Phantom Leader Part 30

Ready to eat, Donny an,d Rail went to the half-full dining room. The floor of the large room was of a yellow-and-green linoleum. The chairs and tables were constructed of bamboo. Woven place mats were used rather than tablecloths.

The two men deliberated over the menu, which was a waste of time because they had memorized the thirteen items during their first week eating at the club.

Udorn Royal Thai Air Force Base was just that, a Royal Thai Air Force Base, an RTAFB. The Americans were, as were the Australians flying F-86s before them, merely guests on the base. Under the SOFA (Status of Force Agreement), the Americans were authorized to expand the facilities and fly from seven RTAFBs within the country of Thailand. In return, all American facilities (not equipment like airplanes and trucks), whether constructed or flown in from the U,S., belonged to the Thais.

This impacted even at Officer and NCO clubs. The Thais ran the kitchens, the bars, and the sales concessions. Naturally, although the club officer, Major Richard Hostettler, was an American, Thai personnel performed all the other duties in the club, from barmaid to kitchen chef and table-waiting.

To preclude translation problems, especially for new waitresses, each menu item had a number to facilitate ordertaking. The menu, primarily American with steaks and burgers, did have a few ethnic dishes like Thai fried rice and the spicy hot Thai salad. Rail ordered the number 1, steak.

Donny ordered number 6 on the menu, a cheeseburger.

"No hab chee-burge," Chooky the waitress said. She was a cute little Thai girl, slender as a bird, with long dark hair and liquid eyes.

"It's on the menu," Donny retorted.

"No hab," Chooky said and giggled. Like most Asians, Thais didn't like to say no to anybody. It made them nervous, so they giggled.

Donny studied the menu. He pointed to number 7, the hamburger. "Do you have hamburger?"

"Hab hamburger" Chooky said. Donny nodded.

"Do you have the cheese sandwich?" he asked, pointing at number 5.

"Hab cheese sand-wish." Chooky smiled.

"Well, then, I'll have the number six." Donny flashed his most engaging smile at Chooky.

Chooky swallowed. "No hab, no hab, Meestair. No hab chee-burge."

"You have number five, the cheese sandwich."

"Hab five."

"You have number seven, the hamburger."

"Hab seven."

"Chooky," Donny said, peering at her name tag. "If you have cheese and you have hamburgers, why in the"-Donny took a deep breath-"why do you say you have no cheeseburgers? Aren't there any cheeseburgers?"

"Yes. No hab chee-burge. They all gone, Meester Donny," Chooky said with a sunny smile.

Donny gave up. "Bring me the five and the seven," he said.

"Yes, Meester Donny. That good idea. You put them together, you hab chee-burge."

When Donny and Rail finished eating, they tipped Chooky five baht and walked back to the main bar. Enroute they paused at the bulletin board to look at the flying schedule and reconfirm they were not flying the next day. Even though one might be due to be off for a day, last-minute changes frequently occurred. So prudence dictated that if a crewman was going to hang one on, said crewman doublechecked the flying schedule.

The schedule could do strange things to a man's digestion, mood, pulse rate, and eyelids. If he was scheduled for a real up-north bangeroo double-pumper and his experience level was low, he suddenly wasn't as hungry, his mood level depressed somewhat, his heartbeat gave a jump and his eyes narrowed, lest anybody see all of the above.

The two men confirmed they were not due to fly the next day. Time to party.

There was also a large multicolored sign on the bulletin board reminding everybody that a USO show, the Funelda Dancers, was due to perform tonight.

"Hah," Rail said. "Girls."

"Yes, indeed," Donny Higgens allowed. Each man immediately fantasized a love-at-first-sight, one-night stand with a lovely long-legged dancer.

The crowd stood two-deep at the bar and most tables were taken. There were no standards or conventions marked in this club-or any other fighter club in a combat zone, for that matter. The club was open twenty-four hours a day, and provided all services twenty-four hours a day, bar and dining included. The night pilots flew at night and relaxed in the daytime, the day pilots flew in the day and relaxed at nighttime like normal folk. Except for the misguided rules of the previous wing commander, Delbert Crepens, who had tried to impose teetotaling on the entire air base, the Udorn Officer's Open Mess and the Non-Commissioned Officer's Open Mess had always operated thus.

Life in a combat zone was different, and that's all there was to it.

Peacetime rules and regs were relaxed considerably. And, of course, joy of joys, there was no OWC--Officer's Wives Club. At stateside and overseas military bases where the military men had their families, the NCOs' wives and officers' wives formed clubs that all t dominate the only manifestation of their uniqueness . . . The Club. It satisfied not only the innate urge to meet and greet with one's own, it supplanted the deep-down desire to have something similar to, but unique from, the exclusive civilian tennis and country clubs for the affluent. For monthly dues of seven dollars at an officer's club and four dollars at an NCO club, a wife belonged.

Generally, that's also where things turned to s.h.i.t two ways.

Occasionally wives would a.s.sume their husbands' rank and act very officious toward the junior wives, and--in almost all cases-the wives tried to run the d.a.m.n club and turn it into a la-de-dah prissy social mecca. In the old days (mid-fifties and earlier), when a fighter jock wanted to hit the bar with his buddies after a hard day in the office (the c.o.c.kpit), they did so in sweaty K-213 cotton flight suits and flight jackets. (No hats. Wear a hat in the bar and you buy the bar.) The pilots sang and they swore and they shot their watches right off their wrists. They got noisy and once in a while they said "f.u.c.k" right out loud.

Once the OWC got going, such relaxation methods were out, out, out. To further screw up a good deal for the aircrew (it was, after all, their club), a SAC general tried to get everybody to wear formal uniforms after 1800 hours: bow ties and white shirts. Well, Jee-sus Christ. That was going too far. Everybody was really p.i.s.sed, especially the Irishmen. (The SAC general was supposed to be a true son of the sod. He was definitely considered a son of something, but it was not sod.) Something had to be done. Finally a compromise was reached, and the stag bar was born. Fighter pilots in the cruddiest of clothes and green bags could congregate in the stag bar, drink, throw beer on each other, and say OIL "f.u.c.k" until their tongues dried out. But only in the stag bar.

So it was at peacetime air bases.

But now, in the combat zone, the whole club was ONE BIG STAG BAR. s.h.i.t hot. Yay, ray, f.u.c.k.

Donny and Rail didn't much know or care about all that past hoo-ha. They were junior officers who hadn't been around all that long. All they knew was that they were flying combat missions and certain privileges went with that n.o.ble status. One was combat pay of sixty-five bucks a month (taxable), another was that the first $6,000 of their meager yearly pay was tax-free. (All of the enlisted men's salary was tax-free.) But what was really nifty was the life in the O'Club. The clubs at the pilot training and F-4 upgrading bases were a bit rigid.

But here in the combat zone of Southeast Asia . . . wow. No OWC to muck things up in this exclusive all-male environment.

Of course Donny Higgens knew all about clubs during wartime. He was, after all, on his second combat tour. He had flown F-100s out of Bien Hoa. It was there he had acquired two of his many sobriquets: Higgens the Homeless and Duckcall Donny. The former for being banned from the Bien Hoa O'Club for asking a visiting minister's wife to 11 show us your t.i.ts." The latter for his habit of always carrying a duck call around and blowing flatulent quacks whenever he felt the time was appropriate.

Few people, particularly those more mature than Donny, agreed with his definition of what was appropriate. As it was, most people considered themselves more mature than Donny Higgens.

Elbowing their way to the bar, each man ordered a pair of double scotches, took one in each fist, and walked to a corner table to join two other F-4 crews. They spoke of their missions that day. One A/C (aircraft commander, the frontseater) said they spent most of their time patrolling between Delta 32 and Delta 69, trying to pinpoint a zipper that had reportedly come up on a Nail FAC (an airborne forward air controller with the call sign "Nail"). The Delta points were code names for various checkpoints on the Trail. A zipper was a four-barrel ZPU 12.7mm antiaircraft gun that had a horrendous rate of fire and an excellent manual tracking capacity. The pilots told how they had made several pa.s.ses, each lower than the previous, but couldn't get the gunner to shoot. Most NVA gunners on the Trail had good fire discipline.

Duckcall Donny Higgens spoke up. "I found a 37 gunner with no protection. Had to be a new guy, to shoot at me without any 23 backup."

Even though it could shoot up to 13,000 feet, a 37mm gun was most efficient against aircraft between 5,000 and 10,000.

The 12.7 zippers, the 14.5s, and the quad 23s accounted for most of the shootdowns under 8,000 feet. The gunner never should have opened up against a fast, low-level jinking aircraft to begin with. But since it did, it should have had at least a twin-, if not quad-barrel, rapid-firing 23mm gun to back it up. This 37 gun did not.

"What did you put on him?" the A/C asked. He meant what type of strike aircraft had Donny called in on the not-so-bright gunner.

"My own twenty mil," Donny said with a smile. This was not what a Wolf FAC was supposed to do. Although they carried the 20mm SUU- 1 6 Gatling gun slung under the centerline, in addition to their marking rockets, it was more for a last-ditch strafe against a fleeting target than the normal use such as a strike plane might make of it.

"It was late in the day. No strikers were handy. What's a poor FAC man to do?" Donny held his hands palm up. He checked his watch. "Hey, the show starts in twenty minutes.

Let's get some drinks and a good table."

The bar started emptying as the men picked up some beer and found a good table near the dance floor in what was laughingly called the showroom.

It was merely a large room used for Officer's Call, which was nothing more than occasional dull, uncla.s.sified briefings for all the officers in the wing, and the less-occasional touring USO show. Tonight, tables and chairs were set up around a raised bandstand and an open area. Donny and Rail sat next to the open s.p.a.ce.

Forty-some other pilots and GIBs crowded the other tables.

On stage, a grossly overweight Caucasian man wearing a flaming purple Hawaiian shirt and dark trousers fiddled with the amplifier and tuned an electric guitar. In front of him was a thin folding stand with a few sheets of music in the narrow tray. At his feet rested a set of bongo drums. The man's face was florid. His long dark hair was plastered to his forehead and neck with sweat. The audience buzzed with conversation as the aircrewmen spoke of the events of the day.

"... we've had it, I tell you. I just got back from the States.

GIs are no longer in radio, TV commercials, or in the CocaCola ads in Life magazine. They just use long-haired frizzies now. Those people hate the military, I tell you."

". . . then the weather went ape and we couldn't find the d.a.m.n bridge."

"... Four got it. That new guy from DM. Went straight in. No chutes, no beeper."

so then I grabbed her by the swanch, and .

and I said 'Where's the targetT and he said 'Right under the French toast." He had just barfed on the scope.

Guess I was jinking a tad too much for him."

Desultory applause started as a man walked through a side door and stepped up to a microphone on the stage. He was rail-thin, had mousy brown hair and hard lines on his face. He looked the type who had spent many years as a Bourbon Street barker.

"Hey, hey, hey," he bellowed into the mike, then stepped back as it squealed from feedback. "Well, heeeerrrrre we aaarrrre. What a crowd.

Boy, am I glad to be here tonight.

Just flew in from Bangkok and boy are " He leaned forward and motioned to the crowd for the rest of the tag line.

"Come on, guys. I just flew in from Bangkok, and, boy, are my- Come on, what's tired? Boy, are my-" He leaned forward. "What's tired?" He motioned with his hands, an eager and expectant look on his face.

"Your b.a.l.l.s," someone shouted.

"What b.a.l.l.s?" someone else yelled.

"Show us your t.i.ts," a voice bellowed from the back of the room.

"Bring on the broads."

"Yeah, where are the dancing girls?"

Raucous laughter and hooting catcalls spun around the room. Things were degenerating fast. The MC, no fool, made a "whaddaya-gonna-do" gesture and a hand signal to the fat guitar player, who immediately swung into a deafening rendition of "I Can't Get No Satisfaction." He drowned out the catcalls.

Several of the younger pilots jumped up and gyrated to the tw.a.n.ging music. There was no one in the room over the rank of lieutenant colonel, and few of them. The air war was primarily fought by the captains and the majors, with a strong backup of lieutenants and a handful of lieutenant colonels. The party grew in noise and exuberance.

The men started smashing their hands together, spurring the heavyset guitarist to turn up the amp and really lean on the strings.

Noise rolled over the room at an ever-increasing crescendo as the men wildly sang the words to "Satisfaction."

Duckcall Donny was doing his thing. "I Cain't Git No ... QUACK ...

Satisfaction . . ." This was not how the Air Officer's Guide prescribed a gentleman's evening at his club.

After several repet.i.tive chords, the guitarist segued into some Hawaiian war-chant sounds. The MC produced a large drum and beat out a good rhythm. The crowd picked it up right away-the girls were soon to arrive-- and clapped to the beat. The MC let the crowd build its antic.i.p.ation, then eased over to the microphone.

"And now I present, for our first act, Funelda the Fire Eater, Funelda the Famous Hawaiian Fire Dancer. Let's hear it for FUNELDA." Yea, rah, the crowd whistled and cheered. The MC pointed toward the side door.

The guitarist tw.a.n.ged a crescendo, the MC beat on the drum. The crowd cheered louder. This was more like it. The door opened, flames were reflected, the MC leaned over the mike: "Let's hear it for the great Prince Funelda." He beat his hands together. The crowd started to follow . . . until it registered.

"Prince?"

"Did he say 'Prince'?"

"What the f.u.c.k, over."

"QuuaaACK?"

From the doorway emerged an oiled and glistening, almost nude, barefoot young man. He had dark hair and a well-toned slender body. He wore plaited palm fronds around his waist, wrists, ankles, and on his forehead like a crown. He twirled in each hand, with moderate expertise, twin torches that left soft wisps of flame trails as they spun.

And he spun, around and around, bending, dipping, twirling the torches, now under his legs, now over his back as he bent, then under and behind his knees. The fat guitarist hooked up a Hawaiian war-chant tape to the amp and beat out a surprisingly good accompanying rhythm on the bongos.

He was backed up ably by the MC on the big drum.

A GIB from the 433rd found the light switches and manipulated them to bring the big room to near-darkness.

The drumbeat was infectious. The aircrew began clapping again. Several flicked their Zippos, adding extra flame twirls to the room. An A/C from the 497th heated a scotch bottle over several lighters from his table, then held his lighter near the mouth. The inside lit up and a ten-inch tongue of flame hooted forth. "Dead jet pilot," he yelled. If an empty beer bottle was a dead soldier, then an empty scotch bottle with an afterburner was obviously a dead jet pilot.

The dancer oiled and coiled his way around the floor, bare feet slapping in time to the big drum. He was supple, and bent his legs and arms and bobbed his head in a proper war dance. He played the fire torches close to his body, very close. The oil reflected the light off his skin. As he rolled the torches down his arm and up his legs, they left soft trails. He moved and danced around the semicircle formed by the tables in front of the foot-high stage. He danced close to the pilots, then back, then close again. He was rolling the torches now in front of his face. Quickly, he inserted one into his mouth, quenching it, then pulled it out and pa.s.sed it over the other, causing a relight. He did this several times.

He popped one in his mouth and gave a startled leap as a loud QUACK blasted through the drums. He coughed out the torch and glared in Donny's direction and resumed dancing. He oiled and coiled around the semicircle as Donny quacked out a few more at appropriate times. Slowly, the dancer eased over to where Donny sat. He stood in front of him, shaking his shoulders and slowly sinking to his knees in an ever-provocative pose. Lower and lower he sank. The crowd hooted.

Donny flamed red, duck call forgotten. Then the male dancer made kissy lips at Donny. The crowd shrieked as Donny recoiled in horror. Rail beat his hand on the table, laughing hard, bent nearly double. The male dancer, clearly the winner, eased away and sinewed back to the center of the open area. Donny muttered something and left the table. He walked around the crowded tables and out of the darkened room.

"What's the matter, Donny," somebody yelled, "yer date too hot for ya?"

He spent a moment at the cash register end of the bar and walked back into the showroom.

No one noticed Donny return to his table. The dancer was so campy, yet seemingly oblivious to the rude catcalls, that he was, many said, actually entertaining. Some of the cruder aircrew mentioned the dancer's bulging crotch.

"Hey, I'll bet he's got a hard-on."

"Nah. It's a toilet paper tube."

"Well, there's a h.e.l.l of a lot of paper still on it then."

"Hey, look. Higgens is back and that fairy is dancing over toward him."

"Quack him out, Donny."

Like a moth to the flame, Prince Funelda the Great Fire Eater danced and pranced toward Duckcall Donny Higgens, Captain, United States Air Force, aircraft commander of an F-4D Phantom in combat. The Prince should have known better. He waved his torches and approached closer and closer, his limpid dark eyes fixed on Donny, a faint smile on his lips. The MC boomed his drum, the fat guitarist coaxed incredible rhythms from the bongos, the Hawaiian war chant never sounded if not better, then louder.