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The hand with which Lieutenant Castillo saluted General Naylor was wrapped in a bloody bandage. Much of his forehead and right cheek carried smaller bandages.
“Good afternoon, sir. Allan said if I had a chance, to pass on his regards.”
“Right about now, you were supposed to be starting flight school, basic flight school. How is it you’re here, and flying an Apache?”
“Well, when I got to Rucker, it came out that I had a little over three hundred hours in the civilian version of the Huey, so they sent me right to Apache school. And here I am.”
Naylor had thought: And damn lucky to be alive.
Questions of personal valor aside, standing before me is a young officer who is blissfully unaware that he has been a pawn in what is obviously a cynical scheme on the part of some senior aviation officers who wanted to garner publicity for Army Aviation—“Son of Vietnam Army Pilot Hero Flies in Iraq”—and turned a blind eye to his lack of experience, and the very good chance that he would be killed.
Goddamn them!
They probably would’ve liked it better if he had been killed. It would have made a better story for the newspapers: “Son of Hero Pilot Dies Like His Father: In Combat, at the Controls!”
Sonsofbitches!
Ten minutes later, General H. Norman Schwarzkopf agreed with Major General Naylor’s assessment of the situation.
“What do you want to do with him, Allan? Send him back to Fort Rucker?”
“That would imply he’s done something wrong, sir.”
“Then find some nice, safe flying assignment for him,” Schwarzkopf said. “Anything else?”
“No, sir. Thank you, sir.”
That then posed the problem of where to find a nice, safe flying assignment for Second Lieutenant Castillo out of the reach of glory-seeking Army Aviators.
“McNab.”
“Allan Naylor, Scotty. How are you?”
“Very well, thank you. How may I serve the general?”
“Tell me, Scotty, are there any Hueys on your T O and E?”
“Somebody told me you’re the J-Three. Aren’t you supposed to know?”
We may be classmates, but I’m a major general, and you’re a just-promoted colonel.
A touch more respect on your part would be in order.
“Answer the question, please.”
Scotty McNab affected an officious tone, and said, “Rotary-wing aircraft are essential to the mission of the 2303rd Civil Government Detachment, sir. Actually, sir, we couldn’t fulfill the many missions assigned to us in the area of civil government without them. Yes, sir, I have a couple of Hueys.”
“Colonel, a simple ‘Yes, sir’ or ‘No, sir’ would have sufficed,” Naylor snapped.
“Yes, sir.”
By then Naylor had been half-convinced that McNab’s disrespectful attitude was induced by alcohol. He had an urge to simply hang up on him, but that would not have solved the problem of finding Second Lieutenant Castillo a nice, safe flying assignment.
“I’m about to send you a Huey pilot, Colonel. A Huey co-pilot.”
“What did he do wrong?”
“Excuse me?”
