Fearless Leader

Ngorongoro Crater, Tanzania - photo by JoAnn Sturman

W.R. Priskna
fliesinyoureyes.com

It was a sad day for the detachment when command transferred from the Strategic Air Command (SAC) to the Military Airlift Command (MAC). Under SAC the unit was an after thought. Consequently, Captain "Chunks" Henry led the group with little outside interference. The pilots spent most of their time flying helicopters rather than their desks, and Captain Henry was eager to authorize any rescue mission despite the apparent difficulty or danger.

A year after I arrive at the base in Arizona, control of all Air Force helicopter units was passed to MAC. The contrast in operational philosophy was dramatic. SAC was a combat oriented organization while MAC specialized in hauling cargo and generating enormous amounts of paperwork. We lost the charismatic Captain Henry for his replacement - a lackluster, introverted major who had little aptitude for leading a group of young captains and lieutenants.

Our detachment was one of ten attached to ICBM bases located in the western half of the country. The squadron headquarters was located over a 1000 miles away in Cheyenne, Wyoming. Soon after the change of command to MAC, the squadron commander Colonel Pratt decided to pay us a visit to demonstrate his authority and whip us into shape. Pratt was a 6 foot 3 inch, 250 pound, over bearing braggart who led by intimidation. If he had been a feudal noble, he would have been the first to claim the right of droit du seigneur on your wedding night.

During his initial address to the detachment's personnel, he proclaimed the days of flying and fun were over, because “there was a new sheriff in town.” Colonel Pratt, however, was looking for a bit of fun later that day. He fancied himself a champion squash player and was keen to arrange a match with his next victim. At the conclusion of his briefing he asked if their were any squash players in the unit. He must have sensed a fresh kill when the 5 foot 8 inch, 135 pound Bob Wade raised his hand. The match was set.

What the colonel did not know was Bob had been captain of the Air Force Academy squash team and, as Bob put it, he had a “great familiarity with the game.” After the first point Pratt discovered Bob was much better with the racket. This problem was of minor concern since skill was only secondary to his physical size and aggressiveness. He charged around the court like a Sherman tank at a GO-KART rally. He preferred to make his shot and then back into his opponent blocking the shot to the front wall. One was forced to either make a weak shot or hit your commanding officer with the ball.

I have never been shot with a gun, but I have been hit with a squash ball. For those who have experienced both they say the initial feeling is similar. Squash balls are very hard and are hit typically over 100 miles per hour. When struck on an exposed area, one literally has to pull the ball out of the flesh. Once it happens, you do not want to be hit again.

The first time Pratt blocked the return to the front wall Bob was forced to hit a poor shot that Pratt easily retrieved for a winner. The second time he was pinned against the back wall, Bob called “let” indicating he was unable to hit a clear shot due to interference, and the point should be replayed. “Just shut up and play, Wade!”

The next point repeated the experience of the first. “Let," Bob called.

“You pussy, Wade. Are you going to play or not?”
“Sir, if you don't give me a chance to hit the ball, I may hit you.”

The next serve Pratt hit a high soft lobbing ball to Bob's forehand. He promptly blocked the return shot with his mammoth body. Bob teed off on the ball and impaled the back of Pratt's thigh over the sciatic nerve. Pratt howled in agony, “I've been shot! I can't feel my leg, Wade! What did you do to me?”

“Sorry, sir. Shall I serve or would you prefer to call it a day?”

The one sided match finished quickly as Pratt hobbled about the court with a huge hematoma in his leg. He barely could speak as he left the court. He grudgingly offered his hand, while at the same time planning his revenge. What this troublesome nest of pilots needed was someone who could restore order, and he knew the man to do it, his friend and confidant Lt. Colonel Michaels.