Coincidence?

My trip back to Desolation Air Base was waylaid by a twist of fate and a couple of contemptible Colonels. I had thousands of miles to travel and less than sixteen hours to go before I'd be deemed AWOL (absent without official leave). Even worse, the Sergeant in charge of air traffic operations didn't have the most empathetic ear, so I knew there'd be big trouble if I missed my next shift. It's not like I would have been the first ever to be late returning from leave ~ but I knew I'd have been the most recent one. That was a bad place to be, because the Sergeant's tolerance for any particular infraction seemed to dwindle with each successive occurrence. Over half-way through his second tour of duty in Desolia, he was already a fairly manic guy. It wouldn't take much before he'd go completely maniacal and I didn't want to be in the cross hairs. 


This little odyssey began when I decided I was long overdue for a getaway . . .

I needed to be somewhere else for a while ~ a place far away from these airplanes, this authority and the monotony of barracks life at a remote air base. Burned out on barely edible food, incredibly dumb pilots and the omnipresent dust, I needed to find that place where, as Billy Strayhorn once wrote; "one relaxes on the axis of the wheel of life ~ to get the feel of life." The feel of life?  Oh I needed some of that. The lush life was calling.

My deteriorating temperament was telling me it was time to put in for some leave. There was no shortage of good reasons to go. I was tired of listening to Mr. Fye, Desolia's sweaty and malodorous tower interpreter, trying to explain away the almost daily close calls between our air traffic and theirs. I needed food that didn't give me diarrhea. I needed a bed someplace where there were no other shift workers clamoring around while I was trying to sleep. I figured it was time for a break when the local beer, which normally tasted like it had been filtered through old gym socks, started tasting good to me. To quote Strayhorn again; "A week in Paris could ease the bite of it" but who could afford Paris on an E-4's pay? At least I didn't have to worry about airfare. The odds of my getting leave approved gave me enough to worry about.

Tower staffing numbers changed frequently, depending on how fast you could count backwards. Most of the Air Force's controller inventory was spread out across Southeast Asia. Some of the relatively few who were left got sent to backwater bases like Desolation. There weren't many of us here, so I worried. Asking the Sergeant for leave would be like asking if I could take his 19 year old daughter along with me. I put in my paperwork and hoped for a miracle. It came back approved. Maybe the Serg was drunk at the time or maybe he just wanted to punish the last guy who took leave by making him take on extra shifts while I was away. I didn't know and I didn't care. The smell of freedom was in my nostrils.

The troops stationed at Desolation Air Base got to take at least one trip per year on military aircraft. I started wondering about every destination we sent transport-type airplanes to. Those planes came in from almost everywhere and that's usually where they went when they left. North African, South Asian, Middle Eastern and European airports were at the far end of many flight plans ~ some further than others. I was most interested in a city that had decent hotels with rates to match my finances, good food and, hopefully, some interesting things to see. I wanted to live that "Lush Life" for a couple of weeks. As the starting date of my leave drew near, I had to make a decision.

Athens, Greece met all of my criteria ~ amazing archaeological sites, interesting food, friendly people and a favorable currency exchange rate. But best of all; it was far, far from Desolia. I just needed to get there.  I knew we had a couple of flights headed that way each week so I started doing the necessary paperwork. Then, one dusty morning in May, I walked out onto the ramp and boarded a C-141 bound for Athens.

When the crew found out I worked in the control tower, they invited me to ride in the cockpit. I wondered; did they think I might serve as some kind of talisman ~ a "lucky charm" that would protect them from those menacing mishaps our airspace was known for? The Captain in command, a guy around my age named Max, radioed the tower that I was on board. This, to me, was kind of like informing a mugger you have a four-leaf clover in your wallet. It wasn't going to change the outcome.

We taxied out amidst a flock of the Desolian Air Force's F-84 trainers ~ all chattering away in the local lingo. Not knowing what they were saying only heightened the anxiety on the Starlifter's flight deck. Several of them took off ahead of us; turning left or right and vanishing into the turbid haze. As we started our takeoff roll, I took a deep breath, scanned the skies and crossed my fingers. We'd be relatively safe if we could somehow make it a hundred miles or so from the airport without being side-swiped by one of these low time trainees. From experience, our local pilots understood the probability that evasive maneuvers might be needed forthwith. By the same token, we controllers knew that steep turns and rapid altitude changes always took precedence over our control instructions. The deal was simple. Be ready for anything. But Max and his right-seat buddy weren't from around here.

The departure was blissfully uneventful but I could neither exhale or take my eyes off the sky ahead until we were well up into the flight levels. The two guys flying this thing were surprisingly cordial, given our Officer/Enlisted man relationship. They even insisted I call them by their first names while on board. Captain Max and his partner were based in The States but spent most of their time traveling along these high roads, doing pick-up and delivery everywhere. Reaching cruise altitude, we talked about some of the other bases they flew into, the latest news out of Vietnam and our home towns. Max was from Macon, Georgia where, as a teen, he watched the B-52s and big cargo planes flying in and out of Robbins AFB. He said it was his inspiration for joining the Air Force.

By far, the most popular topic was this amazing airplane. They were brimming with enthusiasm over it. In the long enroute hours we spent together, they explained every system that Starlifter had. Then, after one intermediate stop along the way, we arrived over the Aegean coastline. There were a few descent clearances and we were eventually turned over to Athens Approach. The Acropolis and its crown jewel Parthenon came into view. I was glad to be riding up front and able to take it all in while the flight crew set this huge machine up for landing.

Athens was all I expected and more. If ever there was an axis on the wheel of life . . . or civilization ~ this was it.  Two weeks of palatable food, potent wine and perpetual Hellenic sunshine were exactly what was needed to rejuvenate my spirit and stamina. When it was time to leave, I was ready. I stuffed my jeans and tee shirts into the suitcase, climbed back into my Air Force uniform and called for a cab to the airport.

There was a military transport scheduled to depart Athens that day. After an intermediate stop, it would end up at Desolation Air Base. Seating was always contingent on space available and was normally assigned on a first-come, first-served basis. Not wanting to take any chances, I got to the airport very early and had my name added to the stand-by list. Although there were a few names ahead of mine, the airman working the counter was encouraging. According to him, not many people ever left sunny Athens for dusty Desolia. I listened but couldn't believe there were guys like me actually stationed here! This was his job ~ in Athens, Greece! Where the hell did I go wrong.

I sat down next to my suitcase and stared out at the Air Force ramp. The military terminal was a small gray room in need of repainting. A Greek travel poster hung on the far wall, just behind a table holding two empty coffee pots and a stack of paper cups. The whole place smelled like burned coffee. I looked at my watch, waiting for something to happen while thinking about resuming my nightmare back at work. Two C-130s were parked on the far edge of the ramp and one was taking on cargo. I watched for a while; wondering where they were headed. Then I started looking for something to read.

In an hour or so, a C141 taxied in. The crew climbed out, walked through the terminal with their duffel bags and disappeared. The guy behind the counter didn't even look up. A few more Air Force troops showed up and went to the desk. After some talk, they too settled in to wait. I wondered if they were also headed to Desolia. We all waited. Another Starlifter rolled into the ramp. One of the crew members came in, stopped briefly at the desk, studied the stand-by list then went back out to the aircraft. I got up to double check the number of people who were ahead of me on that list. There were just three; all enlisted airmen like me. That didn't worry me. These airplanes were pretty big.

A short while later, I heard some loud discussion behind me. The racket was coming from two Colonels, standing beneath the check-in sign, arguing with the airman behind the counter. I couldn't hear exactly what was being said but it didn't go on for long. Arguments between airmen and officers were usually pretty brief. Within a few minutes, the two officers took their seats in the waiting area. One was shaking his head and laughing. Then I heard; "Will Airman Factor please come to the check-in counter? Airman Factor please." I sighed and got up. This wasn't a good sign.

The Pilot in Command had advised the desk there was room for just five people for the flight to Desolation Air Base. At number four on the list, I would have been one of them; except that the two Colonels had somehow muscled their way into the top two positions. This pushed me down to number six. In other words; I was screwed. The airman behind the counter was doing his best to empathize with me but all I could really hear was my Crew Chief hollering about how I should have started back to the base sooner. I was starting to feel like I was being crushed under that "wheel of life."

I started thinking about how to get word to my duty section. Would this guy behind the counter let me use the military phone system?  Or maybe the flight crew could let the people I work with know about my situation. I was starting to feel like I did before I went on leave; totally stressed out. It got even worse when I heard the boarding call and saw five people get up and head for the aircraft. The two officers were still chuckling about something as they walked by. Neither of them gave me so much as a glance. It got very quiet in that waiting area.

My mind was in turmoil as I stared off into the ramp space. An airman scurried around the aircraft, pulling the chocks away from its wheels. All the doors were closed and I thought I could hear one of the engines starting up. Feeling a little queasy, I wondered if there'd be another flight to Desolation that day. Naah. My fate was sealed up as tight as that Starlifter. Then one of the doors opened again. A guy in a flight suit stepped out and started jogging toward the terminal. He came in, went straight to the check-in desk and picked up the stand-by clip-board. In a moment, "Airman Factor, please come to the check-in counter. Airman Factor please."

The guy in the flight suit was a tough looking old Senior Master Sergeant. He told me to grab my bag and follow him. I wasn't sure what was going on but followed his orders and hoped for the best. Coming to Athens was exciting but being stuck here while my leave expired would lead to excitement of a different nature. We crossed the ramp and climbed into the aircraft. I didn't know how but it appeared I'd been saved! As my eyes grew accustomed to the murky darkness inside the fuselage, I could see those two Colonels strapped into their seats like a couple of high-ranking packages among the pallets of cargo. They weren't laughing anymore. I sighed. It looked like this trip was going to be a long one ~ in more ways than one. I started searching for an available seat but it didn't look like there were any left. Puzzled, I heard a vaguely familiar voice. "Hey airman, get yer young ass up here, and that's an order!" The voice came from the direction of the cockpit. I squinted and saw another guy in a flight suit, wearing Captain's bars. What a coincidence. It was Captain Max!

The two Colonels watched, looking a little stupefied, as this airman three-striper turned and marched toward the flight deck. I just smiled, knowing I'd be back at Desolation on schedule. That "feel of life" was returning.

I saw Max a few more times during the remainder of my tour at Desolation. He'd always call the tower and ask for me when his route brought him through. If he was remaining overnight, I'd find him some civilian clothes and sneak him into the NCO Club. It was a wild place where drinking to forget cost very little. It was also strictly off limits to officers. We'd go in, share a few pitchers of beer and have some laughs. The next morning, he'd be gone. The last time we spoke, he told me he was leaving the Air Force after this hitch and going for a job with the airlines. I hope he made it. Who knows? Maybe Max was one of the countless thousands of voices I heard coming from the skies during my time on the boards. Less plausible coincidences have happened; like that day he appeared, literally out of thin air, to became my lucky charm and save my "young ass" in Athens. It made me wonder; was his route of flight that day simply a coincidence or was it not-so-simply a milestone in some magnificent plan?

That brings me to the question I've often pondered while making my way through life's long labyrinth. Are coincidences really coincidental? As one who believes that everything, good or bad, happens for a reason, I'd have to say no.

© NLA Factor, 2011

Another Way Out

I'm taking another "sentimental journey" back to Desolia; a pockmarked asteroid of a country, tumbling, unchanged, through time. Although far from the most significant chapter in my aviation career, it sure was an interesting one. Of course the Country and Air Base names are fictitious and I've given the characters pseudonyms, but the place and what happened back then are as real as I remember them. Anyone who's been reading this Blog over the last year or so may recall my first tale of Desolation. To continue . . .

Staff Sergeant Wendt was gone. He had been missing for two days and nobody really knew what happened to him; although we controllers had our theories. For sure, someone around here had the facts but they would be talking in hushed tones behind the doors of some conference room at base Headquarters or whispering in the quiet corridors of the Officer's Club. The facts in this matter simply resided too far above the enlisted grades for us to ever learn the truth. The only truth we knew was that Wendt was gone. His disappearance wasn't entirely unexpected though. Others had also vanished after having similar experiences around here. I'll tell you what I can remember.

The scene was the cab of an aged control tower at Desolation Air Base. It was a late '60s Summer and we were plodding through the slow-motion minutes of an evening shift with nothing but a trickle of traffic. Our DAF (Desolian Air Force) counterparts were gathered together in the back of the tower, engaged in their favorite late evening pastime of card playing. I don't remember what the game was called but it resembled poker and they were passionate about it.

Me, Sergeant Wendt (our NCO in charge) and another airman sat on our side of the cab talking about what we usually talked about when there were no airplanes. Such discussions generally revolved around one of two subjects. The first, and by far the most popular was how much time was left on our tour of duty at Desolation AB. Who was the shortest "short-timer?" Wendt hadn't been there very long and neither had George, the other airman on duty. I had less than four months to go and so was clearly the short-timer. The subtext of these discussions was what we'd do as soon as we returned stateside. For me, there was a restaurant waiting in my hometown that made the best lasagna ever.

The next most intriguing topic was who might get lucky in the upcoming promotion cycle. I can tell you now ~ it wouldn't be Sergeant Wendt.

Our Desolian interpreter, Mr Fye, never worked the night shift so if any communication was needed between their controllers and ours; we had to rely on their limited command of English, our limited command of Desolian or, more likely, a series of wild semaphoric hand signals to figure out what was going on. Of course, knowing what was going on and actually caring about what was going on were two different things in Desolation Tower.

A phone began ringing at the non-radar approach control position. It was there we practiced the dark arts you read about in Chapter 6 (Nonradar) of the 7110.65. TACAN penetrations, timed approaches, diverging, converging and crossing course separation and other mystical means of keeping airplanes from colliding were all performed using nothing more than a clock, flight strips and black felt tip markers. The card players had a similar position on their side of the tower but, as their phone continued ringing, it became clear they were not going to answer. After a few moments, Sergeant Wendt picked up the line.

The civilian enroute center was calling with an inbound. Wendt grabbed a blank flight progress strip and began writing. Although a bit late, it was the usual traffic for this hour of night. A Vickers Viscount, operated by the Desolian National Airline, was on a slightly behind schedule run into the nearby civil airport. The airfield was uncontrolled but our facility furnished approach control services. As always though; house rules required each Air Force to control their own traffic ~ civil or military. Wendt completed the inbound ticket, placed it in a strip holder on their side of the console and rejoined our conversation. Ten or fifteen minutes passed and the phone lit up again. A progress report from the center. The Desolian flight was estimating our boundary in five minutes.

Wendt marked the strip then tapped the plastic holder on the approach console to get someone's attention on the DAF's side of the tower. They looked up briefly from their card game then resumed their own conversation. Mildly irritated, Wendt slapped the strip holder into their bay. Sometime later, another phone rang. This time, Sergeant Mouseff, their senior NCO answered. Someone over at the civil airport was looking for a release for a departing Viscount. Mouseff scribbled on a strip, made a few remarks in the native tongue, then hung up. Within seconds, he was reimmersed in their card game. Wendt glanced at the strip, now stacked above the inbound ticket in the bay. He was curious because simultaneous arrival and departure activity at that airport was pretty rare. The Viscount was released and, as usual for traffic out of there, was cleared short to the only VOR inside our airspace. There was an "up" arrow drawn in with the number 50 printed next to it ~ also the usual. We resumed our discussion over the chances for promotion.

Wendt offered to buy the pizza if one of us junior bird men would run over to the NCO Club for it. Overcome with boredom, I volunteered. Wendt reached into his wallet and handed me a twenty. Within seconds I was hurrying down the stairs and out the door. I was hungry and the club was only four blocks away. What apparently happened next soon became an important part of Desolation Tower folklore.

Minutes after I left, that inbound Desolian Airliner called over a fix just outside our boundary. The card game paused just long enough for one of their guys to answer ~ in the native tongue. He unkeyed his mic, marked the strip and returned to his game. Now . . . although the native language is difficult, you couldn't work in that tower for very long without at least understanding a few basic phrases, such as the pilot's readback of his altitude assignment. Sergeant Wendt thought he heard their controller clear that flight to the VOR at five thousand, so he couldn't resist peeking at the strip. It was, in fact, marked with a down arrow and the number 50. Wendt peered over at the card players and waved his hand in a "come hither" kind of gesture. Sergeant Mouseff stood up, looking very annoyed. It was known by all that Mouseff strongly disliked Americans and made no effort to hide it. He especially disliked Sergeant Wendt.

I waited for our pizza in the lobby. Desolation's NCO club was a raucous place; always busy because there wasn't much else to do around there but drink. Most of us reasoned that alcohol might eventually kill whatever caused our ongoing dysentery. It didn't, of course, but at least you could forget the pain for a while. Desolia was known as a place where no one ever broke wind for fear of shitting themselves. Everyone learned this the hard way within a month after transferring into Desolation Air Base.

The pizza came out in about ten minutes. Then there was another ten minute walk back to work. All tolled, I must have been gone maybe 30 minutes or so. Reaching the top step of the tower, the first thing I noticed was our Chief Controller; a Senior Master Sergeant named Clay. In civilian clothes, he looked tired and pissed. I immediately suspected I'd be getting my ass chewed for being away from duty. George sat on a widow ledge looking worried. The Desolian controllers were still playing cards but Wendt and Mouseff were missing.

George gave me all the details later on. Apparently Wendt had tried pointing out to Mouseff that both the arriving and departing flights appeared to be cleared to the VOR at the same altitude. Mouseff, who actually spoke fairly good English, stared at his cards, sneered and reminded Wendt in a low tone, that these were Desolian flights and to mind his own business. Minutes passed as Wendt sat fidgeting nervously. The departing Viscount called "leaving fifteen hundred." A few moments later, the arriving flight reported reaching five thousand. Neither had crossed the VOR yet but, based on past experience, Wendt figured they'd both be there within three or four minutes of each other ~ and head on. It became too much for him to take sitting down. He stood up and loudly insisted that Mouseff do something quickly.

The other controllers watched silently as Mouseff put his cards down and slowly arose. Now Wendt was shouting urgently so Mouseff shouted back in Desolian. Hands waved and fingers pointed. According to George it became so chaotic that nobody heard the departure report reaching four thousand. Wendt was still yelling as Mouseff picked up a phone and pushed one of the lighted buttons.

Within minutes, two Desolian Air Policemen appeared, took Wendt by the arms and marshaled him toward the tower steps. Mouseff spoke a few words to his controllers then disappeared down the steps behind Wendt ~ who I never saw again. George immediately called Sergeant Clay at his home in the base housing area.

Investigations revealed that Mouseff had actually cleared the departure to four thousand but somehow printed five on the strip. Was it a mistake or a deliberate attempt to goad Wendt into interfering? We never knew for sure. We did know that Wendt's involvement triggered the incident. Both flights were Desolian. It was their traffic.

Sometimes good intentions can get you into trouble; especially while stationed overseas. Sometimes Uncle Sam can get you out of it and sometimes he can't. One thing was certain though. Getting into any difficulties with the DAF pretty much meant you were screwed. It was their base and we were simply a tenant organization expected to comply with the house rules. What your actual infraction was didn't matter as much as which military authority got to you first. Falling into the hands of Desolia's military could be as final as falling into a volcano. We'd heard of several American GIs doing time in the local prison and no measure of diplomacy would ever dislodge them.

There were always rumors of another way out of these delicate situations. We had no idea what it was but hoped Wendt could find it. Wendt had been arrested by Desolian military authorities. As expected, both the American and Desolian Base Commanders was called in and briefed on the charges brought by Sergeant Mouseff. Our Commander, a full Colonel and one of those square-jawed fighter pilots, promised there would be a full investigation. For this, he was given temporary custody of the bewildered Sergeant Wendt; who was then lead away by an American Air Police officer.

Nobody saw Wendt over the next two days and a rumor had already begun to circulate. Was he in the USAF lockup or could he really be in the Desolian military prison? Nobody knew. One thing for sure; we had a new Crew Chief. By now, it was day three after the incident and another evening shift. I was working Ground Control, watching a group of guys in flight suits trekking across the ramp toward one of several itinerant C-141 Starlifters. It was probably the crew and a few others hitching a ride. There was a Loadmaster standing behind the aircraft, supervising as the last cargo pallet rolled into the yawning fuselage. A long shadow cast by the tall vertical stabilizer pointed east toward the DAF ramp. Several of their F-84s were moving about and merging, single file, onto the taxiway. A flight of two lifted off the runway as the sun fell behind a mountain. Sergeant Mouseff was working their Local Control Position. Mr. Fye, our intrepid interpreter, had gone home; leaving us to face another night of DAF student pilot training by ourselves. It grew dark and I could feel one of my DAF headaches coming on.

There were a few departure strips in my Ground Control bay; all Starlifters destined for European or Asian air bases. The first to call for taxi instructions was headed to Rhein-Main AB in Frankfurt. It was the same aircraft I had seen the crew climb into earlier. I sent them off toward the active runway and switched them over to George, who was working Local. Meanwhile, another flight of two F-84s sat on the runway chattering between themselves and Sergeant Mouseff. When they finally rolled and were airborne, he called to George and gestured toward the waiting C-141. It was our turn.

The Starlifter lumbered down the runway, lifted off and disappeared into some low clouds. The pilot checked in with our nonradar controller and was given a climb clearance. Acknowledging that, he then made a peculiar transmission that got the attention of nearly everyone in the tower. Mouseff didn't hear it because he was busy yelling at a flight of his F-84s who nearly ran into an F-100 in our GCA pattern. So the C-141 pilot said that "someone on board wants to know where his change for that pizza is!" In an instant I understood everything. Me, George and the new Sergeant working Approach looked at each other and smiled. So there was another way out!

Sometime later, we heard that Wendt had taken a couple weeks leave in the States, then was reassigned to Tan Son Nhut Air Base, Vietnam. Better than Desolian prison, I suppose.
Farewell Sergeant Wendt. I still owe you twelve bucks.

© NLA Factor, 2011

Desolation Tower

It was Spring of 1968. The Air Force had summarily plucked me from my idyllic stateside assignment and transferred me to the control tower at Desolation Air Base; an obscure address in one of the Universe's least understood Zip Codes. I'll call it The Republic of Desolia. It was a country carved out of nothing by wind-driven things that stuck in your eyes and stunk in your nostrils. Although our military must have had some peculiar interests in Desolia, they were never evident to me.

I was to spend the last half of my Air Force career here, along with hundreds of other bewildered airmen. I should have gone to Vietnam and fully expected to. Back then, everybody was going to Vietnam. But the day my stateside boss came up the tower steps with my new orders; he had an uncharacteristic smirk on his face. "Airman, you're going to Desolation Air Base. That's over in The Republic of Desolia. Its worse than Vietnam! Know why? They can shoot at you there but you can't shoot back!" he added dryly.

I suspect he was just pissed because I was the only one in the tower not going to Southeast Asia. Apathetic to the whole idea, I sold my car, packed my duffel bag and shipped out.

The control tower stood somewhere in the lower left hand corner of Desolation Air Base; near a wide and aged expanse of acutely cracked and tilted concrete. The locals proudly referred to this area as the itinerant parking ramp. Airplanes were rarely seen on this particular "ramp" but every now and then, like crickets in the night, faint ELT signals could be heard on the guard channels. My theory was that several parked aircraft had long since rolled off into the ramp's gaping chasms, where they were quickly forgotten - buried under the rapid accumulation of dust and debris indigenous to this part of the world. This theory was buttressed whenever American flights landed at Desolation. They always parked on a distant taxiway rather than risk the perilous consequences of ramp parking. I should note that American aircraft rarely landed here. Having fled the traffic pattern in alarm and confusion, most American flight crews would rather have landed into the side of a mountain than to suffer the uncertain fate meted out by Desolation's air traffic control.

Air traffic control. You know...there are functioning mechanisms out there that make Rube Goldberg's most elegant and ingenious inventions look like a pile of cinder blocks. On encountering one such unlikely combination of illogically assembled parts ~ I had to wonder. How can it possibly work? Through the years I learned that, in some cases, it simply doesn't. Such was the inexplicable air traffic control mechanism known as Desolation Tower; which was, to the naked eye, merely a loose assemblage of cinder blocks. But it was so much more than that.

Imagine a control tower with two local control positions. Oh, there's nothing too uncommon about that ~ but now imagine the two local controllers operating simultaneously and in different languages. Same scenario with the two ground and non-radar approach control positions; each pair running on their own language and sounding like pure gibberish to the other. The only shared assets would be the traffic pattern, the single runway and a few meandering taxiways. It was in these shared spaces where everything came together ~ literally.

There was one additional shared asset; the services of Mr. Fye. Whatever occurred in and around the tower often depended on or could be attributed to this man. You see, Desolation Tower was staffed by both American and Desolian Air Force controllers. It was actually two towers in one. Divided down the middle, each side was a mirror image of the other. Desolia's Air Force controllers worked their own planes on their own frequencies and we did the same from our side. The success of this arrangement depended solely on our Desolian interpreter; Mr. Fye, who sat in the middle of the cab.

Fye would sweat continuously. This may have been due to his incredible corpulence, the inoperative floor fan or perhaps the anxieties of someone in touch with their acute incompetence. He combed his hair like Elvis and complained incessantly about the women in his life. Apparently they were all competing for his affections and conspiring to take his money. As he sat, expounding on his misfortunes, we could hear the Desolian controllers chattering frantically at their traffic.

As it turned out, Desolation Air Base was a training facility for their Air Force's student pilots. There must have been a hundred F-84 Thunderstreaks stationed there. They'd taxi out by the score each day, then fly off to run inadvertent sorties against our itinerant arrivals and departures.

In time, our side of the tower learned to recognize the signs of imminent trouble. Mr. Fye would stop talking about his personal woes, turn his head toward the Desolian controllers and actually listen. I could hear the urgent sounding chatter on their tower frequency. His face would flush. Then he'd point toward a window, waving his hand vigorously ~ like he was trying to shake a scorpion off his index finger. "They're coming!" he'd exclaim. "A flight of four ~ ten miles out on the beacon (NDB) approach!" Okay, no problem. I had a C-130 ready to depart. There'd be plenty of time.

I cleared the Hercules for takeoff. The airplane rolled onto the runway and surged forward. I searched the final approach area for that flight of four. Not in sight. Life was good for a change. The C-130 was now airborne and climbing through 500 feet. I looked again. Still no sign of those F-84s. Great.

Suddenly Fye began yelling at the Desolian controllers in their native tongue. He was waving his right hand furiously. Then the C-130 pilot was yelling; "Where'd these fighters come from???" I looked in the direction where Fye was pointing. There was the flight of four ~ approaching the airport on a course perpendicular to the runway and about to intercept the Herc from its left. The aircraft's nose came down as the pilot arrested his climb. Just in time. Those F-84s passed directly over him by about 100 feet.

Actually out of his chair by now, Fye looked like he'd just tried to swallow an artichoke. Red faced, he was sputtering and waving both arms over his head. The Desolian controllers sounded angry but we had no idea what they were shouting about. The C-130 pilot sounded angry. My Sergeant sounded angry. He was hollering at Fye. The Hercules resumed its climb and was disappearing into the haze. Before it vanished the pilot said he'd be calling our commanding officer as soon as he got to his destination. Mr. Fye never said another word for the rest of the shift.

I came to work the next day expecting to hear that Mr. Fye was either dead or dying. Much to my surprise, he was seated at his post in the center of the tower cab. A dozen Thunderstreaks were on their way out to the runway and several more were moving on their ramp. I noted three arrival strips on our console as I listened to Fye grousing about his new girlfriend to another airman. She'd taken the keys to his car and refused to give them back until...

The Desolian Local Control frequency blared away behind him. It was so loud that Fye had to raise his voice to be heard. The first of our Air Force inbounds, a C-141, called on the approach frequency. He was over some fix at some altitude and needed a descent clearance ~ so I needed traffic information from Fye. Meanwhile, the F-84's were taking off in pairs and turning in every direction the compass had to offer. Already sweating copiously, Fye fanned himself with his morning paper and blabbered on. Another action-packed day was underway at Desolation Tower.

© NLA Factor, 2010