“Damn it, I gave her a direct order!” Bird Dog roared. “Are you
listening to me, Chief?”
“I hear you. Sir. So does everyone else on this passageway and two
decks up and down.”
“Then if you hear me so well, how come this stuff’s not getting done?”
Bird Dog lowered his voice slightly. “Your muster report shows that
Shaughnessy scrubbed and waxed the deck in the ready room. Does that deck
look like it’s had a mop near it in the last two weeks?”
Chief stared at a spot somewhere on the wall. “It’s not always a matter
of giving orders, Lieutenant. There’re some things you just can’t demand. We
had some birds down last night, and she thought she could get two of them back
up for launch today. It’s a matter of priorities.”
“These are sailors, damn it! They’re supposed to follow orders, not
decide which ones they’re going to obey!”
Finally, the chief looked at him. Bird Dog was surprised at what he saw
in the older man’s eyes. Anger, outrage, and something more. A certain
weariness, as though the chief had been through this same conversation too
many times before.
“Let me tell you something about sailors, sir. These sailors, in
particular. Your average Blue Shirt is a hell of a lot smarter and more
capable than you’re giving them credit for. You know how much an E-3 gets
paid?”
Bird Dog shook his head. “I have the feeling you’re about to tell me,
though.”
“Somewhere around a grand a month. Plus somewhere to live and all the
chow they can eat. Not a bad deal for an eighteen-year-old, you’d think.
You’re probably thinking you had a lot less than that to live on when you were
that age.”
Bird Dog nodded.
“But take another look at what we expect of them. That same
eighteen-year-old is the last checkpoint between you and disaster. Your plane
captain–think there might be a thousand ways he can keep you from getting
killed? And just how old do you think the kid is that makes sure your
ejection seat works? How about the one that packs your parachute, and
maintains your flight gear? And what about the kid that gives you a final
look-over before you get shot off the front end of the ship? Hell, he’s
probably a lot older–like maybe twenty-two or so. The point is, Lieutenant,
these men and women you call kids are carrying a hell of a lot of
responsibility on their shoulders, far more than you ever did at that age.
They screw up, you’re dead before you leave the flight deck.”
“I know how much they do, Chief. We all do. So what’s your point?”
The chief sighed, looked away, and then pinned Bird Dog to the bulkhead
with a steely look. “The point is, sir, that they damned well deserve to be
treated with a little more respect. And that goes for me as well. We’ve all
of us been doing this job just a little longer than you have. You think going
through AOCS and leadership school makes you better than them? You better
think again, Lieutenant. Because it don’t. It gets you paid more, and gets
you out of a lot of the shitty little work details they do–on top of their
main jobs of keeping you alive–but it don’t make you a damn bit better as a
person. Or as a sailor. And the sooner you realize that, the better you’re
going to do in this canoe club.”
“Captain’s Mast, Chief,” Bird Dog said. “I’m tired of these excuses.
And if you ever falsify another extra duty report, you’d better count on
seeing the old man, too!”
The chief turned and walked to the door. He put his hand on the
doorknob, paused, and turned back to Bird Dog. “One thing you need to
remember, Lieutenant. Sailors don’t follow orders–they obey them. They
follow leaders.”
CHAPTER 22
Wednesday, 3 July
1800 local (Zulu -8)
Operations Center
Hanoi, Vietnam
By the end of the evening brief, cooler air was already starting to seep
into the room through cracks around the windows, finally providing some relief
from the stiflingly humid daytime temperatures. Bien sighed, and thought