WHEELUS AFB: Confessions of a Young Lieutenant
Wheelus Air Base, Libya, in 1950; Credit: Wikipedia
When I began to write WHEELUS, or The Man Who Met Himself, I dredged up a lot of old memories. This never made it into the book, but it’s one of my favorites. The Lieutenant has been reassigned to a small radar site south of Benghazi, Libya.
Late afternoon sun sent long shadows of pale fire through the office’s drawn curtains. Leftover heatwaves still shimmered outside. My heavily starched khaki shirt clung to my back. The Major’s bald spot reflected off the glass-framed photographs of frowning colonels behind him.
His toupee has slipped again in the heat.
I stood in front of him. Trepidation tingled down my back.
“At ease, Lieutenant. Take a seat,” he smiled, round jowls quivering.
I sat; the chair was uncomfortable.
The office smelled of old manila folders and stale cigar smoke.
“I’m appointing you coach of the boxing team.”
“Boxing team, sir? We don’t have a boxing team.”
“I know, I know, but we’re going to have one, and you’re going to be its coach.”
“May I ask, why now, sir?”
He stood up and leaned over the metal desk. The colonels snickered on the wall.
“Because the Welsh Regiment has challenged us to a boxing match.”
“I don’t understand, sir.”
He thrust his head forward. “Remember those Welshmen who jog back and forth on the highway to Benghazi? They’re the Regiment’s boxing team.”
How could I forget? They whooped and hollered, and their sergeants barked cadence in a strange language.
“Well, one morning Sergeant Norris blocked their path. He shouted at them and called them ‘Ninnies.’”
“Ninnies, sir?”
“Ninnies. He called them ‘Ninnies.’” His face turned red at the memory. “And that’s what started it.”
A fly buzzed across the office on an errant journey.
“The Welsh sergeant charged, grabbed Norris, and threw him to the ground. The rest of them followed. Our gate guards rushed to help. They all started fighting, and it took the MPs twenty minutes to get it stopped. Norris cursed, ‘I’m going to kick your fat ass,’ as he was dragged away, and the Welsh sergeant spit back, “Not on your life, you fucking American,’ as he was pushed down the road.”
He sat down with a thump and mopped his brow; the steel chair creaked under his weight.
“That afternoon, I got a call from a Lieutenant Colonel Jones. I could barely understand him. He asked if we had anybody that could box his ‘ninnies.’ I said, ‘Of course we do.’ He said, ‘I’ll give you three months to train, not that it will do you any good.’ Then he hung up.”
“Hung up in my ear,” the Major gobbled in rage. “Nobody does that, you hear.”
He pounded on his desk. Papers flew, and ashtrays bounced. “We have to beat them, understand? The nerve of these Welshmen.”
The colonels rattled their medals.
“I understand, sir.” All too well, I think.
“If we do well, it will be reflected in your next performance evaluation. Even a recommendation for early promotion. How does ‘Captain’ sound? If you fail, well…” he frowned and shook his head.
The colonels’ eyes were slits of menace; they stretched toward me, faces stern in their frames.
“But, sir, I don’t know how to box.”
“Never mind that; you get the team organized. Sergeant Norris will teach them how to box. He was a middleweight contender in his time. Now, out you go.”
“Yes, sir.” I snapped to attention and opened the door.
The Major reached for a cigar as it closed behind me.
Ah, such a promising career to go down in a boxing ring. I wonder if we have any boxing gloves.
The sand spurted in hopeless whirls as I trudged toward the base gym. Anxious rays from the setting sun followed me. The Quonset Hut’s door swung open, and dark figures moved in the dim light, the clink of weights pulsed in the sweaty air.
“Anybody seen Sergeant Norris?”
TO BE CONTINUED…
