Hogs #4:Snake Eaters by Jim DeFelice Page A

commander that Knowlington truly appreciated how hard enlisted personnel worked. Not all the time, of course; just when it mattered. He’d given lip service to the clichés about NCOs being the backbone of the air force, and owing his life to mechanics and crew dogs, etc., etc., but he hadn’t really understood how true the sayings were until the first time he’d been responsible for getting a squadron of F-4 Phantoms in the air.
    Partly that was because his first command was so badly screwed up when he arrived. The pilots were mediocre, but the real problem was the planes. The maintenance people were poorly trained, disorganized, and dispirited. And they stayed that way for exactly five days— which was how long it took him to get Clyston and a few other men he’d worked with over to his team. He called his guys “The Mafia,” and together they kicked enough butt to make their squadron one of the best in the Air Force— his bosses’ opinion, not just his.
    Most had long-since retired, except for Clyston. But the new kids who came along to replace them were every bit as good, maybe better : if not smarter, they were more thoroughly trained and worked with better systems. Standing in the middle of the maintenance area— aka “Oz”— Knowlington marveled as his people overhauled the tailfin of a battle-damaged Hog; in the space of maybe twenty minutes, they had the plane stripped and reskinned.
    “A little slow today,” growled Clyston, winking at Knowlington as he passed to inspect the crew’s handiwork. The colonel waited for the capo’s well-rehearsed grunts to change to grudging approvals before stepping forward himself to tell the men what a kick-butt job they were doing.
    “And I mean kick-butt job,” he repeated, aware that his voice was a little loud and a little shaky. “This is damn good work.”
    “All right, you heard the colonel,” barked the capo. “Everybody take ten. Then I want that flap on six checked out. Let’s go, let’s go! Come on. Don’t you guys know how to take a break, or do I have to send you back to school for that, too? Jee-zus-f’in hell!”
    Clyston grinned at Knowlington as the men scattered.
    “You’re getting a little predictable in your old age,” Skull told him.
    “Yeah, but they love it.” The sergeant put his arms on his hips and snorted, laughing at himself.
    “How are the men reacting to Dixon?” Skull asked.
    “Well, I wouldn’t say they’re pleased.” Clyston folded his arms together across his chest. “But we’ll get on. He hadn’t been with most of these guys too long. And it wasn’t one of our missions. That makes a difference.”
    Skull nodded. Clyston’s cold assessment was undoubtedly correct. War’s inevitable hardening process was well underway.
    “How are you taking it?” the sergeant asked.
    “Oh, like a wimp.” Skull laughed. Clyston didn’t. The colonel rubbed his neck and realized he hadn’t shaved this morning, an odd thing to forget. “I hate losing kids, Allen. Especially like this.”
    “Sucks,” said the sergeant.
    More than two decades had passed since he’d met Clyston , who had been an E-5 or E-3, or maybe even an airman then, crewing on butter-bar-nugget Michael Knowlington’s “Thud,” an F-105 Republic Thunderchief. They’d said hello and shared a cigarette— one of the only two Knowlington ever smoked in his life— shortly before the green lieutenant climbed into the cockpit. Within the hour he had dropped his first bombs and gotten his first air-to-air kill.
    On that very same mission, a lieutenant who had flown with Knowlington back in the States went down over Laos. He was the first of many.
    Vietnam had been a damn stupid war. But Knowlington didn’t know that then. He didn’t think it was a smart war, particularly, but he did think it was necessary. He figured he was sweating his fanny for something important, something like democracy and freedom, as corny as that sounded.
    He still thought that