Dan Hampton - Viper Pilot

I was home.

None of the fighter pilots were wearing their normal squadron patches, because we didn’t fly with them in combat. Most had a name tag with embroidered wings and a call sign on their chest or left arm. These differed in color by squadron, and there were at least six different types that I could see. F-16s from Torrejón and Spangdahlem; F-15s from Bitburg and Soesterberg; F-111s from Upper Heyford. Officers from the AWACS crews were also there, and, astonishingly, two very drunk KC-135 pilots. Turns out, they’d been flying the tanker that the Patriot used for target practice—they’d gotten a glimpse of our lives. They weren’t getting much sympathy from the fighter guys, but we bought them drinks anyway. After all, we got paid to get shot at—they didn’t.

“Hey, Two Dogs!” someone shouted, and I looked at the undulating wave of green at the bar.

“Over here. Orca, Shadow… get your asses over here!”

Orca punched me on the shoulder and waved toward the mob. As the smoke parted, I saw most of our guys, including our commander, holding up the far end of the bar. Lieutenant Colonel Dave Moody, known as MooMan, had just arrived that morning. He’d led our deployment out of Germany only to have his jet break down over the Mediterranean; he’d spent two days getting it fixed and had missed leading our first combat mission. Somehow he’d made it out to the end of the runway for our launch this morning. He’d also managed to “borrow” a huge American flag from the deserted elementary school and stood by the taxiway, saluting all his guys as we’d rolled past. Unforgettable. MooMan was one of my heroes.

“Dogs, you little punk.” He thumped my chest and shoved a glass of something in my hand. “How’d ya do today? Hit anything?”

“I—”

“He couldn’t hit his ass with both hands,” someone helpfully chimed in.

“Lost in space,” another shouted.

“I—”

“Box of rocks.”

“You weren’t there to hold his peepee, so how could he hit anything?”

“I—”

“C’mon boy… spit it out!”

A large, hairy paw appeared on my shoulder and I turned to see Orca standing next to me. “Y’all leave him alone… he did just fine. Hosed down a coupla SAMs near Mosul and didn’t lose sighta me once.”

Catcalls and booing followed that pronouncement, but Orca just smiled. “And he didn’t shit his pants when the Patriot tried to kill him. In fact”—he winked at me—“the kid armed up and tried to roll in and strafe the damn thing!”

Slight stretch of the facts there, but we lived by the 10 Percent Rule (only 10 percent of any story had to be true) and, in fact, I hadn’t shit all over myself like the two tanker pilots.

More catcalls but everyone laughed and cheered. Arms grabbed my shoulders and propelled me up to the bar. MooMan grinned at me and raised his glass. “To the Elephant!” We clinked and I drank. Then gagged. He chuckled.

“What… is this… stuff?” I wheezed as my eyes glazed over.

“Applecorn… with some Jeremiah Weed for flavor.”

Apfelkorn was a thick, sweet liqueur beloved by American fighter squadrons in Germany. Jeremiah Weed was a pet drink of fighter pilots everywhere, along with Jack Daniel’s and Drambuie. Individually they were bearable, but mixed together they were nearly lethal.

There was lots of action all around, and I sat and watched, happy to be one of the boys. To be part of any elite group is something you can carry with you for the rest of your life. At first it’s all about ego and “making it.” But that gets beaten out of you one way or another, as others quit, wash out, or die. In the end, if you make it, you’re left with the greatest prizes of all: the quiet respect of your peers and the knowledge that you have nothing left to prove to anyone but yourself. I took another cautious sip of the horrible stuff and thought how lucky we were to be part of this. Bases back in the States were full of fighter pilots who were home with their wives tonight and wishing they were us.

I was proud. As I saw it then, America’s interests had been threatened and we’d been brought in to solve the problem. Iraq had the fourth largest military in the world, hundreds of jet fighters, thousands of SAMs, and we’d just kicked open the front door. They’d actually shaken their hairy fist at the most powerful country on Earth—basically, gave the United States the big middle finger—and today we’d snapped it off at the knuckle. Tomorrow we’d go and cut off their balls.

And here I was, to do it.

Off to my right, beyond some tables, a huge group was playing Crud. This is a combination of pool and rugby played on a billiard table. To the left, against the far wall, was a stage, although there was no band. A rainbow-colored jukebox the size of a Dumpster was cranked up, and about a dozen flight-suits were jumping around to “Viva Las Vegas.” Looking closely, I saw a few female officers from the AWACS surrounded by swarms of men. The girls weren’t good-looking, and the flight suits definitely didn’t help, but they were the only women in the place, and they were having a good time. The male officers from AWACS were nowhere to be seen. Go figure.

Squinting at the shadows, I saw one table of four very serious, dark-skinned pilots with perfect hair, clean flight suits, and all their patches. They’d given up trying to figure out the Crud game and were watching the women and the dancing.

Turks.

I thought they were drinking water, until one of them poured another round of something clear from an unmarked bottle.

“What’s that?” I yelled in MooMan’s ear and pointed at the Turks.

“I’ll show you. Raki!” he screamed at the bartender, who returned with two shot glasses and a bottle of the clear stuff.

He winked again and gave the standard German toast: “Prost.”

My eyes watered and the room wobbled. Raki. Turkish hooch. It tasted like tobacco spit mixed with licorice. I tried not to throw up, and very carefully cradled the toxic shot glass in my hand. MooMan laughed and wandered off. I found my young captain buddies, and we leaned against the bar to watch the Crud game.

It’s actually a pretty simple game, which only uses two balls—the colored “object” ball and the white “shooter” ball. It’s played with two teams of almost any size, and the goal is to kill off your opponents by sinking the object ball into any pocket. Naturally, this is resisted by the other team. Everyone takes turns shooting, and if you sink the ball, then whoever shot before you loses a life. When you lose three lives, you’re gone. There are really only two rules. You can’t hit the referee (at all) and you have to shoot from the ends of the table. Beyond that, the rules vary depending on who’s playing, who’s watching (women), and how much everyone’s had to drink.

Tonight was the full menu of testosterone, adrenaline, and alcohol. After a day of combat missions, with some women watching, it was a wild game. Any force, short of lethal force, was allowed to block shots, keep shooters from the table, and otherwise screw up the other side. A few of the players were limping, and several had been sidelined with gashed faces and broken noses.

Now, Officer’s Clubs are open to all officers. But on fighter bases, it’s a rare or clueless non-fighter type (male, that is) who wanders into such a place. Bad things can happen to them. I had just noticed two such officers standing back against the wall, watching the game. They were obviously disapproving of the noise, drinking, and general savagery. Both wore battle dress uniforms, a fancy way of saying “fatigues,” and they were very clean. They had shiny boots and were also wearing gas-mask satchels over their shoulders. Gas masks—utterly ridiculous, so, of course, it was mandatory equipment. So, of course, we ignored it. I had no idea who they were or why they thought being here was a good move.