“Honey, you know I’m just a camp follower at heart. So let’s do it. Besides, Sara’s going to need a friend over there, and I’ll bet you two rolls in the hay she’s pregnant or damn soon will be.”
“You mean you get off the hook two times if you’re right?”
“No, fool. The other way ’round.”
Colonel Stevens met Waters as he entered Cunningham’s offices on Monday morning. “Congratulations on your command,” the young colonel said. “We need to talk a bit before you go inside.” Stevens handed Waters the IG’s one-page special report on the combat status of the 45th. “The general fired Morris for one reason — he rated his wing a one on the Combat Status Report and an inspection team rated the wing’s readiness as a five. Moraclass="underline" don’t fudge about your combat capability.”
“The report only says the 45th should be rated a five because of deficiencies in flying training and maintenance,” Waters observed. “Some details might have helped.”
“Well, your job as wing commander is to fill in the details and fix whatever’s wrong. Remember, the general trusts and relies on the IG system… If you’re ready I’ll take you in now.”
Cunningham, as usual, was direct and to the point. “Waters, I hope your honeymoon is over because the 45th is not combat ready and I may need them in the Persian Gulf before too long, especially if your lieutenant was right about his scenario. Six months at the most. Do what you have to, but get them ready. Your deputy for Operations, Sam Hawkins, is retiring. Who do you want to replace him?”
“Tom Gomez, sir. And I want Lieutenant Bill Carroll to be my Intelligence chief.”
“That’s a major’s position; you want to put a lieutenant in it?”
“I’ll take any major that speaks Arabic and Farsi and thinks as well as he does,” Waters answered quickly.
“You’ve got them both. Anyone else?”
“Major Charles Justin Conlan.” Waters waited, studying the general’s face for clues.
“If you want that skinny, bald-headed S.O.B. you’ve got him too.” The general smiled and leaned back in his chair. “Conlan is the best air-defense suppression man in the business. Now you’ll want some Wild Weasels. I’ll see what I can do. You’ll need them if you get involved in the Gulf.” Cunningham was pleased with the man standing in front of him.
Vietnam and the 1973 Yom Kippur war between the Israelis and Arabs had driven home two hard points: Soviet-built Triple A, anti-aircraft artillery, and SAMs, surface-to-air missiles, were very effective at blowing fighters out of the sky, and the Soviets had produced large numbers of these air-defense weapons to ring every target for protection against air attack.
Yes, Waters would need Wild Weasels, the F-4G Phantoms were modified to go in and hit the SAMs and Triple A where they lived so an attacking force could get through. Air-defense suppression was military jargon for all that. The United States had built only 116 Wild Weasels, and every fighter wing that got involved in air-to-ground dropping bombs wanted as many Wild Weasels as possible to escort its aircraft onto a target. Who got the Weasels was always a big flap.
The general’s gaze was direct, serious. “You’re the first new wing commander I’ve met that’s been concerned with tactics. I understand Bull Morgan is already assigned to the 45th. Looks like you’re collecting quite a crew. Anyone else?”
Waters shook his head.
“Good luck, then, Muddy,” the general said, sticking his hand out, and trying to keep any evidence of concern out of his hazel eyes.
Waters entered his new office and told the chief, “Let’s do it.”
While the officers stood at attention, Pullman read the formal orders relieving Bradley as temporary commander and designating Waters as the new commander of the 45th Tactical Fighter Wing. After Bradley passed the wing’s fanion to him, Waters placed the small pendant in its stand behind his desk, shook hands with the small group. “Please call Sir David and set up a courtesy call. I’d like to visit him at his convenience. Also, I’ll be looking around the base today with Colonel Bradley and Chief Pullman. Nothing special, just to meet your people. See you at Stand-Up tomorrow morning.”
After the next morning’s brief Stand-Up, Waters headed for the command post, where he flopped into a chair next to Vern Yaru-Lau, the major in charge of the command center, and asked, “Major, what is our true combat status rating?”
Waters’ tone said not to hedge his answer. “We’re a five, maybe a four. Maintenance can’t keep enough of our aircraft fixed and MC… mission capable. These are old birds, sir. Also, we’re not meeting all our flying training requirements.”
“I know what MC means, Major… All right, report what’s driving our rating down in the remarks section of the next message and tell me how many planes have to be MC and what our shortfalls in training sorties are so we can get a one rating.”
After leaving the command post Waters dropped by the small building that served as the RAF base commander’s headquarters. Sir David Childs was waiting and ushered him into his office. “Colonel Waters, good to see you.”
“Thanks for seeing me so soon, Sir David. I don’t want to bother you but I was wondering if I might change the sign at the entrance to the base?” Childs gave Waters a look and waited, suspecting that this one was just like Morris. “I’d like to drop my name and add the motto of the 45th, ‘Return with Honor.’”
“Lovely idea,” Sir David said quickly. “And please remove my name from the sign as well.”
“And are there any immediate problems I need to know about?”
“Ah… I think you will discover that your predecessor did not stress tactical flying. Which did tend to make my position less difficult, inasmuch as it reduced noise complaints.” Child spelled out how every RAF base had the same problems and that local citizens were always complaining. “This island is too densely populated, of course, and so no matter where you fly someone will be disturbed. But on the other hand I do believe tactical flying is the reason your wing is here… ”
“Would you be willing to be the point of contact for noise complaints?” Waters asked.
Child smiled, nodded; the American colonel got the point.
“How else can we help you?” Waters asked.
“Well, I’d say don’t fly below a thousand feet unless you’re on a low-level route, and please avoid the mink and stud farms, especially during the mating season. Try not to make any unscheduled landings in the countryside. Disturbs the copulatory patterns of too many species.” The two men laughed, saluted and Waters left.
Twenty minutes later Waters entered the 377th Tactical Fighter Squadron, where the short stay he had planned turned into a three-hour ordeal. His mouth was set in a grim line when he left, and it was the same when Colonel Sam Hawkins saw Waters enter his office… he had been warned about the results of the wing commander’s visit to the 377th.
“Why, Sam?” Waters asked, closing the door behind him. They both knew what he meant.
“Colonel Waters,” Hawkins said, “our flying program is exactly what Morris made it. He was more worried about losing aircraft than the crews maintaining flying proficiency—”
“Just what in the hell is a tactical fighter wing all about? Last time I checked it’s to train like you plan to fight. Your crews haven’t been doing that. You must have gotten the word that the 45th is earmarked for possible operations in the gulf. Has wing Intel been monitoring the situation there? Have your weapons and tactics pukes been working on ways to counter the SAM and Triple A threats down there? Have you run any true low-level flights onto similar targets? Sam, you’re an old pro, you’ve been around the damn flagpole as much as I have. You know how to use training sorties to get your crews ready to fight. Better to lose one or two birds in training than lose a wing in combat… ”