Название: Flight of the Forgotten
Автор: Mark A. Vance
Издательство: Ingram
Жанр: Зарубежная драматургия
isbn: 9780615473765
isbn:
“Oh, really? What about that, sir?” D’angelo countered, eyeing the base commander hopefully as he sat rigidly in his chair. In response, the base commander just shrugged his shoulders and stared back at him in silence.
“There’s more …” the civilian continued. “We’re also informing you that if there is ever another mention of this affair to anyone, your military career is over and you could go to prison.”
“Prison? Who the hell are you people?” D’angelo shot back, glaring angrily at the two civilians and jumping up from his chair as the base commander quickly intervened.
“That’s enough, Captain! You’ll do as they say! Sit down! That’s an order!”
“Sir?”
“That’s an order, Captain!” he repeated, as D’angelo slowly complied and sat down again.
“May I ask who the hell they are?” D’angelo implored, eyeing the civilians angrily.
“Only if you’re tired of wearing that uniform …” one of the civilians sneered as D’angelo strained to control himself. “Now, Captain, you’ve been given an order not to mention this again. I suggest you think about that carefully and then follow it.”
“Oh, you do, huh? I don’t take suggestions from civilians.” D’angelo snarled.
“You’ll do as they say, Captain!” the base commander ordered, continuing to eye D’angelo intently.
“Thank you, Colonel.” the second civilian stated. “Now, Captain D’angelo, as I was saying … there’s to be no mention of this matter ever again. Do you understand the order?” he asked emphatically.
“Yeah, and I understand you’re an asshole. Is that all, sir?” D’angelo asked curtly, ignoring the civilian and eyeing the base commander.
“Not quite …” the second civilian replied. “There’s one more thing we need to make quite clear.”
“Great! Another suggestion …” D’angelo grunted.
“It’s not just a suggestion, Captain. We can’t order you to do it of course, but your government would like to see you find another girlfriend. The Natkin’s are nothing but trouble for all of us. It’s up to you, of course, but your Air Force career is at stake.” he said coolly, not even trying to disguise the threat.
Rising in response and ignoring the mysterious civilians, D’angelo glared angrily at the base commander and snarled sarcastically, “Thanks for all your help.” offering a token salute as he headed for the door.
October, 1962, Billings International Airport, Billings, Montana
As I stood on the observation deck watching the site in front of me, I was in absolute awe. With my mother holding my hand tightly, I peered ahead through the heavy metal-railing and stared in speechless reverence as dozens of sleek jet fighters thundered out of the heavens. When their wheels eventually touched the runway, each fighter suddenly produced the most brilliantly colored drag chute imaginable and roared to a howling stop. The entire scene was like a holy event. There were orange ones, purple ones, red ones; every color of the rainbow was represented. It was the most incredible thing I could imagine at the tender age of six.
All of it had something to do with a far away place called Cuba and the threat of a war that had hung over our house for days. I still remember how the television upset my dad whenever the word “draft” was mentioned and how my dad certainly didn’t want that “draft” happening to him again.
Aside from the threat of a war, I was as happy as could be on the airport observation deck watching Air Force jet fighters returning to earth. Deep inside me, a feeling I didn’t really understand was beginning to stir, as the jets dropped out of the clouds and I heard their engines rumble across the airport. It was magical, mystical, almost holy and yet at the same time strangely familiar. Not the jets of course, they were new to the setting. But the airport itself seemed strangely familiar, like I had known it before and was just now suddenly rediscovering it.
“This is for you when you grow up.” Buster’s voice proclaimed beside me. “Someday you’ll be a jet pilot too.” he insisted as I listened intently. It was all perfectly natural to me by this time. I had grown accustomed to my dead uncle’s spiritual comings and goings.
Minutes later, when my mother managed to pull me away from the railing, I remember turning back repeatedly for a last look at that majestic scene, unable to take my eyes off it and upset at the thought of leaving it behind. Once we were inside the terminal building though, another revelation was about to take place, as I stared ahead again in absolute wonder. There, inside the terminal building, were dozens of men in bright orange flight suits moving purposefully toward the exit as everyone else seemed to fade into the background. They were America’s “knights of the air”, in big black boots, “g” suits, flight helmets and parachutes as my mother dragged me along behind her, mesmerized. Watching those pilots in fascination, I had become dead weight on her arm. I thought of Buster again and his insistence that my destiny was to become a jet pilot. Inside, I could feel a lump rising in my throat as I continued to stare.
What majestic beings they were, larger than life, exuding confidence as they strode through the airport terminal. To me, they represented everything good, everything American, as I realized very quickly that they were the same men controlling the howling machines outside.
If it’s possible in one very brief youthful moment to make a lifetime career decision, I believe I made mine that October day in 1962 at the Billings International Airport. Whatever it took, I was going to be a jet pilot when I grew up. I didn’t really know why I wanted to be one. That didn’t seem to matter at the time. I only knew that those jets held excitement and glamour for me like nothing else on earth.
July, 1964, Washington, Indiana
As I entered the old farmhouse and stared around the room, I remember feeling a little uneasy at just being there. This wasn’t like anything I was used to. It was a real working farm in Indiana, and my great-grandfather had just lectured me very sternly for not properly milking one of his cows. He wanted me to call him “grandpa” like I did my other grandpa, but I soon learned the difference between them that afternoon.
William H. Davis, my great-grandfather, was a man engrossed in the workings of his farm, a man with little patience for children or city-folks, and I happened to be both. He was also a man who’d lost his son Buster in the war and who had lived through unimaginable heartache because of it. None of that was apparent or mattered to me at the time, of course. I was just a bungling child, incapable of performing even the simplest task without his sharp correction. All I wanted to do was go home.
Entering the front room of the farmhouse, seeking reassurance from my mother, I remember stating quite matter-of-factly that I wanted to leave. In response, my great-grandmother intervened, trying to cheer me up as she took me by the hand and began showing me around her home. Her efforts were not immediately successful, but eventually my attention was drawn to a picture on her wall of several young men standing in front of a World War II bomber. The photograph looked a lot like my favorite television show, “12 o’clock high,” and I can still see the twinkle in her eye as she declared, “That’s Buster!” gesturing at the crew photo. There it was ... that name again. The name I’d heard my uncle call himself so many times СКАЧАТЬ