Fighter Pilot

Fighter Pilot

Thinking about the War, Vietnam that is.. doesn’t always suggest one of terror and fighting. Sometimes it is about the comradie and the pure joy of flying, which resonates for some. I knew a fighter pilot and he told me his story. He fought in Vietnam, and he flew his fighter planes in Vietnam. He felt most alive in his fighter jet; his very being intertwined with that of flying and maneuvering that plane.

He thought about the times of flights for strategy; flights on Orders. How time blurs the lines of recollection, he thought. Youth and idealism lead him to join the military. The skills required to fly the fighter planes was natural for him; having been a child and teenager with energy to spare, with curiosity and with a love of life.

Tall, glib and dimpled, Pete was just the guy for action. Civilian life was a long thud; nothing. A 9 to 5 job would have killed him; the flying gave him a life. Reeling from the action, the adrenaline pumping and the energy optimum; he returned home. Home where only a mother and sister could give some sense of comfort and relief. Pete knew he was so ready for the r& r in the States. He packed his belongs & stored them; threw the duffle bag over his broad shoulder and went home.
His mother was a simple woman, always dependent on her husband, who had passed a year ago. She depended now on her daughter. ‘Ma, I’m home.’ ‘Wipe your feet, Peter.’ She answered. ‘You look sweaty and your messing up the entry.’ ‘Come in and put the stuff somewhere out of sight.’

After 18 months of combat, his mother’s statements were true to form. Cold, distant and judgmental. ‘Well,’ he thought, ‘nothing’s changed. Even fighting a war; flying combat. Mother just doesn’t ‘get it’.

Disappointing, yes. Unexpected; no.

Peter took his things up to his childhood room, but found it was now a den. He left his duffle and thought he’d try again with mother.

Attempting conversation, Peter thought he could at least have a civil conversation with her. He was going to look pleasant and try again. In the kitchen, for good measure, his sister was sitting on the counter; feet dangling, scowling at him. Twenty-two and she still stays on with mother, and she remains child-like and needy. Her greeting was short; not so sweet. ‘How long are you planning to stay?

Will you be going back on assignment soon?’ Pamela said.

‘Should be going tomorrow, so don’t sweat it, Pam.’

Peter decided at that moment that he would go stay with his grandmother. He called her that evening; and was welcome. An old woman would be the one that would give him the respite and comfort he so longed for on this homecoming.

He settled in the third floor attic room and although small and musty; it was just fine. Pete was satisfied.

Sunshine and blue skies; crisp air and the noises of a neighborhood, the USA..Welcome home. He thought he’d rest and talk with his grandmother; only to receive a message to call the base. He was needed at Camp Edwards, and off again to ‘serve’, after less than 48 hours home.

Arriving at the Camp on old Cape Cod, he thought about a girl he knew; a girl with eyes and a smile to last a lifetime. He had flown over the beach that she sunned on, having told her the night before that he would be doing maneuvers in the area. He knew that she’d be squinting upward and giving a wave to her ‘fly-boy’. Later, when the made love at a small cottage nearby, she confirmed that ‘yes’ she knew it was his plane and waved upward under the high noon sun. That knowledge of the bikini clad girl on the beach and the jet-power flying overhead…lead them to renewed and passionate lovemaking.

Now, driving down the Cape, crossing the bridge..the air changed, the smell of pine and sand and surf; the ocean…all exuberating. He thought of the girl, his mother, sister and grandmother; all the women in his life. He tried not to think about Vietnam, the male-dominated world of sheer force, violence and death.
The mission was significant. He was ready for the task; if the Soviets moved forward in Vietnam, he would fly from Kiev and drop a bomb on Moscow. Suicide-mission? Not necessarily. Pete was the best; still the best. He could fly in drop the bomb & be back with his team.

Driving homeward, he thought again about young love and possibilities.
Letting himself in to Grandmother’s he noticed the kitchen in disarray and the silence was noticeably not the norm. Entering quickly, Pete saw her knocked down to the floor and blood oozing from the back of her head. He felt her pulse & called for emergency.

This didn’t appear to be a fall and blow to the head. It looked like someone was with her and decided to knock her out; perhaps kill her. She was struggling to hang on to life. Peter thought this incident was too close to his new Orders to fly over Moscow. It seemed too close to his coming home and he thought he should ask some questions on his own; beyond what the police may or may not do. An investigation was warranted. Peter knew that he had to find out the source of this attack in his family.

Peter called one of his Pilot friends, also in the area. ‘Let’s meet over at the Plough & Stars..Yeah, on Mass Ave; near Central Square.’ Yes, Lenny. Meet you at 9:00. Fine.’ Peter thought setting up a meet for a drink was awfully difficult; what’s going on. Why would Lenny hesitate to come along to meet for a drink.
Plough & Stars, a Pub of some ill-repute, on a major drag, but still known for the hard-drinking beyond the state’s 1:00AM close-time. Going there after hours wouldn’t be for the poetry-readings or philosophizing; it would be for the hard & meaningful drink and entry into oblivion, at least for a night. Students, professors, and townies coexisted there. Peter noticed Lenny at the entry and waved him over.

‘Hey, so how’s the family? So, how are you doing.’ Lenny started with empty words.
‘Never-mind, that bull. What’s going on with my Orders? Who, exactly, knows about my meeting at Camp Edwards, today?’

‘What Orders? I just settled in and have been with my wife and kid. I don’t know what you’re talking about.’ Lenny protested. He tried to be a buddy; Peter knew him too well and knew he’d be the weak link, if anything was going on that lead to his grandmother’s attack.

‘Com’on let’s order a drink.’ The beer on the counter, they settled in to talk.