“I Won’t Back Down”
Nathan “Happy” Morgan
“Everybody say hello to the new guy.”
“Hello, asshole!” The whole room sang out the traditional greeting as Coach swung open the door to the squadron bar. Not my first time, by any means, to greet a new group of pilots, but this one was popping my cherry all the same. I was the shiny new squadron commander, almost as young as several under my command. The discomfort was as acute as that nightmare you have about showing up at work without your pants.
The light was flagging this hot Friday afternoon as beer call in the squadron bar was well underway; apparently, the pilots had awaited my arrival like one dog on another. The place was ripe with the gritty smell of a long day of flying under the Tucson sun. Zippers were pulled down to mid-chest to reveal Scorpion squadron tee shirts, worn each Friday under flight suits without fail. No one wanted to be the guy buying the first round tonight at the O’Club.
But all that had to wait as the men and women of the 82nd Tactical Fighter Squadron, the “Scorpions,” anticipated meeting the new boss—me. First, though, a little strategic socializing. Lieutenant Colonel Chuck “Coach” Ditka, my operations officer and second in command, met me beforehand. He was a fireplug of a guy with a steely grip and a wrestler’s build, all of it tempered by a relaxed, friendly demeanor. He steered me skillfully through the crowded room toward the long, polished bar where a smiling lieutenant offered me a draft beer he’d pulled from the keg. Pulling up a stool, I parked my boots on the polished footrest made of the GAU-8 mounted near the bottom of the bar. “Pretty shit-hot bar, gentlemen. Anybody want to tell me who you had to have carnal knowledge of to get the Hawg footrest?”
Cautious smiles all around, but it was Coach who answered: “We could tell you, Happy. But then we’d have to kill you.” The response was delivered with a friendly smirk, so I guessed we were off on a decent foot.
“Let me handle some introductions before things get started,” Coach offered, gesturing toward those perched around our immediate area of the large room. “Meet Jake ‘Bashful’ Travis, recently arrived from a remote in the ROK; Hayes ‘Rock’ Hudson, our freshly minted butterbar; Charlotte ‘Miles’ Christman; Walker ‘Hung’ Jackson, your B flight commander.”
At my singular raised eyebrow and half-smile, Walker groaned and shook his head with a grin. “Don’t even ask, sir.”
“And this hillbilly is Davis ‘Deliverance’ Foster, your weapons officer.” Coach finished introductions by indicating the giant human seated at the far end of the bar.
“The pleasure’s mine, folks. I’m looking forward to my time as a Scorpion.” I raised my full mug in salute.
Not as painful as I anticipated; I just need to stay upbeat.
My throat worked, and the Blue Moon slid down easy; a little social lubricant was just what the doctor ordered in situations like this. Not everyone was thrilled to hear the news of a fast-burning, below-the-zone 0-5 getting his very own squadron command at the tender age of thirty-six. Especially not a bachelor. Sure, the Air Force had come a long way, but they still chafed at the idea of putting a single man in charge of a flying squadron—or any other one for that matter. I wasn’t even a bachelor, but it’s for damned sure that no one wanted to talk about putting a widower in charge. Definitely not sexy enough for a flying squadron.
But these were problems I’d address later with Coach. Good thing he was happily married to a woman reportedly quite adept at wrangling the spouse madness that inevitably arose within active duty squadrons. That shit was well above my pay grade.
Coach sidled up. “Game time, Happy. Shoot straight with them; they might not like all you have to say, but you’ll earn their respect a nickel at a time.”
He topped off my mug, and I raised my glass once again. “From your lips to God’s ears. I’m gonna need all the help I can get with this room.”
Coach cleared his throat and raised his voice. “Give me your attention, Stingers.” He called the informal meeting to order. “Grab some pine; hey—Miles, Hung? Shut the fuck up.” He grinned, and the bar settled. “I’ll get right to it, everyone. The 82nd is glad to welcome our new boss, Lieutenant Colonel Nathan ‘Happy’ Morgan. He hails from squid central, San Francisco, but try not to hold that against him.” There was a ripple of laughter, and he grinned engagingly. “He is a fighter pilot’s fighter pilot, with enough bombing and shooting hardware to make even Deliverance green with envy. But he also comes to us with a leadership pedigree that is just what the Scorpions need to become the premier A-10 squadron we once were. Everybody join me in welcoming ‘Happy’ Morgan.”
I swallowed hard, letting a relaxed smile play over my lips, and lifted my mug to toast my new squadron. They whooped and stomped and grunted in response, not unlike fifth grade boys seeing naked boobs for the first time.
Ah, some things don’t ever change.
I swallowed again and raised my voice. “I’d be remiss if I didn’t say this is a day I’ve dreamed about. Thank you for your welcome; I do look forward to taking command and working alongside each of you. To fly in the finest air force the world has ever known is a dream in itself; to do so in the best damned aircraft in the inventory, now that’s more fun than anyone should be allowed to have.
“The Warthog is a machine that’s performed more than admirably in a variety of circumstances, destroying the enemy and the aircraft’s many detractors time and again. It’s as ugly as a mud fence, slow as shit, and more lethal and survivable than fighters costing five times as much. Of course, I use that number just as an example.” I smiled slowly as the guys and gals murmured their approval at my F-35 jab.
“That said,” I continued, “you’ll see changes here as I take over. You’ll be unsurprised to learn that your reputation precedes you.” My face hardened a little, and the smile disappeared. I’d been brought in to get the Stinger house in order, and it was no secret. “If we have the talent to be the best but don’t take advantage and hone that talent with discipline and hard work, we’re leaving on the table who we could be. Without credibility and integrity, we’re nothing. If you don’t buy what I’m selling, I can convince you; but I’d rather we were on the same side to begin this road together.”
The lazy grins had been mostly replaced with tightened brows and an occasional scowl. I sighed, but I didn’t expect differently. I needed to lighten the fuck up, so I made a Herculean effort and relaxed my face. “I can’t think of a better start than an evening at the O’Club. There’s a keg each of Stella and Guinness with Scorpion zaps on them over there—and they won’t drink themselves. I’m looking forward to flying and shooting and bombing with each of you. Let’s adjourn, Stingers.”
Coach extended his hand as the barstools scraped on the worn wooden floor of the squadron bar, and the crowd began to thin. “You didn’t pull any punches, and that’s a good thing, Nate. They’ll get there.” I could relax a little with his pronouncement. We walked together toward his pickup in the parking lot.
“Got a kitchen pass tonight, Coach?” I taunted him mildly since we’d only now begun getting to know each other.
“Kitchen pass? Hell, boss, Bibi’s already got her fine ass parked on a barstool over at the Club, if I don’t miss my bet. I’d watch her if I were you. She’ll bat her lashes and smile while she drinks your sorry ass under the table. Look what happened to me.” He roared with laughter, threw the truck in drive, and we made for the Club.
Beer Call—Official but informal meeting of squadron pilots held in the squadron lounge or bar , usually on Friday, after all flying for the day is complete
Squadron tee shirt—Tee shirt in the squadron’s color emblazoned with the squadron patch (logo). Mandatory wear on Fridays under the flight suit. Failure to wear it costs the offender a round.
Officers’ Club—Also O’Club, The Club; in the past, the Officers’ Open Mess. A members-only restaurant and lounge on base that is restricted to officers, their families, and accompanied guests. While membership is theoretically optional, not joining is an instant career killer. Site of most formal military functions. At a flying base, it usually includes a casual bar where the standards of decorum are somewhat more “relaxed.”
Operations officer—Second in command to the squadron commander. Focus is strictly on day-to-day operations like scheduling and training. Flight commanders report to the operations officer. “The OpsO.”
GAU-8—The General Electric GAU-8/A Avenger is the weapon mounted on the USAF’s A-10 Thunderbolt II. Its unique 30 mm Gatling autocannon can deliver up to 4200 rounds per minute and was designed specifically for the anti-tank role against Soviet armor. The heart and soul of the Warthog.
Remote—A tour of duty, usually one year, unaccompanied by dependents (family).
ROK—Republic of Korea. The most common remote assignment for A-10 pilots.
Butterbar—A second lieutenant. Newly commissioned officer recognized by his single gold bar rank insignia.
Weapons Officer—An officer in each squadron who has attended an intensive, aircraft-specific course at Nellis Air Force Base, literally a doctorate in flying fighters. The singular expert in the squadron on all weapons, tactics, and employment. Often referred to as “Patch Wearers” or “Target Arms” owing to the distinctive bullseye patch they wear.
Below the zone—Selected for promotion earlier than one’s primary promotion zone. A rare distinction and often an indicator of an officer whose career is on the fast track. A “fast burner.”
O-5—Fifth level of the U.S. Military officer’s pay scale. In the USAF, a Lieutenant Colonel. This officer will typically have 15-20 years of service.
Squid—A member of the U.S. Navy, generally. In context here, a Navy pilot, though they prefer the term “Naval Aviator.”
A-10 Warthog—The Fairchild Republic A-10 Thunderbolt II. More commonly, “the Warthog” or just “the Hawg.” The only USAF aircraft designed specifically for the Close Air Support mission: supporting troops on the ground in contact with the enemy. Designed around the lessons of Vietnam and the threat of massed Soviet tanks in Europe. Maneuverable, survivable, and lethal. Pilots refer to themselves as “Hawg drivers.”
Zap—A custom adhesive sticker of the squadron patch (logo). To place a zap where it doesn’t belong or isn’t wanted is a point of squadron pride as in, “I zapped that Russian MiG at the airshow in Geneva.” Typically, zaps are seen in Officers’ Club casual bars, placed there by visiting crews.