“There’s no mistake. I have a separate, confirming message,” Percival told him.
Morris wadded the message in his fist. “Bill, you’ve wanted command of my wing and now you’ve got it. Well, do you mind if I clear out my desk?” He sat down and wrenched a drawer open, staring at its contents.
Percival nodded at Bradley and the two left the office, closing the door behind them.
“It could have been worse. Much worse,” Percival said. “I’m relieved.”
The wing learned of the change of command the next morning at Stand-Up and for the first time felt some relief. After the morning’s Stand-Up briefing in the conference room the commander’s civilian secretary ran up to Chief Pullman, her eyes full of worry. “Chief, Colonel Morris is in his office and he’s acting… funny. I’ve never seen him like this before. He told me to place a call to General Cunningham. When I couldn’t get through — it’s only two-thirty in the morning there — he called me terrible names, then pulled out a gun… ”
“Go on down to the conference room and tell Colonel Bradley; I’ll handle it here,” Pullman directed. And while the secretary hurried down the hall the Chief called the hospital, asking for Colonel Goldman, saying that he had an emergency on his hands. Doc Landis cut onto the line and asked what he could do to help, that Goldman was in the OR. The chief quickly explained the situation. Landis told him he would be right over and tried to remember what he had learned about handling so-called nervous breakdowns in authoritarian personalities while he was at Brooks AFB training to be a flight surgeon.
When he arrived Landis snapped a sharp salute. “Lieutenant Colonel Landis reporting as requested, sir.”
Morris was sitting in a swivel chair behind his oak desk, hands folded childlike in his lap. Mementos were neatly arranged on the desk as in the past. He returned an awkward salute. “I didn’t ask to see you,” he said in a low, husky voice.
“Sorry, sir, it must have been a mistake. I was told you weren’t feeling too well. Might have use of a sawbones—”
“You’re one of them.” Morris’ voice was abruptly calm, too calm. He raised his right hand, and aimed a .38 service revolver at the doctor. “This is a mutiny. No one is going to take my command from me.” The muzzle of the gun was pointed directly at Landis’ forehead.
Landis froze. The colonel’s forefinger seemed to twitch on the trigger.
“Colonel, I’m not a professional military man. I have nothing to gain from any of this. In two years I’ll be back in private practice. Until then, my only job is to support you, be a member of your team. So, please, tell me what you’d like me to do.” Slowly, Morris laid the pistol back down in his lap, and as he did Landis’ heart slowed its frantic beat, though he fought not to show his relief.
“Convince them what they’re doing is illegal,” Morris said, voice flat, and toneless.
“If what they are doing is illegal,” Landis said easily, “then the proper authorities will end it. But, sir, don’t you think we should give them time to come to their senses and not do anything illegal ourselves in the meantime? You mustn’t weaken our position, and your own conduct must be above reproach at all times.”
“Yes, of course, but I must… must be protected until then… ”
“Sir, perhaps we could schedule you for a physical, at the hospital? I guarantee I can protect you there… ”
“Yes, yes… good. That will work. Good… ” Morris handed over the pistol. “You might need this, Doctor. I’ll report for a physical examination in twenty minutes. Be careful.”
Landis accepted the pistol, which felt like a hot rivet, and joined the waiting men in the outer office, where he quickly gave the pistol to Chief Pullman.
“What the hell happened in there?” Bradley demanded.
Landis shook his head. “Sorry, Colonel. Can’t violate the doctor-patient relationship. I can tell you that Colonel Morris is probably suffering from nervous and physical exhaustion. Let it go at that.”
The crew chief marshaling the F-4 into its parking spot on the ramp at Luke AFB crossed his wrists above his head, signaling for Waters to stop, then made a slashing motion across his throat, the sign to cut engines.
Waters’ hands went over the switches, shutting the big fighter down. He unstrapped and threw his helmet and then the small canvas bag carrying his flight publications to the crew chief, who motioned toward the edge of the ramp, pointing out the waiting staff car. Waters scrambled down the boarding ladder and quickly walked around the Phantom during a post-flight inspection, before heading for the car. The wing commander, Boots McClure, crawled out from behind the wheel and stood by the car, a slight smile on his face.
“Congratulations, Muddy. You’ve got yourself a wing — the 45th at Stonewood. The word came down about thirty minutes ago.” McClure grabbed Waters’ right hand and pumped it.
Waters just stood there, unable to speak.
A command…
A wing…
The fulfillment of his dream. The years of hard work, loneliness and frustration suddenly evaporated… A wide smile came across his face. A warmth that he had only experienced at the birth of his daughter captured him. It was a high few men ever realized.
“It’s going to be different from anything you imagined,” McClure said softly, doubting that Waters could catch his meaning. “Why don’t you tell your bride and get her away from the O’ Club pool.” McClure laughed and pushed Waters towards the car. “She’s driving some of my young jocks bonkers… ”
Later, Anthony was ragging Sara a bit about Boots McClure’s randy comments, and acting — well, partially acting — a little teed-off. She picked it up fast, and fed him a few more anxiety moments before playing it straight.
“I met Mrs. McClure the other day at a luncheon and liked her,” she said. “She doesn’t wear her husband’s rank like some of the other wives do. God, what a sad crowd they can be. You’d think in this day and age they’d get out and do something besides eat lunch and sit around the pool and gossip, gossip, gossip. For some reason I think the lieutenant colonels’ wives are the worst — do you suppose it’s because they’re bucking with their spouses for the big eagle and letting off his frustrations? Oh, never mind — now what about the big news? Where are we off to in the wild blue yonder and so forth?”
“No way, lady. You got to pay for your intelligence. Ante up… ”
And she did, and afterward, his head against her bare breasts, as she checked carefully for more signs of gray — “I love a mature man, stop worrying” — he told her it was England, and she told him that that was too easy, that she had paid too much for such available info.
“You’ve just begun,” he said, and proceeded to make love in a way he never thought he could again, the inhibitions from the tragedy of the past finally giving up the ghost.
On Sunday the Gomezes met them at the airport. While waiting for their luggage, Tom Gomez told Waters that his interview with Cunningham was set for Monday morning, a VIP flight was leaving Andrews AFB for Mildenhall late Monday afternoon and they had seats on it, and that his DO, Sam Hawkins, had submitted his retirement papers.
Waters studied his friend for a moment. “Tom, would you take the job?”
“In a minute… ”
That night Gomez told his wife about Waters’ offer.
“It won’t much help your career at this point,” she said.
“Well, I don’t think I’m going anywhere beyond colonel. Might as well do something I want and work for someone I like and respect. Would it bother you moving to England?”