Another Place Episode 34

Another Place Another Time

Book Two

Ben Cavanaugh

Episode Thirty-Four

The 545th Support Helicopter Company is an Army Reserve unit based in Tuscaloosa, Alabama. The company has twenty-two new AH-64D Longbow Apache helicopters and four Cobras from the Vietnam era. Of the fifty-six line pilots assigned to the 545th, all except eight have qualified on the Apaches. Those eight pilots are longtime friends, mediocre pilots, and uninterested in qualifying to fly the Apache. Therefore, while the rest of the company went on maneuvers to Fort Rucker, Alabama, they were sent on a navigational training exercise that amounted to flying from Tuscaloosa, to Little Rock, Memphis, and back to Tuscaloosa. They were refueling in Jackson, Tennessee, having failed to find Memphis, when Colonel Atkins found them.

The Colonel told Yancy Brooks, Bloodhound One, the leader of the flight of four Cobras, that their commanding officer had placed them temporarily under his command. He gave them the coordinates of Kingfisher One and Two and the radio frequency on which he could contact the fighters. Ten minutes later the Bloodhounds were airborne and more or less heading for a rendezvous with NASA’s fighters.

Thirty minutes later Kingfisher One spotted the Bloodhounds on his radar and radioed, “Bloodhound One, Kingfisher One.”

“Yo Kingfisher, Bloodhound is here.”

“Bloodhound, you are twenty miles south of my position. Turn to heading 346.” Ten minutes later, Kingfisher One radioed Bloodhound One, “Turn to heading 240.” The Bloodhounds slowly complied with the direction change, and Kingfisher One radioed, “Now you are on the last reported track of the boogie. Repeat, you are on the heading of the UFO. There have been no reported ground sightings, so your stumbling onto the aircraft before daylight is a real long shot.”

“That’s what we figured too, Kingfisher. Anyway, do you have any information on what this aircraft looks like? Just in case we accidentally spot it, you know?”

“Bloodhound Leader, the Delta Captain said it was an airplane but not like any he had ever seen before. He said it was similar to one of NASA’s space shuttles. That’s all I can tell you. When we got to the area the storm had obscured ground visibility and the trail was cold.”

“Right Kingfisher, well we’ll take a shot at it now. You guys go on home. The Army Reserve has this under control which means you can sleep well tonight.”

******

Jimmy Cobb, NASA’s senior aircraft traffic controller, and Colonel Jameson Atkins, NASA’s facility commander, listened to the exchange between the Air Force fighter pilot and the Army Reserve helicopter pilot. Later, Adkins told me that Jimmy looked at him and said, “Kingfisher was right. It is a long shot, and with that bunch searching, it’s a lost cause. Besides the fact there are only four of them, which greatly restricts the search area, I’ve got to believe that it’s almost a sure bet that their lack of proper radio protocol shows their level of incompetence.”

Atkins said, “I agree with you. If we have a hope of finding the aircraft, we are going to have to have experienced people in the air over the area, but I’ve called everyone I could think of, and these four Reservists are all I came up with.”

Jimmy said, “Sir, I have an idea, it might not work but we have nothing to lose.”

“What is it?”

“Yesterday the weekend flight operation bulletin from Nashville Air noted the Greyhounds of the Alabama National Guard were going to be on maneuvers in south central Tennessee this weekend. Are you familiar with them, Sir?”

Colonel Atkins told him that not only was he familiar with the Greyhounds, but that he and I had met a few months earlier at a military open house held at Maxwell Air Force Base in Montgomery.

That’s how the Greyhounds got in involved, and it’s how I became a link between these two stories.

********

I was asleep on the sofa when the phone rang. I still caught it before it rang a second time. Struggling to open my eyes I said, “Cavanaugh here.”

“General, this is Colonel Jameson Atkins, NASA, Huntsville, we met…”

I interrupted him and said, “I know when we met, Atkins, and I know you must need something to be calling me at home. Let’s skip the history and cut to the chase.”

That didn’t rattle him, so I knew he was calling about something serious. He said, “Sir, I’m the facility manager here. Earlier this evening a Delta Airline commercial flight had a near miss with an unidentified aircraft over central Tennessee. Nashville Flight Service tracked it until it got below their radar coverage, and then they contacted us, because we’re responsible for UFO investigation in the area. I scrambled our two station fighters, but the storm had visibility down to nothing, and even if there hadn’t been a storm, my fighters are too fast to conduct a ground search. I found four Alabama Army Reserve helicopter crews that were on weekend maneuvers in Jackson, Tennessee. They were nearest to the location, and to be honest with you, they were the only ones I could find.”

I interrupted him, “Colonel, you are obviously in a time bind, don’t mince words, tell me what’s going on right now.”

“Yes sir. My pilots circled the area until the Army Reservist arrived. The storm is still over the area and visibility at ground level is about a hundred feet, however it is beginning to clear and we expect the storm to be out of the area in an hour or less.”

“And what exactly is the problem Colonel? Are the reservist not up for the task?”

“That appears to be the case, Sir.”

What other aircraft and troops do you have available now, Colonel?”

“No troops at all, General. I haven’t called for any because the possible crash site is too large to cover effectively on foot. I have only the four Army Reserve Cobras on location, and no one else can get to the area in less than five hours. My senior air traffic controller read in the Nashville Air Traffic Tactical Bulletin the Greyhounds would be on maneuvers in the area this weekend and I thought…”

“Colonel, I’m an Alabama National Guard Officer. My area of operation is the state of Alabama, unless there is a national emergency. You are not declaring a national emergency are you?”

Colonel Atkins knew that I wasn’t serious. He said, “No sir, I’m not declaring a national emergency but I thought…”

“It’s okay, Colonel, I know that we have a reputation for being effective and rather, shall I say, unorthodox?” I considered the mission and its ramifications and said, “Colonel, you must live right. Since NASA is in Alabama, and we are an Alabama National Guard unit, I think we can stretch the rules a bit and determine that this mission does involve Alabama. Now the good news is, the Greyhound’s are drilling this weekend. In fact, they are spending the night in Chattanooga. Give me your number, and I’ll do some checking. Stand by the phone and expect a call either from me or Major Billy Sprague, the Greyhound’s Company Commander, within the next three minutes.”

*******

The Greyhounds are an embarrassment to some of the top brass at the Pentagon, but they are a treasure to everyone in Alabama who knows of us. Neither of those opinions means a tinker’s damn to me. I know that we are one of the best Aviation Units in the Army, and we have been for the thirty-five years since forming the unit. That’s all that I care about.

We served three years in Vietnam. During our time there, to use official Army terminology, we served with great distinction, and became the Army’s most highly decorated aviation unit.

We returned to Montgomery on Christmas Day, 1970, three years and two days after we left. We weren’t the same unit that had left. Twenty-three of us had died in Vietnam, and the rest of us had the “thousand yard stare” in our eyes. A look, that I know now, time does not erase.

Governor George Wallace declared December 26th, 1970, a state-wide holiday honoring us. That wasn’t the end of our notoriety, far from it. I took advantage of the publicity to make a casual suggestion to the Governor. He thought it was a great idea and called his good friend Senator John Sparkman, a Democrat from Alabama, who happened to be the Chairman of the Armed Services Committee. As a direct result of that conversation, the Greyhounds assumed special status in the Alabama Army National Guard. We became a “closed unit” which meant that no one could serve in the 240th who had not served with the unit in Vietnam.

Through the years, everyone has risen to, and in some cases beyond, the rank of the position that they presently hold, which is why I’m a General, even though my command is much too small to justify having a General as its commanding officer. In fact, we are the highest ranking unit in Army Aviation, and we are also the oldest. The youngest pilot is CWO Sam Bailey, forty-eight. The oldest regular pilot is Colonel Sprague, fifty nine and I’m sixty-one. The youngest crewman is Staff Sergeant Chuck Titcomb, who claims to be thirty-nine, but is forty-nine.

Many of the original members of the company have retired. Now we maintain only twelve helicopters; eight slicks, three gunships and a Cobra. We’re scheduled for demobilization in eighteen months and frankly, it’s time. I don’t think anyone in the company will have a single regret when we stand down.

******

Two minutes after Colonel Atkins hung up the phone, I called him back, “Colonel, Ben Cavanaugh here. I found the Greyhounds for you. They just refueled at Lovell Field, in Chattanooga, and they were getting ready to tie down there for the night. I spoke to Colonel Sprague and gave him a report of your situation. They are getting ready to fly as we speak, and he is standing by waiting for your call.” I gave Atkins the number and hung up.

********

I thought about going back to sleep, but I considered it for only half a minute. I knew there was no way I could sleep, and that eventually my rolling and tossing would wake Evelyn. I went to the kitchen and started the coffeemaker.

Before it finished brewing, Evelyn walked into the kitchen, sleep still in her eyes. Even after all these years, she looked liked the schoolgirl I had met fifty years ago and married ten years later. She looked at me, smiled, and, for a few seconds, she was that schoolgirl.

“Ben, what’s going on?” she asked softly.

I told her about the call from NASA.

She looked at me and said, “Well what are you sitting here for?”

I said, “They don’t need me, Evelyn.”

She said, “Well of course they don’t need you, Ben. You need them. Now get yourself up and start moving, or you’re not going to catch them.”

The woman knows me better than I know myself. I went to the phone hanging on the kitchen wall and dialed the number.

It only rang one time, “Greyhounds, Sergeant Whitley speaking, Sir.”

“Sergeant, this is General Cavanaugh.”

“Good evening General. How can I help you?”

“Sergeant, who is the Officer of the Day?”

“Sir, Captain Schultz is the OD. Shall I get him for you?”

“No, Sergeant, that won’t be necessary. I’ll give you the message to save time.”

“Go ahead, Sir, I’m ready to copy.”

I told Whitley to have Captain Schultz preflight my helicopter and prepare to go with me to join the rest of the unit in Tennessee. I also told him to call in the stand-by Officer of the Day.

I changed into a flight suit, grabbed my helmet and gloves, and in two minutes, I was back in the kitchen. I kissed Evelyn and said, “I’ll call you when I know what time I’ll be home.” I paused, looked in her eyes and said, “I love you.”

“I love you too, Ben,” and as I turned to leave she added, “You and the boys have fun.”

I said, “We will; we always do.”

********

When I walked into the deserted Greyhound orderly room, Sergeant Whitley, who was standing beside his desk, snapped to attention. “At ease, Don,” I said.

“Yes, Sir,” Whitley relaxed and smiled. We’ve worked together for thirty years and though we’re military, we’re friends first.

He began reporting without waiting for me to ask, “I’ve spoken to Captain Dirler. He’s on the way in to assume the OD duties. Captain Schultz is on the flight line preflighting Cobra One.” He glanced at his watch, and then continued, “You two should be ready to fly in three minutes. Captain Dirler will be here inside ten minutes. Don’t wait on him; I think I can manage to keep the old place together for six or seven minutes without the help of an officer.”

He was still laughing as I stepped through the door leading to the flight line. As soon as my feet touched the tarmac, I heard the Cobras’ engine breathe out, then cough, signaling it was about to come to life.

I walked around the corner of the hanger and saw my ship outside on the concrete pad under the glare of ten bright floodlights. Though the Cobra is from another era, and is almost twenty-five years old, it still looks new. Even the six foot long Greyhound leaping forward on the side looks like it did the day the guys installed it in Vietnam. Captain Schultz strapped in the rear seat of the narrow tandem-seat cockpit, looked up from the gauges, caught my eye, and tried to salute from his cramped position.

I returned the salute, then pulled on my helmet, the same one I wore in Vietnam. Just before we shipped out for Vietnam, one of the guys had stenciled “BOSS” on it, just above the visor. At first, it made me a bit self-conscious, but I grew to like it. I tightened the chinstrap and swung into the cockpit.

I strapped in, plugged my helmet cord into the communications jack, flipped to the intercom position and asked, “Are we ready to go, Richard?”

Captain Schultz’s reply was immediate, “Yes, Sir. Everything’s in the green, the ‘Old Lady’ is ready to fly. The tower has cleared us to go when ready. The active runway is 24. Do you want to brief me now or when we’re airborne?”

“I’ll bring you up to speed as soon as we’re in the air. Thanks for getting everything ready so quickly.”

“My pleasure, Sir.”

I gripped the collective and cyclic lightly, and, at the same time, moved my feet on to the pedals, keyed the intercom again and said, “I have the aircraft.”

Captain Schultz changed radio frequencies and contacted the tower to confirm our immediate departure. Seconds later, I lifted the Cobra free of the tarmac and moved across the field to the active runway where, in a continuous movement, I turned, lined up with the center strip, lowered the nose, and opened the throttle. As we cleared the outer marker, Captain Schultz popped a cassette into the player connected to the intercom and Wild Thing, 1967’s number one hit, immediately blasted into our helmets.

Fifteen minutes later, just north of Birmingham, I contacted NASA and asked that they relay a message to Sprague, advising him that I expected a rendezvous with them just north of Ripley, Tennessee, in eighteen minutes.

I briefed Captain Schultz minutes after we left Montgomery. I told him when the Greyhounds had left Chattanooga and gave him the coordinates where they planned to rendezvous with the Army Reservists. He navigated flawlessly, giving me new headings every few minutes as he anticipated the location of the Greyhounds. He also managed the music, the same music we’d played on the intercom in Vietnam. As we neared the rendezvous with the Greyhounds, the only sound in the cockpit was Marvin Gaye and Tammi Terrell singing, Ain’t Nothing Like the Real Thing.

As we crossed into Tennessee, I pressed the radio transmit button, “Greyhound One, this is Greyhound Leader.”

Sprague’s response was immediate, loud, and clear, “Boss, this is One.” Without waiting for my acknowledgment, he continued, “Five minutes ago we relieved the Army Reserve and set up a search line, moving west, with a half mile between us. We are moving on the treetops at twenty knots on the last known heading of the unidentified aircraft. I have you twelve miles south of our position and closing fast. Continue on your present heading and descend to 400 feet.” He paused and then asked, “What position on the line do you want, Boss?”

I pressed the transmit button, “One, I’ll take the southern end of the line and give you another mile of coverage. What’s the status of the search?”

“The storms have moved out of the area, and the ground fog that it left behind is beginning to lift. Nashville Air believes the aircraft could have flown as far as a hundred to a hundred and fifty miles after they lost radar contact with it, and even that is just a guess, as is its final heading. If it went further or turned off its last heading…well, there’s just no way to know, Sir.”

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