on hand when I tell Morris,” the general said.
“General, just what the hell is going down?” Bradley asked as they made the short walk to wing headquarters.
“I got a message from Cunningham. It seems Morris lied on his Combat Status Report and rated the wing a one. You know a one means the wing is fully combat ready, ready to go to war. Cunningham treats the Com Stat like being pregnant, either you are or you’re not. Morris getting fired shows how important the Com Stat is to the general. I’d say there are at least seven wings in the Air Force right now that are rated a two or three. Cunningham needs to know so he can supply whatever it takes to make a wing a one. Morris must have thought downgrading his wing from a one would make him look bad, like he’s not using what he’s got.
“I’m worried, Bill; I’ve done this chore before and I’ve seen what it does to a man’s ego. It is hard to tell how Morris will react, but watch him like a hawk until we can get him transferred out tomorrow.”
The door to Morris’ office was open and he was sitting behind his desk when Percival and Bradley arrived. He stood and saluted the general, puzzled by Bradley’s presence.
The general returned the salute and handed Morris the decoded message. “Colonel Morris, I’m acting as directed by this message. Colonel Bradley is now in command of the 45th.”
“I see the message was decoded. An obvious mistake,” Morris said, a tight slight smile spreading across his lips.