The shooters pa-4 Page 6

  "Sir, I thought I would have a quieter place to study if I were in the Daleville Inn than I would in a BOQ. When I went through chopper school here, the BOQs were a little noisy."

  "But isn't that a little expensive?"

  "Yes, sir, it is."

  Edmonds shook his head in amazement, then said, "Well, let's get going."

  "Mr. Kowalski, what do I do?" Lieutenant Castillo asked. "I'm between two masters."

  "Lieutenant," CWO Kowalski said, smiling, "you being a West Pointer, I'm surprised nobody told you that you always obey the last order you got from a senior officer. You go get your picture taken with the general."

  "Thank you," Castillo said.

  "Call me when you've had your picture taken, and we'll go flying again," Kowalski said. "I'll take care of the paperwork here."

  "And did I pass the check ride?"

  "Well, I'm reasonably sure that after another couple of hours-if you don't do something really stupid-I will feel confident in certifying you as competent to fly the Mohawk on instruments."

  Colonel Edmonds was a pilot. He knew what the translation of that was.

  Castillo had passed-without question-his check ride. Otherwise Instructor Pilot Kowalski would not have said what he did. What the two of them were going to do later was take the Mohawk for a ride. Play with it. Maybe fly down to Panama City, Florida, and fly over the beach "practicing visual observation." Or maybe do some aerobatics.

  "Would you like to come in, sir, while I shower and change?" Lieutenant Castillo asked when they had reached the Daleville Inn.

  "Thank you," Edmonds said.

  He's a West Pointer. He will have an immaculate Class A uniform hanging in his closet. And he will probably shave again when he showers. But there is no sense taking a chance.

  Lieutenant Castillo did not have a motel room. He had a three-room suite: a living room with a bar, a bedroom, and a smaller second bedroom that had been turned into an office by shoving the bed in there against a wall and moving in a desk.

  I don't know what this is costing him, but whatever it is, it's a hell of a lot more than his per diem allowance.

  If he somehow managed to get permission to live off post and is getting per diem.

  And why don't I believe him when he said he moved in here to have a quiet place to study? Probably because there are half a dozen assorted half-empty liquor bottles on the bar. And a beer case on the floor behind it.

  He's spending all this money to have a place to entertain members of the opposite sex. They've been cracking down on that sort of thing in the BOQs.

  Well, why not? He's young and the hormones are raging.

  When Castillo went into the bedroom to shower and change, Colonel Edmonds looked around the living room. On a shelf under the coffee table he saw a newspaper and pulled it out.

  It was a German newspaper.

  What the hell is that doing here?

  Maybe he's studying German. I read somewhere that Special Forces officers are supposed to have, or acquire, a second language.

  That would explain the German newspaper, but it doesn't explain what he said about his branch being Special Forces, not Aviation. What in the hell was that all about?

  When Lieutenant Castillo appeared ten minutes later, freshly shaven and in a Class A uniform, Colonel Edmonds was glad that he had accompanied him to his room.

  While technically there was nothing wrong with the uniform-it was crisply pressed and well fitting-it left a good deal to be desired.

  The only insignia on it were the lieutenant's silver bars on the epaulets, the U.S. and Aviation insignias on the lapels, and the aviator's wings on the breast. There were no ribbons indicating awards for valor or campaigns. And there was no unit insignia sewn to the shoulder.

  "Two questions, Lieutenant," Colonel Edmonds said. "First, didn't you tell me you were Special Forces and not Aviation? I ask because you are wearing Aviation branch insignia."

  "Yes, sir."

  "Excuse me?"

  "Yes, sir, I'm Special Forces."

  "But wearing Aviation insignia?"

  "Sir, with all respect, if I'm wearing Aviation insignia, no one will connect me with Special Forces."

  Colonel Edmonds considered that, then said, "Question Two: Where is the rest of your insignia? I was informed you are assigned to the Special Warfare Center at Fort Bragg. Aren't you supposed to be wearing the Third Army shoulder insignia?"

  "Sir, at Bragg I wear the Special Forces shoulder insignia, and the Special Warfare Center insignia on my blaze."

  "On your what?"

  "The embroidered patch worn on the green beret, sir. We're under DCSOPS, not Third Army, sir."

  "Lieutenant, I don't know what you're up to here, but I don't have time to play games. Do you have a tunic to which is affixed all the insignia and decorations to which you are entitled?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Then go put it on."

  "Sir, permission to speak?"

  "Granted," Colonel Edmonds snapped.

  "Sir, as I tried to tell the colonel before, we're supposed to maintain a low profile. That is what I'm trying to do, sir."

  "Go put on your tunic and every last item of uniform to which you are entitled, Lieutenant."

  "Yes, sir."

  In five minutes, Lieutenant Castillo returned.

  He now was wearing both aviator's and parachutist's wings, and a Combat Infantryman's badge was pinned above both. He had three rows of ribbons on his breast, among which Colonel Edmonds recognized the Distinguished Flying Cross, the Bronze Star medal with V device, signifying it had been awarded for valor in combat, and the Purple Heart medal with one oak-leaf cluster. The silver aiguillette of an aide-de-camp hung from his epaulet, and on his lapels were the one-starred shields reflecting that he was an aide-de-camp to a brigadier general. He had a green beret on his head, and his trousers were bloused around highly polished parachutist's jump boots.

  Colonel Edmonds had a sudden, unpleasant thought, which he quickly suppressed:

  Jesus Christ, is he entitled to all that stuff?

  Of course he is. He's a West Pointer. He wouldn't wear anything to which he was not entitled.

  "Much better, Lieutenant," Colonel Edmonds said. "And now we'd better get going. We don't want to keep the general waiting, do we?"

  The story appeared on the front page of The Army Flier two days later, which was a Friday. It included a photograph of Lieutenant Castillo and the Fort Rucker commander standing as if reading what was cast into a bronze plaque mounted on the wall beside the main door to the WOJG Jorge A. Castillo Classroom Building of the Army Aviation School.

  LIVING TRADITION

  By LTC F. Mason Edmonds

  Information Officer Fort Rucker, Al., and the Army Aviation Center Major General Charles M. Augustus, Jr. (right), Commanding General of Fort Rucker and the Army Aviation Center and 1LT Carlos G. Castillo examine the dedication plaque of the WOJG Jorge A. Castillo Classroom Building at the Army Aviation School.

  WOJG Castillo, 1LT Castillo's father, was posthumously awarded the Medal of Honor, the nation's highest award for gallantry, in the Vietnam War. He was killed when his HU-1D helicopter was struck by enemy fire and exploded on 5 April 1971 during Operation Lam Sol 719. He was on his fifty-second rescue mission of downed fellow Army Aviators in a thirty-six-hour period when he was killed, and was flying despite his having suffered both painful burns and shrapnel wounds. The HU-1D in which he died was the fourth helicopter he flew during this period, the others having been rendered un-airworthy by enemy fire.

  His sadly prophetic last words were to his co-pilot, 2LT H. F. Wilson, as he ordered him out of the helicopter in which twenty minutes later he made the supreme sacrifice: "Get out, Lieutenant. There's no point in both of us getting killed."

  Those heroic words are cast into the plaque MG Augustus, Jr., and 1LT Castillo are examining.

  Following in his father's footsteps, 1LT Castillo became an Army Aviator after his graduati
on from the United States Military Academy at West Point.

  The opening hours of the Desert War saw him flying deep inside enemy lines as co-pilot of an AH-64B Apache attack helicopter charged with destroying Iraqi antiaircraft radar facilities.

  The Apache was struck by enemy fire, seriously wounding the pilot and destroying the helicopter's windshield and navigation equipment.

  Despite his own wounds, 1LT Castillo took command of the badly damaged helicopter and flew it more than 100 miles to safety. He was awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for this action.

  Now a flying aide-de-camp to a general officer, 1LT Castillo returned to the Aviation School for transition training to qualify him as a pilot of the C-12 Huron.

  LT Castillo is the grandson of Mr. and Mrs. J. F. Castillo of San Antonio, Texas. (U.S. Army Photograph by CPL Roger Marshutz)

  [-II-]

  Room 202

  The Daleville Inn

  Daleville, Alabama 1625 5 February 1992 The door to Room 202 was opened by a six-foot-two, two-hundred-twenty-pound, very black young man in a gray tattered West Point sweatshirt. He was holding a bottle of Coors beer and looking visibly surprised to see two crisply uniformed officers-one of them a brigadier general-standing outside the door.

  "May I help the general, sir?" he asked after a moment's hesitation.

  "Dick, we're looking for Lieutenant Castillo," the other officer, a captain wearing aide-de-camp's insignia, said.

  He could have been the general's son. Both were tall, slim, and erect. The general's hair was starting to gray, but that was really the only significant physical difference between them.

  "He's in the shower," the huge young black man said.

  "You know each other?" the general asked.

  "Yes, sir. We were at the Point together," the captain said.

  "I'd really like to see Lieutenant Castillo," the general said to the huge young black man.

  "Yes, sir," he replied, and opening the door all the way, added, "Would the general like to come in, sir? I'm sure he won't be long."

  "Thank you," the general said, and entered the motel suite.

  "General Wilson," the captain said, "this is Lieutenant H. Richard Miller, Jr."

  "How do you do, Lieutenant?" General Wilson said. "You're Dick Miller's son?"

  "Yes, sir."

  "Tom, General Miller and I toured scenic Panama together a couple of years ago," Wilson said, then asked Miller, "How is your dad?"

  "Happy, sir. He just got his second star."

  "I saw that. Please pass on my regards."

  "Yes, sir. I'll do that."

  "You're assigned here, are you?"

  "Yes, sir. I just started Apache school."

  "Meaning you were one of the top three in your basic flight course. Congratulations. Your father must be proud of you."

  "Actually, sir, as the general probably already knows, my father is not at all sure Army Aviation is here to stay."

  "Yes, I know," Wilson said, smiling. "He's mentioned that once or twice."

  Miller held up his bottle of beer. "Sir, would it be appropriate for me to offer the general a beer? Or something stronger?"

  He immediately saw on the captain's face that it was not appropriate.

  After a moment's hesitation, however, the general said, "I would really like a drink, if that's possible."

  Miller then saw genuine surprise on the captain's face.

  "Very possible, sir," Miller said. He gestured at a wet bar. "Would the general prefer bourbon or scotch or gin…"

  "Scotch would do nicely," Wilson said. "Neat."

  "Yes, sir."

  "You can have one, too, Tom," Wilson added. "And I would feel better if you did."

  "Yes, sir. Thank you, sir. The same, Dick, please."

  Lieutenant C. G. Castillo, wearing only a towel, came into the living room as General Wilson was about to take a sip of his scotch. Wilson looked at him for a long moment, then took a healthy swallow.

  "Sir," Miller said, "this is Lieutenant C. G. Castillo."

  "I'm Harry Wilson," the general said.

  "Yes, sir," Castillo said. It was obvious the name meant nothing to him. "Is there something I can do for the general, sir?"

  "I'm here to straighten something out, Lieutenant," General Wilson said.

  "Sir?"

  "I was your father's copilot," General Wilson said.

  "Jesus Christ!" Castillo blurted.

  "Until I saw the story in The Army Flier right after lunch," General Wilson said, "I didn't even know you existed. It took us this long to find you. The housing office had never heard of you, and Blue Flight had shut down for the weekend."

  Castillo looked at him but didn't speak.

  "What your father said," General Wilson said, "just before he took off…that day…was, 'Get the fuck out, Harry. The way you're shaking, you're going to get both of us killed.'"

  Castillo still didn't reply.

  "Not what it says on that plaque," General Wilson added softly. "So I got out, and he lifted off."

  He paused, then went on: "I've been waiting-what is it, twenty-two years, twenty-three?-to tell somebody besides my wife what Jorge…your father…really said that day."

  "Sonofabitch!" Miller said softly.

  "I think, under the circumstances," Castillo finally said, obviously making an effort to control his voice, "that a small libation is in order."

  He walked to the bar, splashed scotch into a glass, and took a healthy swallow.

  "Sir," Castillo then said, "I presume Lieutenant Miller has introduced himself?"

  General Wilson nodded.

  "And you remember Captain Prentiss, don't you, Charley?" Miller asked.

  "Yeah, sure. Nice to see you again, sir."

  "With the general's permission, I will withdraw," Miller said.

  "No, you won't," Castillo said sharply.

  "You sure, Charley?" Miller asked.

  "Goddamn sure," Castillo said.

  "'Charley'?" General Wilson said. "I thought I read your name was Carlos."

  "Yes, sir, it is. But people call me Charley."

  "Your…dad…made me call him Hor-hay," Wilson said. "Not George. He said he was a wetback and proud of it, and wanted to be called Hor-hay."

  "Sir, I think he was pulling your chain," Castillo said. "From what I've learned of my father, he was proud of being a Texican. Not a wetback."

  "A Texican?"

  Castillo nodded. "Yes, sir. A Texan with long-ago Mexican roots. A wetback is somebody who came across the border yesterday."

  "No offense intended, Lieutenant."

  "None taken, sir," Castillo said. "Sir, how long did you fly with my father?"

  Wilson looked around the room, then took a seat on the couch and sipped at his drink.

  "About three months," Wilson said. "We arrived in-country the same day. I was fresh out of West Point, and here he was an old-timer; he'd done a six-months tour in Germany before they shipped him to Vietnam. They put us together, with him in the right seat because he had more time. He took me under his wing-he was a really good pilot-and taught me the things the Aviation School didn't teach. We shared a hootch." He paused a moment in thought, then finished, "Became close friends, although he warned me that that wasn't smart."

  "An old-timer?" Castillo said. "He was nineteen when he was killed. Christ, I'm twenty-two."

  "I was twenty-two, too," Wilson said softly.

  "A friend of mine told me there were a lot of teenaged Huey pilots in Vietnam," Castillo said.

  "There were," Wilson said, then added, "I can't understand why he never mentioned you. As I said, I had no idea you existed. Until today."

  "He didn't know about me," Castillo said. "He was killed before I was born. I don't think he even knew my mother was pregnant."

  "I realize this may sound selfish, Lieutenant-I realize doing so would probably open old wounds-but I'd like to go see your mother."

  "May I ask why you would want to do that, si
r?" Castillo asked.

  "Well, first I'd like to apologize for not looking her up when I came home. And I'd like her to know that I know I'm alive because of your father. If he hadn't told me to…'get the fuck out, Harry'…both of us would have died when that chopper blew up."

  "My mother died ten years ago, sir," Castillo said.

  "I'm sorry," Wilson said. "I should have picked that up from the story in The Army Flier. It mentioned only your grandparents."

  "Yes, sir. They raised me. I know they'd like to talk to you, sir. Would you be willing to do that?"

  "Of course I would. I'd be honored."

  "Well, let me set that up," Castillo said. "Then I'll put my pants on."

  He walked to the telephone on the wet bar and punched in a number from memory.

  There followed a brief exchange in Spanish, then Castillo held out the telephone to General Wilson.

  "Sir, my grandfather-Juan Fernando Castillo, generally referred to as Don Fernando-would like to speak with you."

  Wilson got quickly off the couch and walked to the wet bar.

  "He speaks English, right?" he asked softly.

  "It might be better if you spoke slowly, sir," Castillo said, and handed him the phone.

  "Oh, Jesus, Charley," Miller said. "You have a dangerous sense of humor."

  "I remember," Captain Prentiss said.

  "Good afternoon, Mr. Castillo," General Wilson said, carefully pronouncing each syllable. "My name is Harold Wilson, and I had the privilege of serving with your son Hor-hay."

  There was a reply, which caused General Wilson to shake his head and flash Lieutenant Castillo a dirty look.

  Castillo smiled and poured more scotch into his glass.

  After a minute or so, Wilson handed Castillo the telephone and there followed another conversation in Spanish. Finally, Castillo put the handset back in the base.

  "Like father, like son, right, Castillo?" General Wilson said, smiling. "You like pulling people's chains? Your grandfather speaks English like a Harvard lawyer."

  "I guess I shouldn't have done that, sir," Castillo said. "I have an awful problem resisting temptation."

  "That, sir," Miller said, "is what is known as a monumental understatement."

  "Your grandfather and grandmother are coming here tomorrow, I guess he told you," Wilson said. "I'm presuming he'll call you back with the details when he's made his reservations."