Charlie the Un-Stud: A Holiday Tail

 Anchorage to Denali N.P. - photo by JoAnn Sturman

By Steven R. Oberst

Background

In 2011 it was my pleasure to share with FIYE readers some of my experiences with Captain Charlie Crown in a series of stories entitled “Charlie the Un-Leader.” Charlie was by far the worst operations officer in the history of USAF helicopter flying units. Serving with Charlie allowed me to learn a lot about leadership. By observing the ultimate Un-Leader, I was given real life examples of how not to lead. Charlie was the classic bully who tried to intimidate everyone he encountered. So, it should come as no surprise that Charlie was also the penultimate male chauvinist pig. His verbal treatment of women in the 1970s was shocking even 35 years ago. In today’s world he would most certainly be dealing with numerous sexual harassment claims.

Our unit flight operations center was located in the front of a large building which also housed the offices of other tenant units in the rear of the building. People entering the front of the building had to navigate past our operations counter. To Charlie, every woman who came by the operations counter was either “Hun” or “Babe.” Charlie acted as if he were God’s gift to women, but he was more like a lump of coal in a Christmas stocking.

Charlie, aged forty-four, wore his gray hair in a crew-cut that looked like a brush. He had a perpetual sneer, squinty eyes, and fat hands. He was 5 feet 9 inches tall, weighed 245 pounds, and wore his flight suit with the velcro strips extended to the max in order to accommodate his substantial girth. He looked more like a green Pillsbury Dough Boy than Cary Grant, as he stood at the operations counter making sexually suggestive comments to every woman that dared walk past him.  After a few encounters with Charlie, women would walk an extra 200 yards to the back of the building to get to their offices - even if there was a blizzard outside and the snow was three feet deep. In the eyes of these women, Charlie the Un-Leader was Charlie the Un-Stud.

Barbie

One morning as Charlie stood by the operations counter, in walked a new victim. Second Lieutenant Barbara Bravo was newly assigned to the base communications squadron whose offices adjoined our flight operations center. The only way to access those offices from the front door entailed a walk by the operations counter. 2/Lt Bravo was a tall, attractive blonde with a nice figure had been in the Air Force for only 90 days; this was her first day on the job in the operational Air Force. Leave it to Charlie to give her a rude introduction to the dark side of male behavior.

“Hey,” Charlie called as the lieutenant walked by,  “you there, new Babe in town, I’m the town Sheriff.  So step up here to the counter for your interrogation.”

“Excuse me, Sir,” she said, trying to gain her composure, “are you talking to me?”

“I sure am, Hun, unless there’s another new Babe in here besides you,” Charlie remarked through his best shit eating grin.

“I am trying to find the 92nd Communications Squadron, Sir,” she replied.

“You’re in luck, Hun. You’ve come to the right place. We are here to help.” Charlie said as he leered over the counter at the befuddled lieutenant. “Come right up here and let’s take care of you. First of all, what is your name, Hun?”

“Sir,” she replied dutifully, “I am 2/Lt Barbara Bravo.”

“Well, Barbie, I’m the Operations Officer here, Charlie Crown. So…, are you a natural blonde? What are your measurements? I’m guessing 38-24-36. Right?”

By this time the poor lieutenant was completely flustered, but at that moment the Commander came out of his office. Knowing Charlie, he quickly rescued the young woman, taking her by an arm and escorting her safely to her new office.

Give 2/Lt Bravo credit, even after this obnoxious encounter with Charlie, she continued day after day to come through the operations center and endure his verbal assaults. Charlie seemed to enjoy his “dirty old man” role, and you could tell he anticipated her arrival each day to have fun at her expense. He always called her “Barbie,” in spite of the fact that she would correct him each time by quietly saying “Barbara.”

One morning Charlie called her over to the counter, “Come here, Barbie, there’s something I want to show you.” She hesitated for a moment, but at least in military rank he was a superior officer, so she approached the counter.  At that moment Charlie unfurled the centerfold of the latest Penthouse magazine. “Hey, Barbie, get a load of these melons,” he smirked. “I’ll bet your uniform is hiding something just like these.” The lieutenant turned red and made a quick exit towards her office.

The pilots in our unit held a monthly “We Hate Charlie Crown” meeting at the Officer’s Club. It was therapeutic for us to sip a few beers while sharing stories of the unbelievable crap pulled by Charlie during the past month. During one such Friday meeting, our unofficial meeting chair, Captain Tom Terrific, spotted Lt. Bravo sitting at the bar.  He approached her, chatted for a couple of minutes, and brought her over to our table. “Gentlemen,” he said, “Barbara has been assigned here for three months and has weathered verbal assaults from Charlie on a daily basis. I say we invite her to join us.”

“Here, here!” we all agreed.

That first month the lieutenant sat quietly as each of us described our favorite “Charlie-capade” of the past few weeks. Tom told about Charlie getting lost in the missile field and chewing out the dispatcher, Sergeant Goodman, as if it had been Goodman doing the flying. I told about Charlie’s horrible airmanship and flying skills on a recent training mission. Bruce related a story about Charlie chewing him out for wearing white socks with his flight suit.  And so it went for a couple of months. Then at her third monthly meeting, Barbara Bravo opened up. She told us how she hated Charlie calling her Barbie and the constant verbal abuse. She continued with considerable embarrassment, telling us about a package left on her desk one morning. It contained an electric vibrator and a dirty note that said, “Hope this little hummer feels good.” The note was unsigned, but she was certain that it had been left by Charlie. “I sure wish I could get this bastard.”

“Yeah,” we all agreed, “and then some.”

Although we frequently made Charlie the victim of pranks like spreading black shoe polish on the earpiece of his phone, letting the air out of his tires, or removing the lead from the mechanical pencil in his flight suit, we were always looking to give Charlie a high level shaft job, like the time Dave set him up for a checkride with the Squadron standardization pilot.  I looked over at Tom and could see the wheels starting to turn. “Gentlemen and lady, we can’t let this Fat Flightsuit with a crew-cut get the best of us. We shall come up with a plan.” Confident in Tom’s abilities as a conniver, we adjourned the meeting until next month.

Sister Ann and the Plan

At the next month’s mid-December meeting, Barbara showed up with a beautiful, slightly older version of herself. She introduced her older sister, Ann, who was visiting for two weeks over the holidays. Barbara bragged that Ann was one of the first women detectives in the Denver Police Department. As usual, we began sharing Charlie stories from the past few weeks, including  Barbara’s admission that last week she found a package on her desk with a pair of string bikini undies and a note, “Thinking of you with nothing on but this!”

“Why do you guys put up with this prick?” Ann asked us. We tried to explain that he was the Operations Officer, out ranked us, and that even the unit commander was afraid of him, but she was thinking to herself what a bunch of wimps.

“Barbara,” Tom said, “has Charlie met or seen your sister?”

“No,” she replied. “Why?”

“Good,” Tom answered as he jumped up out of his seat with a big grin on his face. “Don’t let Charlie meet or see her. If Ann is up for it, I have a plan.”

I instantly knew what Tom had in mind. It was well known among our group of pilots that Charlie was a geographic bachelor when he was traveling. Away from home, Charlie would chase women like a man possessed. It was my personal observation that Charlie had a “go ugly early” approach to picking up women, so his pick-up success rate was fairly high. Every year around the Christmas and New Year holidays, Charlie’s wife, Edith, would visit family in Texas for a couple of weeks. Charlie’s whole demeanor changed when Edith made these visits. He kept himself totally off the flying and alert schedule during these visits, so he could be free to pursue his passion for picking up women, or in his words “chasing tail.”

The previous year while Edith was absent during the holidays,  my wife and I were driving through town at about 9:30 one evening. “Hey, Steve,” she said, “ that looked like Charlie Crown coming out of the Cowboy Billy Bar with some woman, and it’s not Edith.”

This I had to see, so I circled the block and pulled up across from the bar’s parking lot. Sure enough, there was Charlie supporting a large, obviously intoxicated woman, as they staggered through the parking lot to his 1974 Cadillac El Dorado. My wife was amazed that Charlie would act so audaciously in a city near the Air Force base. I was not surprised, however, it was just Charlie being Charlie. Still, I could not resist following the El Dorado as it made its way downtown. Charlie pulled into the General Custer Motel, named no doubt after the general of Little Big Horn fame. But for Charlie, it would be a place for a one night stand instead of his last stand. Of course, I duly reported Charlie’s indiscretion at the next “We Hate Charlie” monthly meeting. Now, using this intelligence coup from last year, Tom and I concocted a plan beyond dastardly.

Charlie’s Holiday Tail

I had a little trouble getting into my disguise. The pants were too tight and the fake mustache made my nose itch. I did, however, like the cowboy hat. There I was with Tom dressed as my cowboy buddy, sitting in a dark corner of the Cowboy Billy Bar on a Friday night after Edith’s departure to Texas. The Cowboy Billy included a spacious room with a huge bar, ample table seating, and a dance floor. The bar catered to a mix of singles, adulterers, and drunks. On Friday and Saturday nights they usually had some country band wailing beside the dance floor. Tonight’s band would surely play holiday favorites like “Grandma Got Run Over by a Reindeer.” 

The bar was well known as the area’s best pick-up spot. Sitting at the bar, Ann Bravo, one of Denver’s finest, looked very much like a loose woman on the prowl. She donned a brunette wig to hide her blonde hair and carried an indiscreet purse that was just big enough to hold a small tape recorder. More than a few of the Cowboy’s customers made a run at her, but she had another game in mind.

“Gee, Tom,” I said, as I sipped my beer, soaking my fake mustache, “I sure hope Charlie shows.” 

“He’ll show alright.” Tom confidently predicted, “Like a bear to honey.” 

Sure enough, only moments later Charlie sauntered into the bar, complete with his cowboy shirt and bolo tie. Charlie was a regular at the Cowboy Billy, so before he even reached the bar, the bartender had his standard Jack and Coke waiting for him.  Unknown to Charlie, Tom had made friends with the bartender and given him $20 to make sure Charlie got secret doubles all night long. We watched as Charlie took a drink and slowly perused the area for likely targets of opportunity. We blended in well, and Charlie barely even looked our way. He did look at Ann though, but made no move. Knowing Charlie’s penchant for ugly women, I began to wonder if Ann looked too good.

I did not have to worry long;  Ann Bravo was a pro, and Charlie just a rank amateur. After a short while, Ann moved in, “Excuse me, sir, but didn’t I see your picture in the Fast City Gazette this week? Something about a search and rescue mission for a missing hiker?”

Charlie came to life and a big grin spread across his face. “Yes Mam, that was me.” (Earlier that week Tom and Bruce piloted a successful rescue mission when their crew found a lost hiker and flew him safely to the local hospital. Charlie, of course, conducted the interview with the local paper, taking as much credit as possible, even though his actual involvement was sitting behind the operations counter and harassing the dispatcher who was trying to talk to the crew on the radio. For his efforts, Charlie’s smiling picture made the Wednesday newspaper under the headline “Rescue Unit Saves Lost Hiker.”) “I’m the Operations Officer for the rescue unit at the base,”
Charlie continued.

“Oh!” exclaimed Ann, eyes wide with excitement, “Are you a pilot?”

Charlie could barely control himself. “Well, Mam,” he said with as deep a voice as he could muster, “I don’t mean to brag, but my fellow pilots consider me one of the best pilots in the entire Air Force.”

“I’m not use to all this ‘Mam’ stuff.  I’m Gidget.” she said.

“Well, Gidget, I’m Charlie and it is an absolute pleasure to meet you.”  Charlie was on a roll now, and he proceeded to take credit for every rescue, dangerous mission, and important flight that had taken place in the past 15 years. Ann sat there and listened, looking as if she were a star struck school girl. This continued for another half hour until the band started playing. Then Gidget led Charlie to the dance floor. With each dance Gidget held Charlie tighter and closer.

The band took a break. Back at the bar Charlie was giving Gidget his best lines, and the bartender made sure his glass was never empty. Gidget pretended to be drunk, but was drinking plain Coke. Around 10:00 PM they returned to the dance floor. Sometimes the truth is harder to believe than fiction, but the band’s next song was Charlie Rich’s “Behind Closed Doors.”  I thought Charlie was going to try to undress Gidget right then and there. “Oh Charlie, I want you so bad!” Gidget purred. “But I’m here visiting my sister, so I have no place we can go.”

Charlie had the answer, “No problem darlin’, I already have a room at a motel just down the street.”

This was another detail Tom had uncovered. When Edith was away, Charlie always reserved room # 11 at the General Custer on Friday and Saturday nights under the name Sky King. Earlier that evening, one of our guys, Chris, accompanied by Barbara and both wearing disguises, got the maid to let them into #11. They then hid a few items in the bathroom and quietly left the motel unnoticed.

Meanwhile, back at the Cowboy Billy, Charlie took Gidget’s arm and escorted her from the bar and to his big caddie. Fortunately it was only a few blocks to the General Custer, so even a drunk Charlie made his way there without mishap. Tom and I followed discreetly behind them to the motel.

Here is Ann’s description of what happened next behind the closed motel door:

As we entered the room, Charlie’s was pawing me like I was some kind of inflatable doll. He was so drunk it was not hard for me to push him onto the bed.  As I stood there, Charlie beckoned me to join him on the bed. “Slow down, Charlie,” I said to him. “We have all night.” Then I pulled a little nightie out of my coat pocket and held it up for him to see. “You turn the bed down and get undressed while I go into the bathroom and get into something comfortable.”

Five minutes later I stepped out of the bathroom to greet Charlie. Laying on the bed in his underwear, Charlie was anticipating a brunette Gidget wearing a little nightie. Instead he was looking at a big .45 pointed at his fat gut held by a fully clothed blonde. I flashed my badge and ordered Charlie to roll over on his stomach. “Don’t move you bastard. I’d love to put a hole in your fat ass.” I quickly put handcuffs on him. “You’re under arrest for soliciting prostitution,” I told     him.

“What?” Charlie croaked. “I never offered to pay.”

I grabbed his wallet and pulled out $200 and said, “Oh look, just what I need for evidence.” Then I pulled off his underwear, rolled him over, placed the money on his fat gut, and took several Polaroids for “additional evidence” of the crime. Before I left I could not resist saying something to this fat turd, “I expected a fearsome helicopter pilot to have a much bigger winkie than that little noodle between your legs. I’m calling a squad car to take your sorry ass and little winkie to jail.” I scooped up all of his clothes and left a naked Charlie whimpering on the bed.

Outside Tom and I were waiting for Ann when she came out of the room. We threw all of Charlie’s possessions, including all of his money into the Caddie and drove it back to Charlie’s house. We left it parked with the clothes and wallet in the passenger seat in his driveway. We hurried back to the base Officer’s Club in time to join all the pilots in our unit for a midnight toast to Ann and Barbara. As Ann recounted her “undercover” evening to everyone, Tom convulsed with laughter, which made the rest of us laugh even more. He was truly the master of pranks. “Gentlemen,” said Ann, “Barbara and I salute you, but this is an adventure that we should probably keep to ourselves for the foreseeable future.”

On Saturday morning the maid found Charlie hiding in the bathroom and notified her manager who called the police. One can guess how Charlie spent the night in that motel room – drunk, naked, in handcuffs, and waiting for the cops’ arrival.  When the cops did arrive, Charlie claimed he had been robbed at gunpoint by a woman claiming she was a police officer, who left him handcuffed in the room and stole his car.

One of our pilots, Dave, lived across the street from Charlie. He reported that around noon a police car brought Charlie home, where his “stolen” car was found conspicuously in the driveway. Dave said it looked like the cops were laughing as they pulled away, while Charlie wrapped in a sheet made his way into his house.    

The following Monday, it was all we could do to keep from laughing when Charlie came into work. When Charlie got to his desk, there was a small package on it. In the package was a Polaroid, ½ of the pair of Charlie’s underwear from Friday night, and a note that read:
   
Dear Un-Stud,

I know where you live. If you ever insult, intimidate, bully or bother another woman in public again, and I find out about it, the other ½ of these underwear and another Polaroid will be delivered to your wife along with a tape recording of your slime ball come-ons in the Cowboy Billy Bar on Friday night. And by the way, say “hi” to little winkie for me.

Have a nice day you low-life, scum bag.  

XXXX  Gidget

Later in the week after the one night stand in the General Custer, the Commander hosted the annual unit Christmas party at the Officer’s Club. Everyone in the unit was invited along with the people in our building. Tom and I were in charge of entertainment, and Tom kept the obligatory holiday tunes playing on his stereo system throughout the night. We had various skits planned to keep everyone entertained. Midway through the party, our group of the pilots came together, accompanied by Barbara and her sister Ann, for a special karaoke song. We were in fine voice, but some of us were laughing too much to get through every word. Halfway through the song Charlie, looking suddenly pale, abruptly got up from his table and headed for the exit. Later that evening, the Commander, Lt. Col Blackburn, complemented me about the party. “Fun party, Steve! You and Tom did a great job on the entertainment, but the karaoke song had me puzzled. Since when is ‘Behind Closed Doors’ a seasonal song?”

With a big grin I said, “Well, Sir, I’m sure there must be a holiday tail behind that song. Besides, Sir, you can’t go wrong with one of Charlie’s classics.”

Charlie was passed over for promotion to major later that year and discharged from the unit by August. During that time, he was still a lousy operations officer and remained every bit the un-leader. However, he took Gidget’s threat seriously, and his open season on women finally came to end.

Terra Cotta Horses in Xian, China - photo by JoAnn Sturman