74 Squadron begins its deployment to Texas: Note: Bernard (Jan) has graciously allowed me to repost it as it's his work originally. I have a copy saved, but he believes his was lost when a PC crashed. It is reposted exactly as he wrote it. Thanks,my friend, and get well soon. That's an Order!
16 October, 1987. NAS Bermuda, Kindley Field, Bermuda.
Squadron Leader David Gledhill sipped on a cocktail and watched the bikini clad lovelies as he sat on the golden sands of a Bermudan beach. Well actually, no he was sat in the QRA shed drinking tepid, stale instant coffee. The cocktails and bikini clad lovelies were the products of his imagination, although everyone in the rest of the RAF believed that they were part of the normal day for 74 (Tiger) Squadron. He put down his coffee mug and looked around to see if there was anything to read. Gledhill spotted a couple of week old British newspapers, which he had already read a few times and the crosswords in them had been completed. Pre-war there might also have been some ‘adult publications’, however the arrival of female aircrew had seen them disappear to more private locations and in any case with shortages of paper no new ones were being published.
Despairing of anything to read Gledhill picked up a notepad and began to jot down a few thoughts. A couple of years back he had thought that perhaps he might one day write a book about his experiences as a navigator, or perhaps write a novel. When on QRA duty he had often taken the opportunity to record a few stories that he thought that people might want to read one day.
*
Despite preconceptions Bermuda was not a cushy ‘Club Med’ style posting. Until the Liberation of Iceland and the final destruction of the ‘Badger’ force in Cuba, the RAF and latterly USN fighters based at Kindley Field had been kept very busy. Not only had they had to face attack by Soviet bombers, but also the Soviet inspired ‘Bermuda Insurrection’, which had cost 74 Squadron three aircraft and several dead from mortar attacks.
As an island Bermuda had to import most things and in wartime that meant that almost everything was in short supply. There were no cocktails because there was very little alcohol (unless one risked home brew ‘hooch’) and certainly nobody on the beaches – they had been sown with landmines. On top of that hurricane season came around regularly to add to the misery of the servicemen and women cooped up on a relatively small island. That nobody had ‘gone postal’ was something of a minor miracle.
*
Gledhill was just on the point of dozing off when the alert hooter sounded. He was out of his chair and sprinting for his F-4J(UK) before he had time to consciously think about what he was doing. The two Phantoms in the QRA sheds were out and taxiing towards the runway within five minutes; Air Traffic Control held a USN P-3C and ordered an incoming Nimrod to go around.
*
“How did it go, Dave?” Wing Commander Paul Foster, O.C 74 Squadron asked just over an hour later.
“Nothing particularly exciting, Boss.” Gledhill replied. “Just an ancient 707 with wonky nav aids that had caused it to drift out of the Air Bridge Corridor. Think he had a brown trouser moment when we turned up.”
“Well I think I have something that may bring you a bit more excitement.” Foster told him. “As you know we’re going to be going home in the next couple of weeks to re-equip; Group still haven’t told me what with yet, but that’s another conversation. As part of the process we are going to be returning our remaining jets to the Septics.”
“So, I’m guessing I’m going to be leading a ferry flight then?” Gledhill asked.
“Well yes, and no.” Foster said enigmatically. “The ‘Box’ is currently considering sending a couple of squadrons of F-4Es to the Southern Front, a sort of token of solidarity with the Septics. So someone thought it might be a good idea to send a detachment to get some experience first. Some smart cookie spotted that we’d have some aircraft transiting through the area on their way to California and a light-bulb went off.
“You’ll be taking nine Phantoms, a couple of Hercules, a Tristar and a Belfast of all things with you. The ‘Brass Hats’ want our detachment to be as self-sufficient as possible. You’ll be working with either the USAF, or the Marines. I suspect the later because of the commonality between our J models and the Marine S.”
Several questions had been racing through Gledhill’s head and he asked the most important.
“How long is the det for, Boss? Do I get to pick who I take? What’s the weather like in Texas this time of year? Also there are going to be a whole lot of logistics issues to be solved.”
“The initial planning assumes a month to six weeks; the Septic navy is quite keen to get our jets back ASAP, so we don’t want to keep them waiting. Yes, you can choose who you want. I’ve spoken to the Boss of the ‘Red Rippers’, he’s from Lubbock. He tells me it can get pretty cold in November. Since we’re going to be guests of our American cousins we’re going to be bringing our own winter gear; we’ll be drawing on the stocks we have in Halifax. Once your time in Texas is over you’ll take the jets on to San Diego. It hasn’t been decided yet, but some of your det may stay behind and join the E model conversion course. Anybody who isn’t staying will either head back to Blighty, or will probably be posted to Canada.
“A small liaison team is already on its way to join the unit we’ll be flying with. They’ll find out what conditions are like on the ground and give us some last-minute tips.”
“I notice, Boss, you’ve not said where we’ll be flying from other than it’s in Texas.” Gledhill noted.
“Yes, sorry about that, Dave.” Foster said apologetically. “Fact is the Septics have not confirmed exactly where the unit we’ll be joining will be based in November. All we’ve been told is that it is in North Texas.”
“Ah, the Septics and their ‘need to know’.” Gledhill remarked. “And these are the people who give military operations obvious names too.”
The O.C nodded and smiled.
“Yeah, a funny bunch our American cousins.” He said, before turning serious. “However I expect they’ll let you know your final decision when you reach the States; you’ll be going through Dow in Maine, or Otis in Massachusetts. You’ll also meet your Rock Ape team there; Group has arranged for some experienced regiment gunners to be posted in from Canada. There’s a pretty serious Spetsnaz threat in the Southern Front, so make sure your det gets some small arms practice in before you head off.
“We’re being taken off QRA duty as from today, so you’ll have plenty of time to pick who you want to take with you and get the initial planning done. Let me know once you have a plan together; speak to Commander Metcalf if you have any questions about Texas.”
“Will do, Boss, and thanks for picking me for this job. I appreciate it.
“On the small arms issue, I take it we can, ahem, ‘borrow’ additional kit from the garrison?”
Foster nodded.
“Our own Rock Apes will help with brushing up your musketry and I’ve been told you can raid the Bermuda Regiment’s armoury for extra kit. They’re doing b*gger all with it these days.”
“Okay, sounds good.
“I do have one request though, Boss. I really don’t like the radar on the E model and I’ve no desire to start moving mud. Can I put in a request to be posted to either the Wattisham wing, or to the Tonka conversion course when the det is finished?”
“I’ll pass that up to Group, but I suspect you’ll be sent where you’re needed. However if you do a good job with this det I imagine you’ll be able to write your own ticket.”
12 November, 1987. Dow Air Force Base, Bangor, Maine.
“Anything to declare?” The US Customs agent asked. “Any knives, guns, bombs, fruit, vegetables, sandwiches, alcohol, cigarettes, any of that good stuff? “He continued.
“Well I think I may well have the odd gun or two, but I’ve none of the other stuff.” Squadron Leader Gledhill replied, very aware that he had a Sterling SMG in his kit and was wearing a Browning Hi-Power in a shoulder holster.
“Hm, okay.” The Customs agent replied, seemingly disappointed. “I’ll believe you although it’s my ass if you’ve brought in any fruit or vegetables. And I see you’ve completed your visa card; good to see you’re not planning to overthrow the United States Government.”
Gledhill was tempted to make a remark on the lines of ‘well, not on this trip anyway’, but thought better of it. American customs and immigration officials were not known for their sense of humour. Instead he passed through customs and immigration and waited for the commander of the RAF Regiment detachment that was supposed to join Tiger Flight. The experienced group of Gunners was supposed to be flying in from Western Canada.
*
In peacetime Dow Air Force Base had been Bangor International Airport, the only military presence being a wing of Air National Guard KC-135E tankers. Transatlantic airliners often stopped to refuel at Bangor so it had become a common port of entry for those traveling to the United States. Now it was serving in a very similar role for British and Canadian forces transiting to the USA and as in peacetime every non-US citizen had to go through Customs and Immigration, even though they might be servicemen and women.
SAC had also dispersed some of its B-52 force to Dow; several BUFFs were visible dispersed around the base sitting nuclear alert. NORAD assigned fighters from TAC and the RCAF were also frequent visitors.
*
After half an hour Gledhill spotted a group of tough looking individuals in DPM uniforms enter the terminal. They had evidently recently been issued new DPM uniforms by the looks of things, but their dark blue RAF berets and combat boots, none of which were issue Combat Highs, looked like they had seen a lot of service. The ‘Rock Apes’ were also carrying very full looking Bergens and several weapons each in addition to their issue firearm.
“Anything to declare?” The same, rather bored, Customs agent said to Flight Lieutenant John ‘Robin’ Sherwood, the detachment O.C. “Any knives, guns, bombs…”
“I certainly do.” Sherwood said interrupting.
He took out his bayonet and a fighting knife and laid it on the table in front of him. He next unslung what looked like an AR-15 carbine from his right shoulder and put it down.
“This is one of the new Colt Canada C8 carbines.” He said conversationally. “I won it in a card game with a bunch of Canadian Paratroopers; a really nice bit of kit too.”
Sherwood next took out his Browning from its holster and placed it on top of the growing pile. Remembering that he still had his issue Sterling sticking out of his Bergen he took the SMG out.
“Mustn’t forget Old Faithful…and oh yes.” He rummaged around in the pockets and produced a snub-nose Smith & Wesson Model 10 revolver. “You’d be surprised what people will include in poker games.
“Now I think that is…no wait a moment, you’ll want to see these…”
Sherwood pulled four hand grenades from his load bearing equipment pouches and put them down on the desk casually as if there were everyday objects.
“Those two are High Explosive and that pair are White Phosphorous; one should never leave home without at least two of each. Don’t you think?”
Gledhill worked hard to stifle a laugh at seeing the pale, white face of the Customs agent. He could not help but notice that the other ‘Rock Apes’ who had reached the other desks were going through the same process of getting out a small arsenal.
“Would you like to see all the ammunition for my guns too?” Sherwood asked innocently.
“Ah…no, that’s fine…ah…err…you’re free to carry on.” The flustered customs man replied.
*
“Flight Lieutenant Sherwood?” Gledhill asked a few minutes later. “I’m Squadron Leader Gledhill, good to meet you.”
“Likewise, Sir.” Sherwood said, taking the navigator’s offered hand.
“Do you always go through Customs like that?”
Sherwood chuckled.
“Well he did ask…you know I think I forgot to mention the banana I brought for my lunch…oh and all the money I won in my last card game. Do you think I should go back, Sir?” He asked with mock concern.
“I…I wouldn’t think that would be a good idea.” Gledhill replied with a chuckle. “Oh, but if you do have a fair amount of cash, Flight Lieutenant I’ll tell you know that anything above a hundred dollars or so will be considered detachment funds.” He added with a wink.
*
An hour later Gledhill had gathered the entirety of Tiger Flight, including its attached RAF Regiment and RAF Police personnel, in a large room that were part of the conference facilities of the former Bangor IAP. Quite who was going to hold a conference at somewhere that was essentially just a staging post was a question that nobody seemed to have bothered to have asked.
“Good morning, ladies and gentlemen.” Gledhill said to his flight. “Welcome to America. You have no doubt been in suspense as to where we are going, well our USAF liaison officer has just let me know that we will be going to Sheppard Air Force Base. Where the hell is that, I hear you ask; well it is in the great state of Texas, near somewhere Wichita Falls; no I hadn’t heard of it either. It’s up in the northern part of Texas, near the border with Oklahoma. The closest place we’ll have heard of is Dallas.”
He paused as he heard someone hum the theme from Dallas.
“No, we won’t have the chance to drop in on the Ewings, who I am told are soon to return to Southfork.
“Now to get back to Sheppard, it was home to a major training wing pre-war but it is now home to Marine Air Group 11, which has two fighter squadrons each of Phantoms, VMFA-134 and VMFA-333, and two of Hornets, VMFA-314 and VMFA-451. There is also a U.S. Navy A-7 attack squadron as well, VA-135 with A-7As. We are to be attached to the sole USAF Phantom squadron on base, the 335th Tactical Fighter Squadron. I understand they have been in it since The Day and are regarded as something of a crack unit, so we do have a lot to live up to. Not that I think any of you will let the RAF down. We’ll be staging through Grissom AFB in Indiana, where we’ll be overnighting before carrying on to Sheppard.
“The other side has pretty much every high end Mig and Sukhoi in the Soviet inventory and all their best SAMs. However I’m not going to stand up here and list everything, the briefing pack you have all been given covers all of that in detail. Read it and if you have any questions ask Captain Hagan from the USAF liaison team.
“Now I am going to shut up and let Mr. Watson say a few words. He has been with the advanced party in Sheppard and will fill us in on local conditions.”
Warrant Officer 2 David ‘Doctor’ Watson took to the stage. He had been attached to the advanced party with the eventual intention that he would command the small party of half a dozen RAF Police attached to the RAF Regiment detachment. Watson spoke for a few minutes describing in some details what Sheppard AFB and the surrounding area was like.
“As you will expect the local Texans are some of the most generous and friendly people you will find, but remember to not abuse their hospitality” He continued. “They are like us back in the last war – they’ll give you the shirt off their backs and go hungry to see visitors eat. If you get invited into a local home remember that they’ll be short of food, so don’t eat them out of house and home. It is also polite to ask whether you can bring anything.
“While in general local civilians are friendly remember that this area was occupied and that there are still former collaborators about, however most of them are either dead, fled or in the local slammer shortly to join the first group. However remember no to discuss any operational details with any civilians you might meet when out and about. Also stay away from anywhere that is marked as off-limits, unless you want to be blown to bits by unexploded bombs.
“No Spetsnaz threat has emerged, so far, but it is probably only a matter of time. Everybody at Sheppard takes a gun with them everywhere and I mean everywhere. Which reminds me, the local Resistance have not handed their weapons in, so remember, gentlemen that nice girl who you pick up in a bar will probably have a very angry husband with an AK47.”
Watson paused as a ripple of laughter made its way through the room, especially amongst the women.
“Don’t laugh too hard, girls, any bloke you might chat up will have a wife or girlfriend with a shotgun. So unless you want to get perforated it’s best to politely decline any approaches from civilians. You’ll find out pretty quickly that in general ‘companionship’ down there is fulfilled by fellow military. Nobody expects you to remain celibate for the length of the deployment, but remember to use your head and not some other part of your anatomy.
“Oh, and one last thing, if you’re going to gamble, don’t bet your kit. It doesn’t look good if you lose it that way and it’s a bit rude if you win our hosts’ equipment; that said, the M1911 I now own did once belong to a marine; but do as I say, not as I did.”
16th November 1987. Sheppard AFB, Texas.
If the morning’s weather was anything to go by it was going to be a fine day Major Matt ‘Guru’ Wiser thought as he waited for the latest nine aircraft that would be attached to his squadron to arrive. From what Colonel Brady had told him the detachment would only be with the 335th for a month before it moved on; Wiser’s squadron was to bring the detachment up to speed on all the peculiarities associated with operating on the Southern Front.
“Think I see them, Boss.” Captain Mark Ellis, Wiser’s X.O, said pointing.
Wiser followed his Executive Officer’s outstretched arm and his fighter pilot’s eyes immediately spotted the formation of F-4 Phantoms being trailed by what looked like an L-1011 Tristar. Unlike his F-4Es, which were painted in Vietnam era SEA colours, the new arrivals were painted a two-tone grey colour, similar to the marine fighters, as was the big jet-liner.
As the nine Phantoms broke formation and entered the landing pattern Wiser and Ellis spotted the pale blue and pink roundels on their wings for the first time; as the L-1011 passed overhead the words ROYAL AIR FORCE were clearly visible on the side of the fuselage.
“Wonder how we’ll get on with the Brits, Boss?” Ellis wondered. “Are they as stuffy and uptight as their rep says?”
“I’m sure we’ll get on fine, X.O; from what Colonel Brady has told me the Brits are all experienced aircrew, not an FNG amongst them.
“Will be interesting to see how they deal with Frank though.” Wiser added with a smile.
“Really takes me back, Major, seeing the RAF again.” General Robin Olds remarked. “Had some good times when I was an exchange officer with their No.1 Squadron. Last I heard they are flying Harriers these days; they were operating the Gloster Meteor when I commanded them; nice bird for an early jet.
“Major, I’ll let you and Captain Ellis introduce yourselves first before I say hello. I’m sure our Brit guests might be a bit overwhelmed to meet brass on stepping out of their jets.”
*
“Another nice landing, Snooty.” Squadron Leader David Gledhill, late of 74 (Tiger) Squadron and the RAF detachment commander said to his pilot as their F-4J(UK) came to a halt.
“I aim to please, Boss.” Flight Lieutenant James ‘Snooty’ Bruce replied. “Looks like the Yanks have a welcoming committee for us.
“We’ll have to stop calling them that.” Gledhill said absentmindedly as he put the pins into his ejection seat.
*
Major Wiser had first learned that a detachment of nine RAF fighters would be joining them when Colonel Brady had informed him that a four man British liaison team would be joining him.
“The Brits are returning their Juliet model Phantoms to the navy and since they are also considering sending down a couple of squadrons to work with us they figure it would be a good opportunity for them to gain some experience. The liaison team will bring you up to speed on how the RAF operates; two countries separated by the same language and all of that good stuff; but as I understand from what General Tanner has told me the Brits want to adopt our procedures.
“Anyway I’m sure you will make them very welcome.”
*
Wiser had spent some time studying RAF rank insignia so that he would recognise the British detachment commander, who, he had been told, was a Squadron Leader, which was their idiosyncratic name for a rank equivalent to a major. Why they couldn’t just use proper ranks he did not know, but who was he to argue with the rank structure of the world’s oldest independent air force?
As the first pair of Phantoms parked he could not help but notice the discrete dark grey kill markings under the cockpit. He could just make out the silhouettes of several different types of Soviet aircraft and the number of markings made whoever was flying this aircraft aces.
“Welcome to Texas, Gentlemen.” Wiser said as the senior RAF officer and his pilot approached. “I’m Major Matt Wiser, commander of the 335th.”
“Squadron Leader David Gledhill, Sir; this is my pilot Flight Lieutenant James Bruce.” Gledhill replied taking Wiser’s offered right hand.
“No need to ‘Sir’ me, Dave; it is okay to call you Dave?” Gledhill nodded so Wiser continued. “Boss or Guru are fine.
“This is Captain Mark Ellis my X.O and Master Sergeant Ross, my senior NCO. I’d introduce you to the rest of my senior team but they’re all out on ops.
“I assume you know Flight Lieutenant Lord though?” Wiser said indicating the senior RAF liaison officer.
Gledhill laughed.
“Oh yes, Jack and me are old friends; I hope he has not been telling you any of his lies has he?”
“Well I have been trying to keep that nickname quiet for one thing, Dave.” Flight Lieutenant Steven ‘Jack’ Lord replied with a chuckle.
Wiser turned to Ellis.
“Mark, can you and Master Sergeant Ross get all the new guys bedded down?”
“No problem, Boss; we should have space for them. Someone will need to bunk with Frank though.”
“We don’t want to impose, Guru.” Gledhill interjected. “I’ve got three more aircraft coming in with the rest of our ground-crew and ordnance, and they also have tents in them.”
“Can’t have you sleeping in tents, Dave; it’s just that Major Carson, our ordnance officer is…a bit peculiar, not that’s not the right word…a bit particular about who he bunks with.”
“I’ll share with him, Boss.” Flight Lieutenant Bruce offered. “I can get on with just about…wait did you say his name was Frank Carson?”
Wiser and Ellis exchanged looks; surely Frank’s reputation had not spread that far?
“Uh…yes.” Wiser said cautiously.
“Wait till Karen hears that.” Bruce said to Gledhill with a broad smile. “She does a passable impression of him.”
Who this other Frank Carson was would have to remain a mystery to Wiser, Ellis and Ross for the moment. At least until Flight Lieutenant Karen McKay started repeatedly saying “it’s the way I tell ‘em” in a broad Belfast accent every time Carson’s name was mentioned.
“If he’s particular about who he shares with, Guru, do you think he’ll mind sharing with the youngest son of an Earl?” Gledhill wondered.
“Well, I’m sure it will be an experience for him.” Wiser replied. “Now before we head off General Olds would like a quick word.”
“You mean the General Robin Olds?” Gledhill asked incredulously. “It would be an honour to meet the General, Guru.”
*
Several hours later
Once the RAF detachment had bedded down and the majority of the day’s operations were over Wiser gathered as many of his squadron as he could together for a briefing by Gledhill on the new arrival’s capabilities.
“Good evening, everybody.” Gledhill said cheerfully. “Can you all hear me at the back?” After several affirmative answers he carried on. “Major Wiser has covered why my detachment is here and for how long, but I’m going to talk a little about our capabilities. I’m also happy to try and answer any questions you might have, except maybe any on quadratic equations, or quantum physics; I don’t know anything about them and no, I don’t know the Queen.”
The USAF officers and Senior NCOs chuckled; Wiser was glad to see that the senior Brit had a sense of humour. None of the RAF detachment he had met so far seemed to fall into the ‘uptight, stuffy’ reputation.
“The F-4J(UK) is for all intents and purposes equivalent to the Sierra models that our marine neighbours fly; the main difference is that our aircraft don’t have the leading edge slats, so we are a bit less agile. However that has not been a major issue for us so far.
“What we can offer you capability wise are better medium ranged missiles; we have brought along our own Skyflash, which is a UK Sparrow upgrade equivalent to the Mike model. We also have Lima model Sidewinders and can carry a gun pod if we need to, which is most of the time. We also have a very capable pulse-Doppler radar, second only really to the F-15 and the Flanker.
“Air to air has been our speciality, but we do have some experience of air to ground, mainly just with dumb bombs and rockets. I don’t want to tell you how to do your jobs but if you want to use us best it will be in air to air taskings, or as escorts on your bombing missions.”
Gledhill paused for a moment to allow questions.
“What level of experience do your aircrew have?” Captain Don ‘Ops’ Van Loan asked.
“Karen is our newest pilot and she has been with our squadron for six months; she has four and a half kills. Karen used to be an air traffic controller, but as she told me ‘any idiot can be an air traffic controller, it takes a special kind of idiot to want to be a fast jet pilot’.
“The rest of us have several tours under our belt; I was in West Germany for a couple of years before we were kicked out. After that I was up in Goose Bay, which is where I was based when all this started. Other than that I’ve been based in the UK and Bermuda before joining you guys.”
“What was Bermuda like?” Captain Kara ‘Starbuck’ Thrace, the Assistant Ops Officer, wondered.
The British officer smiled before continuing; he was sure that Thrace had the pre-war image of Bermuda as a holiday island in her mind.
“Well it wasn’t all drinking cocktails on the beach I can tell you.” He replied. “When we weren’t protecting convoys and the island itself from ‘Backfires’ we were getting mortared by Communist insurgents and oh, yeah, there was the hurricane season too; so basically fun times.
“We lost three jets during the rebellion along with two good friends of mine, but I’m sure I don’t need to tell you about losing friends.
“Things got a bit easier when VF-11 joined us, especially since they had Tomcats; I know that only happened after you lost Forrestal, but we appreciated the reinforcements. We made some good friends in the Red Rippers.”
“Are your people all fixed for small arms, Sir?” Captain Ryan Blanchard, OINC, det. 4th Security Police Squadron, wondered.
Gledhill nodded.
“Jack, sorry Flight Lieutenant Lord let us know that we needed to bring along more than just side arms. You’ll find all our aircrew have at least a sub-machine gun as well as a pistol; I’ll need to introduce you to Flight Lieutenant Sherwood and his bunch of Merry Men from the RAF Regiment.”
“Sir, I noticed that you brought two Hercules with you.” First Lieutenant Sandi ‘Flossy’ Jenkins said. “But what was that larger aircraft? I haven’t seen one of those before.”
The Brit smiled before continuing.
“That, Lieutenant, was a Shorts Belfast; an example of one of life’s Great Procurement Mysteries. We bought them in the Sixties, sold them all off, or retired them in the Seventies, hired them back during the Falklands War at a cost that would have apparently kept them in service with the air force for the next ten years, and then requisitioned them when the latest fracas broke out. To cap it all we reformed the same squadron that had operated them; so yes, the Belfast saga is not exactly the RAF’s Finest Hour.”
“One other question, Sir.” Kara Thrace added. “Do any of you play pool?”
The somewhat left-field question threw the British pilot.
“Uh, no, not that I’m aware of…we did have a snooker table at Kindley though.”
The look on Thrace’s face reminded Gledhill of a hawk contemplating a field mouse, which was rather disturbing.
“Better make sure you have plenty of cash, Squadron Leader.” First Lieutenant Lisa ‘Goalie’ Eichhorn said with a laugh, which did nothing to reassure Gledhill. “Kara doesn’t take checks and you really don’t want to owe her anything!”
“Why is that?”
“Simple, Squadron Leader.” Guru said. “Our Kara has a system; if you can't pay what you owe her, she has an alternate payment plan available. Namely, the two of you, the supply tent, a sleeping bag, a radio turned to AFN's all-rock station, a camping lantern for ambience, and well.....”
“I get the idea.” Gladhill said. “She's a....”
“Board-certified nymphomaniac.” Major Wiser replied. “If they gave out such things. So take our advice: don't play pool unless it's a friendly, and unless they want to file for bankruptcy, don't play poker if she's at the table. Sure don't want any of your guys needing to use her, uh, alternative payment plan. Won't do good for Inter-Allied relations.”
“Noted, Guru.” said Gladhill. Then his stomach rumbled. It had been a long day, even with the RON at Grissom AFB in Indiana. “In any case I’m a happily married man.
“Karen plays poker, though, and can handle her drink better than anyone I know. She and Kara might get on well, apart from the nympho bit, of course.”
Guru noted the time on the wall clock: 1715.
“All right, people! Unless there's anything else, we can adjourn to the Club. Give our RAF friends a Texas hello, get them started on some barbeque, and General Olds will be leaving tomorrow afternoon, so he can recount some of his stories for our Allies' benefit.”
As people got up to leave, Guru said.
“Squadron Leader? A moment, please.”
Curious Gladhill came over to the 335th's CO.
“Major?”
Guru waited until everyone else had left.
“Between you and me, for now, you guys may have a role to play in a mission we're planning. Right now, it's very preliminary. In a few days, my GIB and I will probably be going to Nellis to brief Tenth Air Force brass on the mission concept. If it's a go, then we start serious planning. But you will be filling a niche that we've been looking for: either dedicated strike escort, or BARCAP/TARCAP.”
“I see…”
“And once we get the go-ahead, you'll be involved in planning. The people who plan it are also going to fly it.” Major Wiser said. “Just as with Operation BOLO. That means you, your Exec, and your element leads are going to be involved. And speaking of BOLO? You'll hear General Olds talk about that tonight. Among his other stories-including finding out he's an ace in two wars-twenty years after scoring the kill in question.”
Gladhill nodded.
“BOLO? That's new, hearing it first-hand from the chap who came up with it.”
“It was for almost all of us.” Guru said. “Come on: I'll take you over to the Club. You just met everybody, but now? You'll see them as animals in the zoo.”
“Lead on, Major.”
Repost: The RAF Comes to Texas
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Repost: The RAF Comes to Texas
The difference between diplomacy and war is this: Diplomacy is the art of telling someone to go to hell so elegantly that they pack for the trip.
War is bringing hell down on that someone.
War is bringing hell down on that someone.
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Re: Repost: The RAF Comes to Texas
Two great nations separated by a common language.
Re: Repost: The RAF Comes to Texas
I will note that Forrestal was lost very early on in the war to a Victor-III…
“For a brick, he flew pretty good!” Sgt. Major A.J. Johnson, Halo 2
To err is human; to forgive is not SAC policy.
“This is Raven 2-5. This is my sandbox. You will not drop, acknowledge.” David Flanagan, former Raven FAC
To err is human; to forgive is not SAC policy.
“This is Raven 2-5. This is my sandbox. You will not drop, acknowledge.” David Flanagan, former Raven FAC