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The proof of that came ten minutes later, when they tried to get off the Constellation. The airfield—which was apparently used as an auxiliary field for Air Force pilot training; Clete saw on the tarmac maybe a dozen North American AT-6 Texan two-seat advanced trainers, four Beech C-45 Expeditors used for twin-engine pilot training and for navigator training, and maybe a dozen Vultee BT-13 basic trainers—was not equipped with any sort of stairs or even maintenance scaffolding for an aircraft as high off the ground as the Constellation.
The problem was finally solved—as what looked like all the pilots and student pilots of the AT-6s, the C-45s, and the BT-13s gathered to watch—by leaning against the Constellation’s fuselage a very tall stepladder otherwise used to change the lights in the hangar ceilings.
By the time that was done, there were two staff cars and two lieutenant colonels on the tarmac.
“Let me deal with this,” Colonel Graham said, and carefully got on the ladder and climbed down it.
Three minutes later, he climbed back up.
“I’m going out to Camp Clinton to have a look at Colonel Frogger,” Graham announced to Howard and Clete. “I may or may not be back tonight. The base commander here will take care of the enlisted people. There’s a transient BOQ here, and an officers’ club. Do I have to remind you two to behave yourselves? ”
[FIVE]
Officers’ Club Jackson Army Air Base Jackson, Mississippi 1745 5 August 1943
The officers’ club was almost the opposite of elegant. It occupied the lower floor of a simple wooden two-story building. Twelve Transient Bachelor Officers’ Quarters—cubicles of plywood furnished with two beds, two tables, and two chairs—were upstairs and had a common latrine.
There were two virtually identical buildings on either side of the officers’ club, all four devoted to housing transient officers—almost always instructor pilots and their students—who for one reason or another had to spend the night at the auxiliary field.
There were two parts to the club, The Mess and The Lounge. The mess was a cafeteria serving Army-style food. Two tables, each seating four, had white tablecloths and bore signs lettered FIELD GRADE OFFICERS, which meant majors and up.
They had waiter service. Everybody else walked the cafeteria line while holding a Masonite tray on which they loaded food selected from steam trays, then carried their tray to one of the thirty four-place tables covered with oilcloth.
When Hughes and Frade walked into the officers’ mess, Major Frade, who was a field-grade officer in another life, took one look at the field-grade officers’ tables and motioned for Hughes to get into the cafeteria line.
There was a small problem after they had selected their dinner and tried paying for it. Hughes attempted to pay the cashier—an Air Forces sergeant—with a crisp hundred-dollar bill, one of a sheaf of hundred-dollar bills he had in his shirt pocket.
“I can’t cash something like that, for Christ’s sake!” the sergeant said.
Cletus Frade, likewise, had nothing smaller than hundred-dollar bills in his wallet. He also had some Argentine, Brazilian, and Mexican currencies, but the Air Forces sergeant quickly rejected these as well, asking, “For Christ’s sake, does this look like a fucking bank?”
Five minutes later, the cashier returned from The Lounge and counted out and handed to Howard Hughes his change. It came in the form of bills, nothing larger than a five, and several rolls of nickels, dimes, and quarters—a total of $99.30, the cost of each of their meals being thirty-five cents.
By then, there were perhaps twenty officers, almost all of them pilots and lieutenants, backed up behind them in the line, each holding their Masonite tray of dinner.
The food was surprisingly good.
Afterward, they went into The Lounge. It was somewhat dimly lit. There was a bar with a dozen stools and twelve or fifteen four-man tables, these covered with festive bright red oilcloths. The bar stools were all occupied, as were all but two tables at the far end of the room.
Clete and Howard headed for these. They sat at one of them and almost immediately were able to deduce that the tables had not been occupied because they were right in front of an enormous wall-mounted fan that sucked the outside Mississippi midsummer’s humid air into the building and forced it through The Lounge in the hope that it would cool.
Five minutes after that, Clete concluded there was no waiter service.
“I think we have to go to the bar,” he announced.
“Go see if they’ll sell us a bottle, Cletus. We can take it to our room.”
“I don’t have any money they’ll take.”
“And after all I’ve done for you today!”
Hughes walked to the bar, patiently awaited his turn, and returned to the table holding two glasses, each holding what looked like a single ice cube.
“They won’t sell us a bottle, and you can’t take glasses out of the room,” he reported.
“What is this?” Clete said after sipping his drink.
“Rye whiskey.”
