In Memory; Hillaire du Berrier, Fred Gage, Ray Hanna

The New Guy

Chapter 2

Two days in Rome

After " Mac" had greased it in, and we could all breathe normally again, we taxied into the Rome cargo terminal and shut down. John took his headset off and announced that he had a strict rule forbidding anyone to smoke in the cockpit while the plane was on the ground. He followed that with " I want everyone who smokes to light up !" We all knew this signified that something really important had happened and something equally important was about to happen. In a way I suspected we were bonding, having shared a traumatic adventure. Back then, most everyone smoked so the cockpit was immediately filled with tinny sounding Zippo lighter action and thick blue cigarette smoke. McGuire and John reached over and slid their respective side windows open. Unfortunately for John, he was on the windward side and the rain forced him to adjust the window opening to just a slit. The slight draft carried most of the smoke out "Macs" window.  I fully expected John to renege on his momentary liberal smoking policy but it didn't happen. I was beginning to find Captain John Basset a very interesting person.

Captain John was perhaps in his 40s and while liked and a highly respected Instructor pilot was considered "old" by most of the young squadron line pilots. Most of us were still in our early twenties. He was very dapper, and at a masquerade party, with minor rearranging, he could go as a penguin. Short and slightly portly, he sported an almost prominent nose. However, if John's photo hung in the post office lobby, nary a soul would be tempted to pencil in a moustache. He already had one that only the most evil vandal would take the time to draw. It was nearly an exact replica of that infamous Adolph Hitler blotch. Why someone in his family didn't take the time to tell him how badly it looked is a mystery. Perhaps they did. And to make matters worse, he had an upper lip tic. Every few seconds the tic caused "Adolph" to leap upward like a miniature high speed stage curtain and draw even more attention. Assuming he had been born with the spastic lip, I tried to imagine what it must have been like when mustachioed John nervously got down on one knee and proposed to his wife.

John had a cigarette going, and squirmed around in his seat to face the rest of us. The moustache was in high gear.

 He said, "Quite a few things went wrong during this flight and I'd like to go over them as best I can."

I felt relieved because I had already received an in-flight critique about my terrible position reporting. I sank back in the Navigator's seat to selfishly relish someone else's misery. John took up the clipboard with the attached flight log and turned to me.

"Ahh.Lt Bradford I'd like to cover some things you did or didn't do that sort of got us into trouble today.”

I could feel my stomach tighten a notch. "Why me?" I thought. "How could my verbose position report almost kill us?" He continued: 

"The way you maintained the flight log was very unprofessional. We evidently encountered headwinds much stronger or .ahh..tailwinds much lighter than forecast and your record doesn't show that. It is very important to notice arriving late at a check point, recording it and informing the pilot. Then you must adjust your next estimated time of arrival. "

Well of course I knew all that. I was, after all, a pilot! Stunned by his first volley, I could say nothing. I chose to merely nod my head in agreement and say nothing. But it still troubled me as I didn't recall being that late at any check point. We had never been late enough to run us out of gas. But considering that we had too little fuel to begin with, I respected John's concern.  I continued to nod like a wind up toy. Concentrating on what John had just said, I failed to catch the rest of what he told me. That and my watching his acrobatic moustache caused me, to this day, to forget all after my flight log ineptness. I could hardly ask him to repeat what he had said because I was watching his moustache and missed the last part. I felt terrible. I had almost killed us all. Some relief came when he turned to the Flight Engineer.

Even though the Engineer had cleverly defended himself before we took off, John reminded him it was his responsibility to double check the planned fuel load. And he added that it was to be done early enough to add some if there was a shortage. The Engineer took it all like a man, and I doubted he felt as badly as I did. At least it didn't show. I was sure my grief showed. "Mac's" turn was next.

John had very few things to say to Lt. McGuire. He seemed to address "Mac" more like an experienced pilot, offering suggestions on techniques, and beginning sentences with, " The way I have found works best ......" He did mention the problem with our two disputing radio compasses and thought the problem of determining which one was correct should have been resolved in the air. I can't recall what the solution was but John and "Mac" commenced to figure it out as we sat there on the ground under less stressful conditions. Both radios proved to be less than reliable for instrument flight conditions. But one was very bad.  I was too deep into my own problems to concentrate on that process.  I do remember thinking that the irate TWA pilot might have solved the problem if someone had only asked. He certainly was talkative enough. What happened next was a surprise.

John began to critique himself. When he had finished a rather long and harsh self-bashing I was ready to walk through Hell for this guy with the funny moustache. He took all the blame and said he'd done a terrible job of commanding this flight. He had let an inexperienced person ( me) do a very important job without proper supervision. He was also at fault for the short fuel load. He should have insisted on taking on more fuel and accepted the late takeoff. He should have known how to solve the radio compass problem. I was about to light up my second Viceroy when John said, " Let's climb out of here and see about getting these radios fixed." As it turned out, repairing the radios would be a lengthy process. We eventually had to remain over night (RON) in Rome for two days.

After seeing to the maintenance problems, and making sure the Flight Engineer was properly quartered, John ordered transportation to an Air Force approved hotel in downtown Rome. I was hardly "worldly" and about the only thing I could think of in Rome was a movie I had seen. Some nice looking actress had tossed loose change in a small pond and began singing Three Coins in the Fountain. The ride into town was not especially educational either. It was now getting dark and all recall was a confusion of lights, traffic, scurrying pedestrians, and masonry buildings. We checked into a rather nice old world hotel with lots of red velvet wall tapestries, large oil paintings with gilded fames and expensive appearing rugs in the lobby. Rich red leather covered chairs, sofas and mahogany desk tops. Crystal chandeliers cast a glow of big money somewhere in the hotel's pedigree. I began to understand why we were getting $20 per diem for staying in Rome. It was the highest rate of any of our normal RONs. I thought of my wife trapped in the simple country hotel back in Tilliers, France.

I forget much of our two days in Rome. I didn't really mess anything up badly but two incidents stand out in my mind. That first evening we dined in the famous Alfredo's restaurant. I ordered Fettuccini Afredo. As we waited for the meal we sipped wine and I smoked a Viceroy. Suddenly, Chef Alfredo was at our table and letting me know in no uncertain terms that I was not to smoke before eating his fettuccini. I apologized but thought he was being a bit eccentric. Then when the fettuccini was served, Alfredo came to the table again and in show of good "Showmanship" handed me the restaurant's heavy golden spoon to wrap the pasta.  I learned it is considered an honor to eat with the golden spoon. So the new guy was getting quite an education. John, a little too seriously, suggested I not try and sneak out with the spoon hidden away under my clothing. 

The second incident really didn't involve me. The next day "Mac" suggested we rent motor scooters and tour the city. Knowing today what I know now about Rome traffic dynamics , I would never have done this. But back then, it sounded like a great idea. We rented three Vespas and began roaming the streets. I can't recall what if anything noteworthy we saw. I was busy as we all were, just trying to survive the swirling mass of rolling meteorites and suicidal pedestrians. At one place on a hill we went inside a chapel and admired some sculptures. I remember studying a sculpture of David and it really impressed me. I was tempted to feel the limp wrist for a pulse. When we came out, my scooter failed to start. 

No amount of Yankee mechanical ingenuity could get it fired up. I closed the engine cover as John suggested I coast down the hill and take the machine back to the rental agency. He and McGuire would ride around some more and we were to meet back at the hotel at such and such an hour for supper. They rode off and I put my Vespa in neutral and began the coaster ride back to the agency. As I bounced along down the narrow cobble stone street, I felt somewhat abandoned by my Air Force crew and wondered if this would have been the case if we were Marines. But I also regaled in the sudden confidence John had shown in my ability to go it alone in the big city. 

After walking the scooter a short way beyond the base of the hill, I arrived at the rental lot. I told the attendant about the scooter's break down and watched as an agonized expression appeared on his face.  In broken English and some theatrics, he apologized and then wheeled it away. I heard nothing about a partial refund or replacement Vespa so I turned and started back toward the hotel. I knew how proud Italians were of their machines and thought the poor guy had suffered enough without my insisting on a refund of some kind. I got to the hotel without getting hopelessly lost and went up to my room to wait for "Mac." and John. Regardless of my scooter's failure, I really enjoyed the day's activities and lied down on the bed to think back on it. We had avoided any dangerous close calls but lying there I had to admit we were all lucky.

But being lucky was not the way to negotiate the wild city traffic we had encountered. And as our supper rendezvous time came and went, I was getting hungry and felt a twinge of worry. Two hours later when they still hadn't shown up, I was torn between thinking they were out having a ball without dragging me along and wondering if they were lying broken and bloody in some hospital. I went to their rooms for the third time, knocked on the doors and got no response. I went back to my room. I began to think what I might have to do as the sole officer in charge of this improbable and maybe ill fated mission. I had to first check with the police and hospitals. Then after establishing their individual status, I would have to somehow get in touch with the Air Force. I'd go to the embassy. I must notify the Flight Engineer. I didn't even know where the Flight Engineer was let alone the Air Force's telephone number!  As I laid there imagining my mushrooming problems, my hunger faded. I wondered if I, as the last one in command, would be expected to deliver and read aloud the death notice telegrams to two unsuspecting wives. "Dear Mrs. Bassett:  It is with deep regret that The Government of the United States of America ......"  A sharp rap came on the door and I was brought back to reality.

"Hey Bradford, let's go eat!"  It was "Mac."

As we ate at the hotel's restaurant, the wine flowed ..like wine, and this story unfolded. Thanks to the vino, it came out as a humorous and much embellished tale. I'm sure if either "Mac" or John ever had grandchildren, they know this story well. . After they left me to coast away somewhere, they, as planned, continued joy riding. At one point, without realizing it, they were happily scooting along the wrong way on a one way street. They failed to hear an excited patrolman blow his whistle. He then jumped on his motorcycle and gave chase, caught them easily and pulled them over to the curb. A giant language barrier prevented any possible slick talking out of a ticket so the policeman herded them and their Vespas to the station. Seems it was a busy day with booking other criminal elements so "Mac" and John were placed in a holding cell until their case came up. And there they stayed and stewed for several hours. When they were finally marched before the desk an interpreter explained the situation to the judging official. The summary gavel fell, and they each received a rather hefty fine and a lecture on the importance of learning Italian traffic law before joy riding again in Rome. I had to think how lucky I had been with my unreliable Vespa.  The next morning, our radios were repaired and we continued on to Athens, Greece.

Next

An "Allowable" Leak