The knock at the door awoke me from a dead sleep. The red glow of the clock atop my field desk read 2:37. My heart sank instantly, preceded only by my thoughts. So this is how it goes when you lose a crew?
Though semi-alert, the second knock startled me more than the first. It was loud and intrusive to my newfound dread. Commanders get really bad news in person…aircraft losses are too delicate to deliver over the phone. Why else would someone knock on my door at this obnoxious hour?
Sleeping bag off…rotate 90…feet on floor…don’t hit head on top bunk…rise. Two steps…lights on…turn handle…familiar creak. Standing before me are two group Intel officers…a major and a crying lieutenant. Yep…plane down, crew lost…I wish it were me.
I wave them in and fall awkwardly into a tan bag chair. They stand tall before me as the door closes. A tickertape of questions races steadily through my mind. Which crew? Any survivors? Where? Passengers? Shot down? Does the OG know? Are we running the crash checklist? Who’s still flying? Hurry up…we got work to do!
“What’s up?” I ask unnecessarily. “We have a problem sir.” No kidding. Another tear rolls down the plump lieutenant’s face…further smearing her mascara. “One of your crews…” Hold on folks, here it comes “…made my lieutenant cry.”
I’m sorry? You said…and I heard it clearly…”one of your crews made my lieutenant cry.” You were supposed to say, “Sir, we have an aircraft down, north of Balad. Six crew and 40 passengers are dead. Preliminary reports indicate hostile fire downed the aircraft. Ground forces have secured the crash site, we should know more in a couple of hours.” Instead you said…and I heard it clearly…”one of your crews made my lieutenant cry.”
“Say again,” I mutter softly.
“Sir, the Glide 27 crew made Lieutenant Waddle cry. She was trying to get further details about a possible SAM launch. They told her all the details were already on their mission recap sheet. When she asked them to elaborate, they got up and departed for the bar. She got me and we chased them to the bar and asked them for more details. They told us they could not discuss classified information in the bar and teased us for not knowing the rules. That’s why we’re here sir…we need you to get the info on the SAM launch.” The major beams proudly. The lieutenant stares too, begging for intervention. Only the air conditioner makes noise.
Unbelievable. I rub my eyes and meet their wanting looks with disguised glee. O.K…act like I’m concerned about their complete lack of situational awareness.
“File your report as best you can with the information they gave you on the recap sheet. Make sure you brief all crews about the possible SAM launch on Glide 27. I’ll call the crew after they wake up and discuss the details of their debrief etiquette. I’m sorry for the drama, see you in a couple of hours.” Surly they’re buying my act. Maybe she’s crying because the chow hall ran out of onion rings.
“Sir, we need the info now! Our regs BLAH Blah blah,” the Major drones. Stand…move forward…awkwardly close…I’m in boxers…take the hint chuckleheads, please get out. They depart unsatisfied.
Lights off…sit on bunk…turn 90…lay down…sleeping bag up…pillow over eyes. I can’t stop the tickertape. Sleeping bag off…rotate 90…feet on floor…don’t hit head…rise. Two steps…dobs kit…turn handle…familiar creak. 100 yards…shower & shave…100 yards back. Did this just happen? Clock says 3:17. Living the dream baby…this war is a clown act.