W. Griffin - The shooters

"Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The same, Dick, please."

Lieutenant C. G. Castillo, wearing only a towel, came into the living room as General Wilson was about to take a sip of his scotch. Wilson looked at him for a long moment, then took a healthy swallow.

"Sir," Miller said, "this is Lieutenant C. G. Castillo."

"I'm Harry Wilson," the general said.

"Yes, sir," Castillo said. It was obvious the name meant nothing to him. "Is there something I can do for the general, sir?"

"I'm here to straighten something out, Lieutenant," General Wilson said.

"Sir?"

"I was your father's copilot," General Wilson said.

"Jesus Christ!" Castillo blurted.

"Until I saw the story in The Army Flier right after lunch," General Wilson said, "I didn't even know you existed. It took us this long to find you. The housing office had never heard of you, and Blue Flight had shut down for the weekend."

Castillo looked at him but didn't speak.

"What your father said," General Wilson said, "just before he took off…that day…was, 'Get the fuck out, Harry. The way you're shaking, you're going to get both of us killed.'"

Castillo still didn't reply.

"Not what it says on that plaque," General Wilson added softly. "So I got out, and he lifted off."

He paused, then went on: "I've been waiting-what is it, twenty-two years, twenty-three?-to tell somebody besides my wife what Jorge…your father…really said that day."

"Sonofabitch!" Miller said softly.

"I think, under the circumstances," Castillo finally said, obviously making an effort to control his voice, "that a small libation is in order."

He walked to the bar, splashed scotch into a glass, and took a healthy swallow.

"Sir," Castillo then said, "I presume Lieutenant Miller has introduced himself?"

General Wilson nodded.

"And you remember Captain Prentiss, don't you, Charley?" Miller asked.

"Yeah, sure. Nice to see you again, sir."

"With the general's permission, I will withdraw," Miller said.

"No, you won't," Castillo said sharply.

"You sure, Charley?" Miller asked.

"Goddamn sure," Castillo said.

"'Charley'?" General Wilson said. "I thought I read your name was Carlos."

"Yes, sir, it is. But people call me Charley."

"Your…dad…made me call him Hor-hay," Wilson said. "Not George. He said he was a wetback and proud of it, and wanted to be called Hor-hay."

"Sir, I think he was pulling your chain," Castillo said. "From what I've learned of my father, he was proud of being a Texican. Not a wetback."

"A Texican?"

Castillo nodded. "Yes, sir. A Texan with long-ago Mexican roots. A wetback is somebody who came across the border yesterday."

"No offense intended, Lieutenant."

"None taken, sir," Castillo said. "Sir, how long did you fly with my father?"

Wilson looked around the room, then took a seat on the couch and sipped at his drink.

"About three months," Wilson said. "We arrived in-country the same day. I was fresh out of West Point, and here he was an old-timer; he'd done a six-months tour in Germany before they shipped him to Vietnam. They put us together, with him in the right seat because he had more time. He took me under his wing-he was a really good pilot-and taught me the things the Aviation School didn't teach. We shared a hootch." He paused a moment in thought, then finished, "Became close friends, although he warned me that that wasn't smart."

"An old-timer?" Castillo said. "He was nineteen when he was killed. Christ, I'm twenty-two."

"I was twenty-two, too," Wilson said softly.

"A friend of mine told me there were a lot of teenaged Huey pilots in Vietnam," Castillo said.

"There were," Wilson said, then added, "I can't understand why he never mentioned you. As I said, I had no idea you existed. Until today."

"He didn't know about me," Castillo said. "He was killed before I was born. I don't think he even knew my mother was pregnant."

"I realize this may sound selfish, Lieutenant-I realize doing so would probably open old wounds-but I'd like to go see your mother."

"May I ask why you would want to do that, sir?" Castillo asked.

"Well, first I'd like to apologize for not looking her up when I came home. And I'd like her to know that I know I'm alive because of your father. If he hadn't told me to…'get the fuck out, Harry'…both of us would have died when that chopper blew up."

"My mother died ten years ago, sir," Castillo said.

"I'm sorry," Wilson said. "I should have picked that up from the story in The Army Flier. It mentioned only your grandparents."

"Yes, sir. They raised me. I know they'd like to talk to you, sir. Would you be willing to do that?"

"Of course I would. I'd be honored."

"Well, let me set that up," Castillo said. "Then I'll put my pants on."

He walked to the telephone on the wet bar and punched in a number from memory.

There followed a brief exchange in Spanish, then Castillo held out the telephone to General Wilson.

"Sir, my grandfather-Juan Fernando Castillo, generally referred to as Don Fernando-would like to speak with you."

Wilson got quickly off the couch and walked to the wet bar.

"He speaks English, right?" he asked softly.

"It might be better if you spoke slowly, sir," Castillo said, and handed him the phone.

"Oh, Jesus, Charley," Miller said. "You have a dangerous sense of humor."

"I remember," Captain Prentiss said.

"Good afternoon, Mr. Castillo," General Wilson said, carefully pronouncing each syllable. "My name is Harold Wilson, and I had the privilege of serving with your son Hor-hay."

There was a reply, which caused General Wilson to shake his head and flash Lieutenant Castillo a dirty look.

Castillo smiled and poured more scotch into his glass.

After a minute or so, Wilson handed Castillo the telephone and there followed another conversation in Spanish. Finally, Castillo put the handset back in the base.

"Like father, like son, right, Castillo?" General Wilson said, smiling. "You like pulling people's chains? Your grandfather speaks English like a Harvard lawyer."

"I guess I shouldn't have done that, sir," Castillo said. "I have an awful problem resisting temptation."

"That, sir," Miller said, "is what is known as a monumental understatement."

"Your grandfather and grandmother are coming here tomorrow, I guess he told you," Wilson said. "I'm presuming he'll call you back with the details when he's made his reservations."

"He has a plane, sir. He said they'll leave right after breakfast. That should put them in here about noon. What I've got to do now is arrange permission for them to land at Cairns and get them some place to stay. I think I can probably get them in here."

"They will stay in the VIP quarters," General Wilson said. "And I'll arrange for permission for his plane to land at Cairns. Or Tom will. Right, Tom?"

"Yes, sir," Prentiss said, then looked at Castillo as he took a notebook from his shirt pocket. "What kind of a plane is it?"

"A Learjet."

"Got the tail number?" Prentiss asked.

Castillo gave it to him.

"Your grandfather has a Learjet?" General Wilson asked.

"Yes, sir. And until a year ago, when my grandmother made him stop, he used to fly it himself. My cousin Fernando will be flying it tomorrow."

"Your father painted a very colorful picture of his life as a wetback," Wilson said. "The benefits of a serape and sandals; how to make tortillas and refry beans. He said he played the trumpet in a mariachi band. And until just now I believed every word."

"Sir, according to my grandfather, what my father did before he joined the Army-he was booted out of Texas A amp;M and was one step ahead of his draft board-was fly Sikorskys, the civilian version of the H-19, ferrying people and supplies to oil rigs in the Gulf of Mexico."