Goodbye, Colonel Mike

Nepal Back Packers - photo by JoAnn Sturman

W.R. Priskna
fliesinyoureyes.com

Lt. Colonel Mike Michaels may have been a good Air Force office at one time, but if he once had talent, no trace remained. A confirmed bachelor and an even more confirmed alcoholic, Colonel Mike’s sole ambition was to be promoted to full colonel. He had been around the service long enough to have friends in high places who looked after his career. In fact they arranged for him to command our isolated helicopter detachment in Arizona, where, if all went well, would give him the proper credentials for the long sought promotion.

The lieutenants and captains in the detachment wondered how Colonel Mike was promoted beyond captain. His lackluster personality only blossomed in the cocktail lounge where after several martinis, he became everybody’s life long friend. On the flight line he was incapable of inspiring subordinates. He played favorites and displayed his overly cautious command style by often refusing to authorize legitimate rescue missions for fear an aircraft accident would side track his chances for advancement.

Colonel Mike normally arrived at detachment headquarters by 7:45 AM, just before the scheduled morning flights. Despite the early hour, he wore his flight sun glasses indoors to protect his eyes from the neon glare after a long night at the officers’ club. He acknowledged the pilots in flight operations then entered his office, shut the door behind him, turned off the lights, and reappeared at ten still wearing his sun glasses. While hardly saying a word, he paced about the unit’s administrative area where officers and enlisted personnel performed clerical duties. At 11:30 he left for an hour and a half to lunch at the officers’ club. Upon returning, he occasionally flew for two hours, but most of the time he pretended to work on paperwork in his office. In the afternoon the door of the office stayed open but the sun glasses stayed in place. At 4:30 he promptly left the detachment and drove directly to the officers’ club for happy hour, dinner, and then more drinks until closing time. The routine never varied and that was the way Colonel Mike liked it.

The squadron commander, Colonel Devine, commanded ten detachments similar to our’s and inspected each once a year. The detachments were far flung and spread hundreds of miles apart from Montana and North Dakota to Arkansas and Arizona, so the annual inspection was a make it or break it situation for detachment commanders. Colonel Devine haled from the deep South and was a spit and polish officer who followed regulations to the letter and insisted all facilities and the men who worked in them maintain an immaculate appearance. With so much at stake Colonel Mike ordered our unit to prepare for the inspection months in advance.

Colonel Mike expected junior officers to jump through hoops to please him, since a substandard recommendations from him would ruin their careers. He failed to realize that young officers who either planned to resign voluntarily from the Air Force or those whose future prospects were dismal due to poor prior efficiency reports had little stake in Mike’s game. So as the unit prepared for inspection, we lame ducks planned one of our own.

No aspect of an Air Force inspection is more important than the appearance of the pilots. A short hair cut, immaculate flight suit, shiny boots, and rigid posture says it all. So over the span of several months before Colonel Devine’s arrival, we recalcitrants let our hair grow and plastered it down to our skulls with Brill Cream. The barber trimmed around the ears and the back of the neck, leaving the top and sides untouched.

The fateful day arrived. The hanger, office, helicopters, and men were pristine. Every record and form had been scoured to comply with regulations. Colonel Mike took one last look before he personally drove to base operations to meet Colonel Devine and escort him to the detachment. As soon as he departed, four of us hurried to the base gym where we quickly washed the Brill Cream from our hair and dried it with blow dryers. We looked like Larry of the Three Stooges with hair projecting six inches upward in every conceivable direction. Upon the teased strands we gently placed our flight caps which barely stayed in place without hat pins.

We returned to the unit shortly before Colonel Devine, Colonel Mike, and their entourage. All of the officers and enlisted men were lined up in the hanger ready for inspection. We slipped into our preassigned places trying to keep a straight face.

“Detachment, attention!” barked the chief master sergeant. The other men snapped to rigid attention as Colonel Devine entered. He immediately began to inspect every man down the line from major to airman. He looked every man straight in the eye then scrutinized the uniform to the finest detail. All went well until he reached the junior captains with their bouffant hairdos and slouching posture. Colonel Mike, who only moments before had been basking in glory, lost what little color he had in his face. Colonel Devine face turned crimson and exploded in his thick southern drawl, “What’s the meanin’ of this, Michaels? Is this some type of joke? You makin’ fun of me?”

“Sir, there must be some kind of misunderstanding,” Mike pleaded. It was a lost cause; there was nothing he could do to mollify his commander. We never saw Michaels again as Devine whisked the shell shocked Lt. Colonel away with his career aspirations shattered by four captains who did the Air Force a big favor by sending him to an early retirement.