Necessary Roughness

An Army journalist blogs about his coming home on evil Northwest Airlines. While his experience boarding the plane and during the flight wasn’t positive, I can say the Northwest flight of another soldier’s was better.

Last summer I was connecting in evil Memphis, and my bookstore browsing netted me Hunting Down Saddam by Robin Moore. It was a good find which highlighted the various groups of people working to capture Saddam Hussein from the first day of invasion.

At boarding time, I was stopped by a buzzcut-sporting man in desert Army fatigues, saying that he was in the book. I was doubtful at first, so I gave him the book. The specialist opened to the center picture section and pointed to himself in a group picture at the spider hole where they had captured Saddam. Since we were boarding, I let him have the book with a request to sign it at his picture and return it, which he did. I noted his seat on the regional jet, back two rows and to the left near the window. Perfect.

The plane took off, and the stewardess (”flight attendant” breaks Zinsser’s simplicity rule) started to take drink orders. I told the stewardess that I would buy the specialist a beer on the flight, and that I wanted a Mike’s Hard Lemonade. She came back later with my Mike’s. I paid her and looked back at the grateful man, “cheers”. Later on, I saw that the specialist was fishing for cash. Indignant, I called the stewardess back and asked her what was going on. The Army man wanted another beer. I looked back at him and said, “Put your money back; I’m buying this one too.” The specialist obeyed this civilian’s order without question.

The plane landed at Terminal B in Columbus, and I was among the first off. I walked the length of the concourse (we were at the last gate) and through security, where a welcoming party of 15 or more were waiting with posters. The dad (I presume) asked me if I had gotten off the Memphis flight, which I had, and I asked if they were waiting for the specialist, which he confirmed. I told the father about the beers and showed him the book with his son’s signature, which the family thought was very cool. Before the specialist showed up, I was off again, and riding down the escalator I heard the party cheer.

The book remains on our bookcase, never to be sold. I doubt I’ll see him again, but if I see more soldiers homeward on my flight, I’ll buy their beer too.