Of course, the close-knit camaraderie that emerged within the Aggie squadron has withstood the test of time. After each received their commission in the armed forces, each took their place in the military line-up. The tug of war (pun intended) had to do with the contrast between flying in the U.S. Air Force or the men’s department of the U. S. Navy (aka – U.S. Marine Corps). That sounds like the kind of analogy my brother would have made. I actually learned it from my son who is also a jar head, although he stayed on the ground rather than in the air.
How did one of the men express it? It was something closely akin to: “If you start with nothing and use everything you have, you’ll soon find that you don’t have anything left”. After their commissioning and subsequent beginning years of military engagement, one of Ronnie’s friends gave him some G-suits that were no longer good enough for use in the U.S. Airforce, but were light years better than what was being issued for folks flying in United States Marine Corps. Another of Ronnie’s Air Force buddies provided him a notepad that he could attach to one of his legs and make notes while in flight. Again, another amenity not provided through his preferred branch of service.
So, for the past 30 years, the men from Animal 8 have returned to College Station for a reunion and a re-telling of stories from long ago and an update on the here and now. Though not directly involved in most of their conversations this past weekend, some of the subject matter was of keen interest to me. I gravitated to the stories about close calls and near misses.
So what thoughts race through your mind when you are the pilot of a B-52 flying over Vietnam and the rear-gunner radios that a surface to air missile is locked on the plane’s tail? Like creating a new move on the dance floor, the pilot’s air acrobatics and immediate maneuvering of the plane had a favorable outcome or did it? Could it have been a force beyond human instrumentality that saved the day?
Stories like that raise a thousand questions in my head, but that story warmed my heart. One of the other things I heard had to do with the routine flight patterns that pilots were ordered to fly. Seriously, how smart do you have to be to deduce that a constant stream of aircraft over the same terrain makes it easier to become someone’s target. It is almost like the analogy of being a sitting duck.
Toward the end of the war, one of the concerns my brother expressed in his letters home was the military command to fly the exact same route time and time again. It was just a matter of time… obviously, his insight was the voice of prophecy.
This weekend I heard about a pilot who was part of a squadron that opted to do it differently. They simply pushed back and said, “We aren’t doing that. We are going to fly a different route”. Air command saw it differently and countered, “Yes, you are.” Like a ping pong ball going back and forth across the table, the pilots with the most to lose eventually won out. They flew a different route and lived to fly another day.
So, maybe it was the fact that warplanes have been on my mind, but my eyes locked on the wrist of a waiter in a restaurant at lunch yesterday. The General and I opted to eat lunch following a doctor’s appointment late yesterday morning. So, what did B 43 stand for? The size of the lettering was bigger than anything I’ve seen on an eye-chart at the doctor’s office. It had to have some significance. Was it the model number of an airplane?
Even though at some level I’m mostly an introvert, I’ve had years of practice in doing it differently. Consequently, I try to make eye contact and initiate conversation with most of the people I meet. The most notable thing about the waiter was his smile. His was a friendly and gracious demeanor, it seemed only natural that I would initiate a conversation with him or he with me. The waiters name was Hunter. How many men do I know named Hunter? Trust me, I can’t count on one hand the number of Hunters I’ve known. Most of them live up to the name.
So, from the book of Genesis, Esau’s name actually means hairy, but we are told he became a “Son of the Field”. He was a hunter. So how many personal questions can you ask a stranger before you overstep boundaries? I opted to let the name go and focus on the number tattooed on his wrist. What was all of that about? I offered my awareness that a B 52 is an airplane. I then asked if that was also true of a B 43?
The waiter smiled and answered: “The number is not a ‘B’, it is an ‘8’. The number is 843”. It must have been an important number because it was clearly permanently displayed on his wrist. Even without asking, Hunter offered an explanation. He said: “843 is my area code”. Before I could ask if he ran out of space before his entire telephone number was etched in stone (so to speak), he offered a plausible explanation. His was both a plausible and simple explanation. He said: “I got drunk one night”.
In case yours is an inquiring mind that wants to know, Hunter is from South Carolina. He followed his girlfriend to Austin. She is in graduate school with hopes of becoming a physical therapist.
The 843 number is not Hunter’s only tattoo. He feels really good about the message on his inside upper arm. He voluntarily showed it to me. That message reads: “Enjoy Life”. There is also a smiley face. I can truthfully say that the General and I enjoyed lunch. Hunter is both personable and attentive. He also has a contagious smile. We will ask for Hunter when we go back to the restaurant. Besides that, I have more questions I want to ask about South Carolina. Hunter doesn’t speak with a Southern drawl. Why not? Inquiring minds want to know.
I asked Hunter for permission to share his name and photos. I also recommend you ask for Hunter when you opt for Chuys. His service is commendable and he has a contagious smile. Perhaps some would call it: “Southern Charm”.
All My Best!
Don