DEATON

Every now and then we come in contact with someone who profoundly affects our lives. And when I say “our lives”, I mean that our core values and beliefs, shaped by parents and educators, are further modified by an individual or event which causes us to either rethink or in some way refine those beliefs and values. My parents and my education established my value system and how I viewed both myself and the world. Arlie Deaton made me a better man. He started the process by giving me a check-ride.

Until I got to the Bird-Dog phase, flight school was a trial. I was having a really difficult time coming to grips with Vietnam and my conscience. And this internal struggle about the war and my participation in it was affecting everything I was doing, especially flying. I loved flying but had serious doubts about the war. I barely squeezed through the initial phase of pilot training at Stewart. When we started the second phase, which was upper air-work and coordination exercises like chandelles and lazy eights, I was assigned to an instructor who had just returned from Vietnam. During my first ride with this guy he told me that he “didn’t get killed in Vietnam and I’m not going to let you kill me here”. I’m not paraphrasing; that’s a direct quote and I will never forget it. In this phase of training we flew together exactly two more times and he taught me absolutely nothing. So when I practiced while solo I sort of flailed around with no clue as to what I was doing.

Check-ride day and enter Deaton. I meet him, salute, he returns my salute and he’s laughing. He’s got an unlit cigar stub in his mouth which he doesn’t remove while going through his briefing. Then we climb into the T41 and go flying, more or less. We do a couple of landings into the grass fields around Stewart, and some pylon turns, which, as I recall, were fine. But I had no earthly idea of what a chandelle looked like and even less of a clue as how to do one. Same thing with lazy eights. I think “flailing” would be too complimentary in describing my performance.

Deaton was sort of hanging over the yolk, squinting at me with the same smile. He asked me what I was doing and I told him the truth. I didn’t have the faintest idea. So he explained and demonstrated a chandelle, told me to do one, and I did. It wasn’t bad. Then Arlie explained how to do a lazy-eight, demonstrated it, and told me to do one. Not bad here either. He told me to do another chandelle and another lazy-eight, and then we flew back to Stewart.

We didn’t go into the building where we briefed. We sat outside, around the back of the building, on the steps. And Arlie told me that he was failing me. Yes, I had demonstrated that I could do the maneuvers when shown, that everything else was done to an OK standard, but that in check-rides you don’t teach. Then he told me that the real reason I had failed was because I didn’t try. Say what? Nope, I should have sought out help, taken some initiative, taken some responsibility. That was the key phrase. I should have taken some responsibility. It was my fault; I failed myself. He got up and walked away. I stayed there and started crying. I didn’t see him again until the early spring of 1970.

Life went on and so did I. I was recycled through this second phase of flight school and did the thing all over again. It was embarrassing but I survived. My instructor was a Dept. of the Army civilian named Weaver. His first name was Mister, he chain-smoked camels which stained his flight gloves orange, had iron-grey hair glued to the top of his head and a pencil-thin moustache. He looked just like “Smilin Jack”. And he never stopped looking around. For the two weeks or so that I flew with him I never saw the flight instruments; Mr. Weaver covered them up with discs. We flew by sound and attitude. His head was on a constant swivel, and when I couldn’t stand it any more I asked him what he was looking for. He looked at me and without a second’s hesitation he said “Messerschmitts kid, Messerschmitts.” You bet…right here in S.E. Georgia, from out of the sun we were going to be jumped by a couple of ME-109s. Weaver was a P-38 Lightening pilot in Italy during WW II, which explains his constant vigil. And that explains why he lived to show me how to fly by feel. Feel became very important later as a real airline pilot, and directly contributed to punitive alimony.

I don’t exactly remember why I was in Qui Nhon. I really didn’t want to hang around though because I didn’t want to run into that nurse I insulted who turned out to be the girlfriend of the CO of the 18th Aviation Company, Maj. Bloemsma. That’s how I came to be in the 219th. He kicked me out of the Otter unit and thought he was punishing me by sending me to the Central Highlands. Anyway, I was standing in the Battalion Ops office in Qui Nhon. The Ops officer informed me that I’d have a passenger, our new CO, to take back to Holloway. I turned around and there was Arlie. I could tell by the expression on his face that he remembered me, and he remembered why he remembered me. Same smart-ass smile on his face, but no cigar this time. And then, in front of everyone there, Deaton tells me that he’s “not so sure I want you to fly one of my airplanes”. I believe I told him to go screw himself, or I wished I did. We loaded his stuff in a Beaver and Arlie got in on the right side. As I climbed into the left seat he dug around in his helmet bag and pulled out a hood! We took off; I put the hood on, flew a GCA approach at Qui Nhon, and then flew VFR back to Holloway. Arlie chatted away the whole flight, but he never took his eyes off me. Another check-ride, but this time the result was a whole lot better.

I only saw Arlie occasionally in Kontum. Usually he showed up because somebody screwed up. But I can’t remember him ever raising his voice with any of us. He always had the same smart-ass grin on his face which to me meant that he had my number. And he very subtly let us know that whatever happened, that whatever we did, we had to take responsibility. The dog never really got to eat your homework. He knew you didn’t do it, and you knew that he knew.

When Phil got into his “argument” with the CCC S3, the upshot was that Phil was sent packing to the MACV compound. He still flew the mission, but “Grand Theft Auto” came from MACV to the flight line in his stolen jeep. Either Doug or I filled him in on what we were doing. The argument started after a very loud, beer-fueled party with some of the team leaders. If Glashauser was involved it was probably out of control. I must have been on R and R because I don’t remember the party or the argument. All I knew was that when I got back Phil was gone, Doug was getting ready to rotate home, and we were flying our butts off. The cause of the argument between Phil and the S3 remains a mystery to me. The only part I knew about was that Phil and the Major had a pretty intense exchange. When Phil described the argument it sounded like something out of “Dirty Harry”. The Major was one of those guys whose personality lacked one very basic element, a sense of humor. So there was no backing down, or “I was just kidding”, or a sincere “I’m sorry”. Phil says that he came about “that” close to being brought up on charges. Arlie showed up at the CCC compound one afternoon shortly after Phil’s exile. He and I met with Major Smith, the S3, and talked about the mission and the pilots needed to staff the mission. I told them that we were swamped but nothing changed. After talking to Phil it occurs to me now what probably conspired. Arlie came to Kontum to convince Major Smith not to bring charges against Phil. Apparently Arlie and Smith were classmates at OCS or something. I do know that they had a history. Arlie got Smith to back off, probably in exchange for allowing Smith to try to fly us to death. And Arlie had a “talk” with Phil. The “talk” was different than the “rug dance”. You stood at attention for the “rug dance”, while the “talk” was a seated discussion that took on the air of “confession”. The discussion was really a one-sided monologue delivered in a very soft and soothing tone that none-the-less let you know that there were two outs, you had a 0 and 2 count, and Arlie was throwing 98 mph heat. He had a pitch to waste and it was high, hard, and inside, a “purpose-pitch” which told you that he meant business. Phil says that there was no missing the message. Arlie kept Phil out of jail and Phil says that the “talk” helped him get back on track. Oh yeah…most crooked track I’ve ever seen.

Arlie wasn’t much for protocol. I mean he didn’t hold any parades. But you did have to wear your hat. Bush hat, baseball hat, it didn’t matter. As long as it was olive drab and on your head he was happy. I used to put my bush hat in a locker at the flight line in Kontum when I went flying. If I landed at Dak To the CCC guys could have cared less about hats. They were all running around in T-shirts and shower shoes so hats weren’t too big a deal. On the day that I landed at Holloway without a hat I strolled bare-headed up to the company office and was taught the Charlie Liffick two-step. No hat. The next time I went to Holloway I again forgot my hat. So I just kept my flight helmet on. Deaton looked at me and accused me of making fun of him. Don Shipp, our XO, had to cover his mouth and look away so he wouldn’t laugh out loud. I feigned innocence, a technique perfected at St. Ignatius Catholic School. I told him that this was better than no hat at all, and would he please buy lunch because I had no MPC with me and officers had to pay for meals. Don had an extra hat, so Deaton was spared the humiliation of my walking around in a flight helmet. As I think about it, we may have walked to the mess hall with Deaton hatless. That would have been something Arlie would have done. What was good for the goose was good for the gander, except sometimes when the goose didn’t feel like it.

Arlie flew to Kontum the day that Phil and I got shot up, and he stayed until late in the day, just making small talk. What he was really doing was making sure that we were okay. We were both pretty shaken up, and he brought us back down to earth. Over the years I’ve dreamt about some of the things that I saw or that happened to me during that tour, but never about that day. He had us write down what happened and what we did. And a few weeks later there was an awards and decorations ceremony. Arlie did that.

What Arlie really did was instill in all of us the belief that if we failed to live up to our responsibility as brothers, as officer-pilots, as American soldiers, as gentlemen (more of less) and as human beings we let our selves down. I was mistaken in thinking that I couldn’t let Arlie down. If I failed, I failed me, and I failed Arlie only by extension. Be true to your self, know who you are, overcome your limitations, stand by one another, and grow. Arlie didn’t ask this of us; he demanded it. All this from a guy without a college education or a degree in psychology; just an intrinsic belief in the ability of his pilots, the boys whose keep he was charged, to recognize and do the right thing. And so he continually pointed the way. He still does. Arlie Deaton, my commanding officer, has much more than my respect. Much more than just respect…