Summary: Even in a war zone there are some light moments. A night out with Murdock & Crew.
Rating T or PG- 13
Disclaimer: The A-Team isn't mine, nor is Ray Brenner, all of whom belong to Stephen J. Cannell. Murdock's crew and various others who float through the stories are either I'mpeckable's or mine and will be dealt with accordingly. Chapter 10 in the Vietnam Chronicles. For those interested the series is now set up as a C2 community.
Flying Without Wings
The incoming helicopter drew BA's attention as he exited the motor pool building. Curious if it was the Lady Crazy, he cut through the heliport instead of going directly to his hooch.
By the time he arrived at the revetments, the crew obviously had finished for the night. Cass and Remy had the weapons setting on the floor of the bird as they unloaded the unused ammunition. Neither of the pilots were there, apparently finished with their part of the chopper shut down.
Remy looked up and saw BA, then spoke to Cass. BA could hear the drawl of his voice but still had some trouble understanding him, especially at a distance.
Cass looked quickly and called, "BA," beckoning as he came to meet him. "Where you off to?" he asked. The crew chief was sweaty and tired, but still had his ready smile. "We're going to the bar after we get cleaned up." His nose wrinkled, and he flapped the front of his wet, grimy flightsuit. "Why don't you join us?"
BA didn't care much for spending time in bars, but he had enough of the motor pool for the night. He wasn't feeling particularly tired, but still demurred. "I don't--" he started.
"Nonsense," the crew chief interrupted. "We'll meet you at eight." He turned to retrieve his weapon from the chopper. A wagging finger accompanied his glance back over his shoulder. "Don't make us come looking for you."
BA smiled as he continued to his hooch. There were not many people who could assume he would do anything. Apparently the crew chief had adopted him as part of his family and BA had no illusions as to who ran that chopper crew. He washed up quickly and checked the clock, still not sure if he would go. It was about quarter to eight when he decided he would walk up there anyway. Halfway there he met Cass and Remy in clean fatigues coming up the path.
"Glad you could come," Remy said as they joined him. The door gunner looked as relaxed as BA had ever seen. They walked in silence until they reached the bar door.
The sound of music and voices drifted from the building. "Sounds like it full," BA said.
"Don't worry," Cass laughed. "We have a table saved." He bounced up the stairs and opened the door, bowing mockingly. "Can't make me celebrate my birthday by myself, can you?" he asked, his eyes sparkling in amusement.
Remy nodded at BA's startled look. As they walked into the building, he scanned the crowd for a familiar face. A waving hand directed them to a corner table. Murdock and Pete were sitting at the table, apparently a few drinks ahead.
BA stopped in shock. "They's officers," he protested.
Cass nudged him into a seat next to the AC. "Not tonight," he responded. "Murdock, Pete," he introduced, a vague gesture indicating each. "You guys know BA," he said as they sat.
The waitress came for their orders. "Beer," Murdock responded. Seeing BA's questioning look he explained, "We're all consuming beer tonight in honor of the birthday boy's home state." His grin lit up his face. "Drink up, Mudsucker, you're behind."
BA drank some beer while the banter flew around the table. The music on the jukebox changed to some sort of a dance tune. He frowned as he listened, never having been much of a musician.
Cass scanned the room looking for someone. A woman at the jukebox held out her hands in invitation. The crew chief slipped out of his chair and met her halfway across the room. As they started dancing to the bouncing, rollicking tune, Murdock and Remy slid out of their chairs and found partners.
"It's called a polka," Pete explained, watching the other three on the floor with amusement. "One of these day's they'll get me drunk enough and I'll be out on the floor with them."
BA stared in amazement. "Don't they care who's watching?"
Pete smiled. "Cass likes to dance, Murdock has no inhibitions, and there is nothing the two of them will do that Remy won't," he continued with laughter in his voice. "I'm afraid when I go back to Boston, I'll be singing in choppers and dancing the polka too." He shook his head in mock frustration. "It must rub off. They'll probably commit me."
"A polka?" BA questioned, shaking his head exasperated. The music stopped as the record changed.
Remy came back, partner in hand, as Pete was talking. "The Red Raven Polka to be exact," he added as he picked up his beer for a drink. As the jukebox resumed with a similar number, he added, "And this is the Beer Barrel Polka." Fueled by the incredulous looks, Remy shrugged, "Hey, I bunk with the guy too, you know." He drained the mug, then attempted to set it down. His partner pulled his hand, and the mug teetered dangerously at the edge of the table. Remy laughed as they swung back into the dance step on the way to the dance floor. Cass and Murdock had stayed out on the floor with their partners.
When this record ended, the dancers stayed out on the floor for a moment, but the next record obviously wasn't dancing material. The three crewmen made their way back to their table. Cass had caught the waitress's eye on his way back and she met them with fresh drinks.
BA considered the incoming beers carefully, as he had only finished half of his first. Cass and Remy were already on their second after spending time on the dance floor. He could only imagine how many Murdock and Pete had had. "Don't you have to fly in the morning?" he pointedly asked the pilot.
"Pete can fly," Murdock stated with a wicked grin. His mug waved across the table, failing to retain all of its contents. "Besides, I'm not drunk," he continued, oblivious to BA's unconvinced expression, "I don't see any pink elephants."
The music changed again, this time to something contemporary, and the three of them were out on the floor again. Somehow, in between dances, Remy and Cass had apparently inhaled their second drinks. Murdock's--if that really was only his second--was still about half full.
BA watched in amusement as Pete switched his full mug for Remy's empty one.
The peter pilot shrugged sheepishly at BA's look. "You know they'll just order another round if theirs are empty," he explained. "I've tried drinking with them. They drink like fish."
After thinking it over, BA saw the logic in this and he exchanged his full mug for Cass's. "Do they do this often?" he asked.
"No," the peter pilot admitted. "But when they do, I'm the one that usually ends up sick, trying to keep up with them." He chuckled ruefully. "Sometimes I don't know how they can walk, let alone fly, or handle those heavy weapons. It's bad enough being hung over on the ground. At least I know that isn't supposed to be moving."
Remy and Murdock made their way back to the table. The door gunner picked up his drink, draining half before putting it down. "No problem," he said. "We have straps so we don't fall out." He signaled for the waitress, unaware that he had acquired an extra drink. "Anyway, the 'back' doors are usually open," he confided. "Just don't get caught."
"And keep it out of the slipstream," the warrant officer added, with a grimace that told of experience. "Having to scrub puke out of the cabin or off the tail boom after the fact is dis-GUST-ing."
The AC picked up his drink, mischief dancing in his eyes as he drank. "It's more fun to get Remy drunk," he teased with a sidelong look at the door gunner. "He's more sociable that way."
The door gunner threw something small at the pilot, who belatedly attempted to catch it, and missed badly. "Ain't nevah been sociable," Remy responded. "Y'all just want me here t'watch your back, when yer mouth gets ya in trouble."
"As opposed to your mouth getting us in trouble?" the crew chief quipped as he returned to the table. "Pot calling the kettle black, isn't it?" The corners of his mouth quirked, catching the switch, as he sat and picked up his beer.
The door gunner shrugged impassively and tossed off the rest of his drink. "Sometimes they just come out of the woodwork." Obviously distracted, he briefly watched someone in the crowd before a returned projectile demanded his attention.
Cass pulled his cigarettes out of his pocket. Remy plucked the pack from his hand, and tossed it across the table to Murdock, who tucked it in his own pocket. The crew chief contemplated his empty hands as he addressed the air in a poor imitation of the door gunner's drawl. "Gee, Cass. Please don't smoke at our table." He answered himself, in his own voice, "Sure, no problem. All you have to do is ask."
Another small missile sailed across the table, and dropped inside the open collar of Cass's shirt. The crew chief's tongue clicked in exasperation as he unbuttoned his shirt to fish it out, displaying a heavy silver cross on a chain around his neck. Seeing BA's interest, Cass shrugged. "All us Polacks 'up north' are Catholic."
As Cass retrieved the object from inside his shirt, Pete commented, "There really is enough smoke already. You don't need to add to it." With a quick motion, the crew chief sent whatever it was sailing across the table at the peter pilot.
BA couldn't agree more with the sentiment; the bar was smoky and stank of stale booze. He watched in amusement, finally recognizing the items flying around as unshelled peanuts from the dish on the table. Thinking himself safe from being a target, he soon realized his mistake. The pilots gave as good as they got and not retaliating didn't give him an out either. He looked up as a peanut bounced off his chest to see the peter pilot give him an innocent smile.
They settled down again as the waitress brought fresh drinks; the supply of peanuts having run low. "Cam ong," Remy thanked her as she handed them out.
BA realized not only was he behind again in drinks, but somehow hadn't bought a round either. Relieved she hadn't brought more peanuts, he vowed silently to get rid of them, even if he had to put thatpolka music on the jukebox as a distraction.
Leaning forward, his hands slowly crept toward the peanut dish, as he looked at the crew chief. "How you get to be a helicopter mechanic?" he asked, hoping to distract the man from his action.
Cass smiled brightly. "We've always done some of our own mechanical work on the farm. This was something a little different and I still get to fly."
"Looking for a new job?" the pilot questioned, a teasing light in his eyes.
"No," BA stressed, glaring at the pilot before turning back to the crew chief. The peanut dish—assisted by his fingers—inched toward him. "But, how you learn all that?" Ground vehicles made sense. They were very similar to the cars at home. He had seen the inside of a helicopter; the turbine engines and pylon systems were confusing.
"Not much different from any other machine," Cass explained. "Come out to the field some time and I'll show you."
"Careful," Pete warned, "he's real good at 'acquiring' help. I spend so much time helping him with the chopper, I had my 201 checked to make my MOS was still 062B rather than 67N2." He smiled across the table at the crew chief. "I'll wake up some morning and find myself reassigned as a crew chief somewhere."
Cass assumed a very serious demeanor. "Well, if the pilots I have were 'any' good," he stressed, "I wouldn't have to spend so much time on repairs."
Remy pantomimed licking his finger and marking a score in the air.
The AC retaliated by throwing a peanut at the door gunner. He looked at the crew chief and said, "Any more of that and you're walking home on the next mission."
"Uh-uh," Cass shook his finger at the pilot. "We walk home, we also collect our $25,000."
"Yeah, right," Murdock returned, unconcerned as he continued, "least I could do is have a crew chief that knows which end of the screwdriver to use."
"I do too," Cass protested in a contemptuous voice, lifting his head haughtily. He then leaned over in feigned puzzlement as he spoke aside to BA, "Which one's the screwdriver?"
BA rolled his eyes. He'd have thought they were drunk, but he knew better. "What $25,000?" he asked, folding his hands around the peanut dish. The comment intrigued him, for he didn't recall anything like that.
Both door gunners snickered, exchanging glances as they hid behind their beers, leaving it to one of the pilots to explain.
The lieutenant shrugged as he also picked up his drink. The somber dark eyes studied the liquid as he spoke quietly. "The North has a $25,000 bounty in gold for Huey pilots. They don't like us much."
At that, their playful attitude vanished. The crew fidgeted uneasily, exchanging worried looks. Targets in the sky, they had little recourse when things went wrong.
BA was almost sorry he asked. He was looking for a way to change the subject as the door opened again and a group of nurses walked in. All eyes automatically went to check them out. To BA's surprise, Murdock, Cass and Pete then looked expectantly at Remy.
The door gunner's attention came back to the table with a start. "What?" he asked defensively as he looked around.
Murdock inclined his head toward the nurses without comment. As they all continued to watch the door gunner, the expectant smiles grew broader.
"So?" Remy protested glaring around the table. "Knock it off!" he growled, picking up his beer and finishing it. Studiously ignoring the others, he set the mug down, then sighed heavily. "Excuse me," he muttered sourly as he got up from the table.
Puzzled, BA watched Remy head over to the nurse's table. He looked back to the table on hearing glasses clink. The other three crewmen silently drank before exploding in quiet laughter.
"Remy's girlfriend," the pilot explained. "Sometimes he needs a little help."
"Like a shove in the back," Cass added. The smile tugging at his mouth suggested he wasn't through. He looked at the peter pilot, who indicated the jukebox. The crew chief's eyes lit up and he grinned broadly as he considered that option. "Excuse us," he said as they rose from the table, digging in their pockets for change as they made their way across the floor.
"More like a swift kick in the pants," Murdock corrected, watching their progress while remaining in his seat.
BA flipped the dish onto a passing waitress' tray, scattering the remaining peanuts on the floor. His glare dared her to even think about refilling it. He folded his hands innocently around his mug, then he looked back at the pilot, "They wasn't serious about that reward thing?" he questioned.
"Nah," the pilot replied easily, bringing his gaze back to BA. "They like to play games. Insisting it's their retirement fund for when they're tired of flying."
"Retirement?" asked BA. "Why they thinking about retirement?"
The pilot shook his head, finding it hard to dismiss the dark mood. "The life expectancy of a door gunner is less than a year," he explained. "They've been very lucky." He paused, then corrected himself. "We've been lucky."
His attention returned to the operations at the jukebox where Cass and Pete had engaged in a serious discussion about their musical choices.
BA turned as well, to his surprise, anticipating what they were about to do. Seeing they had finally made a decision, he looked to catch the door gunner's reaction.
The nurses had found a table and settled around it. Remy was with a petite, dark haired nurse. Her hand on his arm detained him, though Remy's reluctance to remain at that table--the focus of all attention there--was obvious. From what could be heard of the comments, it was enough to make anybody squirm.
As the soft strains of the Righteous Brothers carried through the bar, the door gunner stiffened. He closed his eyes and shook his head, before speaking to the nurse. She put her hand in his as he led her out on the dance floor, well away from the jukebox.
Other couples had made their way to the dance floor when an earsplitting whistle carried through the room, drawing all attention to there. The nurse hesitated. Stepping back slightly, she looked for the source, but Remy pulled her back against him, with a single word. He had recognized that whistle and the black eyes were unamused as he glared in the direction of the jukebox.
Pete and Cass both gave him a 'thumbs up' and broad grins before moving off to find their own partners as the haunting lyrics of "Unchained Melody" filled the room.
As the dance floor filled, BA looked at Murdock. "Aren't you going out there?" he asked. Slow dancing didn't require a lot of talent.
"I'll sit this one out," the pilot returned. "Besides, I wouldn't want to miss the next chapter."
BA was curious about the next chapter, too, though he took advantage of the pilot's distraction to rearrange the beer mugs. He was beginning to feel a little lightheaded himself; but then again, you could get drunk on fumes here.
As the music changed, he saw Pete and Cass change partners, but Remy stayed with the nurse. The music finally changed again to something they couldn't dance to and they made their way back to the table. Remy had escorted the nurse back to hers. The lingering kiss she gave him before letting him go incited a cacophony of encouraging sounds and scattered applause from the nearby patrons. He turned away from the table, his steps rather unsteady, and headed back toward the rest of the crew.
Cass had again flagged down the waitress, who was dispensing fresh drinks when Remy finally made his way back. He dropped into his seat and glared at the culprits as he picked up his beer. "That wasn't funny," he growled.
"No, it wasn't," responded the crew chief promptly.
"Not at all," agreed the peter pilot.
Remy's penetrating stare moved to BA, daring him to comment. The big sergeant tried his best to portray the bland innocence of the aircrew, but couldn't quite pull it off. He had never been good at dissembling. "Ah was here," he protested mildly.
The hawk eyes moved to Murdock, who spread his hands complacently. "Well, if you didn't want to dance with Renee . . ." his voice trailed off suggestively.
"Ah didn't say thet," the door gunner asserted. "Y'all goin' tah get us'n trouble." He leaned back in his seat and his hand dropped under the table. "Ah oughta knock yer heads together," he groused.
"That would hurt," Pete replied mildly as his eyes followed Remy's hand. He raised his eyebrows and gestured with a finger as he asked, "Were you going to do something with that?" His questioning gaze calmly lifted up to Remy's face as the door gunner glanced at him.
Remy started, realizing he had been unconsciously toying with his knife. He lifted his empty hand up sharply and replaced it on the table. "Slit your throat?" he offered, the corners of his mouth turning up slightly.
Pete's return smile broadened. "Ah," he said, still in the same conversational tone, "that would hurt too."
"Could find out," the door gunner returned lazily. "Probably wouldn't feel a thing." Absentmindedly rolling a stray peanut under his finger on the table in front of him, he tossed back the challenge. His eyes sparkled. "Are you game?"
"Maybe later," the peter pilot offered nonchalantly as he picked up his drink. "I have other plans for tonight."
Their facade of polite indifference was interrupted by a sneering voice. "Even white trash like you should know better than to sit with a nigger." Forsythe stood behind BA and Murdock, eyeing Remy with contempt. St. James' subsequent transfer from the LRRP's after his injury made his unique talents unavailable to Forsythe. It had taken the sergeant time and effort to track down the specialist's new assignment. If that bastard thought that anything had changed, he would soon learn different.
Scowling, BA turned to reply, hesitating only when the pilot put out his hand. On his right, Cass shifted in his seat. His foot landed across Remy's shins, accompanied a warning look. The door gunner's eyes glittered dangerously as he eyed the crew chief in annoyance.
The pilot leaned back in his chair, and looked up at Forsythe. Speaking in a credible imitation of Remy's accent, he drawled, "Cahms frahm spen'in' awl thet tahm wit' dem Yankees." He crossed his hands behind his head, stretching in his chair with utter disregard of the sergeant's proximity. "Ah doan rema'amba dose impawtant thangs."
Remy's eyes narrowed angrily; his tension evident as his hand crept under the table again. He made no other movements, aware of the crew chief's scrutiny.
"Lieutenant?" Forsythe spoke cautiously. "I didn't realize you were here." Intent on the door gunner, he hadn't considered the other occupants of the table.
"Cawse I tend to fahget," the pilot's voice switched to the clipped Bostonian tones of his peter pilot, "which one of us is the niggah?"
Forsythe flushed angrily, glaring back at the pilot. "St. James's a useless piece of trash--jail bait. You'd be well to get rid of him." He looked scornfully down at the door gunner, not attempting to hide his contempt. "That bastard should never have been allowed in the Army."
"That makes sense," the crew chief interjected calmly. "We should keep all the undesirables at home where they'll be safe. Can't have them being shot at." He leaned back in his chair, smiling mockingly at Forsythe. "I didn't know this was a gentleman's war. Does that mean I can go home too?"
Forsythe turned his angry look at the crew chief. "You have a smart mouth, Polanczyk," he snarled. "One of these days someone is going to shut it for you."
The crew chief shrugged. "That's been tried before."
Remy had had enough. "What the hell do you want?" he snapped, directing his intense stare at the man standing over them.
"We havebusiness," the sergeant returned. "Unless you want to discuss it in front of your friends."
"Ain't nothin' to discuss," the door gunner's voice was tight and angry, "and if you're looking for a fight, I have nowhere to hide. Just bring enough flunkies so it's an even fight." There was a dark, feral look in his eyes as he glared up at the sergeant. His voice dripped with contempt. "I wouldn't want to take advantage."
Forsythe glanced around, uncomfortable with the attention they were beginning to attract. A fair fight wasn't what he had in mind; rather he intended to teach the door gunner his place. And, if that uppity 'field hand' attempted to interfere again, well, he was prepared for that too.
The door opened as Ray and Face walked in. Ray paused just inside the door, while Face—spotting the group of single women—immediately headed toward the nurse's table. He settled on a barstool nearby. Probably plotting his come-on, Ray thought, watching him in mild exasperation. The kid obviously hadn't learned his lesson in that department. Ray glanced around the bar. The impasse at the corner table and the unmistakable build of the big sergeant caught his attention. He hesitated before joining Face, turning so to keep an eye on events.
Face signaled the bartender, then turned to Ray. Puzzled, he followed the other's gaze, cringing as he recognized the people involved in the altercation. Having spent time—too much, in his opinion—with the big, black sergeant, he knew BA wouldn't put up with any nonsense. "What is it?" he asked, troubled by the other's expression.
"The beginning of a bar fight I'm afraid," Ray answered, searching the bar, trying to pick out the likely participants. Forysthe had always been careful to keep the odds on his side and there were five at the table. Puzzled, he added, "I'm not sure how BA is involved though."
"Maybe we should just leave," Face suggested. He could handle himself tolerably well in a fistfight, just had no intention of getting messed up. "I thought BA didn't like choppers. Isn't that a chopper crew he's with?" he asked petulantly, knowing full well it was.
Ray nodded unhappily. "Not only would BA not be pleased, that's the crew Hannibal has his eye on." He studied the grim expressions around the table and then Forsythe's slightly uneasy one. "Maybe we can break this up before it gets out of control."
Ray stood up and walked over to the table. "Is there a problem here?" he asked sternly.
Forsythe had seen them enter, knowing that Ray also was one of Colonel Smith's men. Brenner was too honest to be involved in one of his sidelines, but he still had plans for Peck. The simple challenge of circumventing authority should be enough to get him involved. Better not to play too heavy a hand here, he could always deal with St. James later. As the door gunner said, 'He wasn't going anywhere.'
"No problem, Lieutenant," Forsythe smiled easily. "Just a little misunderstanding." He half-turned from Ray, glaring down at Remy. His voice was still light, belaying the threatening words. "We'll finish this another time." He looked back at Ray. "Lieutenant?"
Ray nodded and watched Forsythe turn and walk away. He glanced back at the table, exchanging troubled looks with the other officer. Curious to know what the conflict was, he also realized this wasn't the place to discuss discipline problems.
As Forsythe left, Cass relaxed the careful watch he had been keeping on Remy, shifting in his seat. Seeing the crew chief was distracted, Remy pushed his chair back as he stood and snapped his arm in a throwing motion. Cass grabbed at him, but was too late.
The object hit Forysthe in the back of the head. Both Pete and Murdock came to their feet as Remy moved but were too late to stop the door gunner.
Having caught hold of Remy, Cass slammed him into his seat as Ray moved to intercept Forysthe on his way back. "Let it go," the lieutenant ordered, as he blocked the path to the table.
Mindful of Ray's rank, Forsythe was careful not to do anything threatening. "You saw what he did," the sergeant protested, watching uneasily as BA nonchalantly came to his feet and flexed his muscles.
"I also know you've been harassing him," the lieutenant returned, standing his ground. "Don't make me fill out a formal complaint." He looked the sergeant in the eye, and suggested, "You'd better find another bar for the night."
Forsythe risked another covert glance around the bar. They had everyone's attention by this point. He nodded tightly, answering "Yes, Sir" as he gathered up his people with a glance, and left the bar.
Ray looked again at Murdock, who nodded. St. James was the pilot's responsibility and Ray had no intention of taking over. He turned and walked back to where Face waited at the bar.
Curiously, Face watched Ray's approached. "Why didn't you say something to St. James?" he protested. "He seems to have it in for everyone."
Ray shook his head as he settled back on his stool. "He's Murdock's problem. Besides, Forsythe's the one pushing for a fight." Glancing back at the table, he added, "Maybe Hannibal can get Forsythe transferred."
"Maybe he can get St. James transferred," Face muttered, sourly.It would be easier around the chopper. He didn't see how Murdock could handle the mercurial door gunner on a daily basis.
"He's really quite good in the chopper," Ray countered, "and deadly on the ground. Both Murdock and Polanczyk have fought attempts to have him taken off their ship." He smiled at the frustration on the younger officer's face. "You're just going to have to find a way to deal with him. He's going to keep pushing until you do."
Easy for you to say, Face thought, glancing back to the table, where things appeared to have calmed down as the crew reseated themselves. He winced, thinking about how hard the easy-going crew chief had put St. James back in his chair. Maybe, that's one more person of which to be wary.
"Ow," Remy stated flatly, glaring fiercely at the crew chief. He resisted the urge to rub the part of his anatomy that took the brunt of the impact.
"You're lucky I don't turn you over my knee," the crew chief growled. "Sometimes you don't have the brains you were born with." He watched the door gunner coldly, not intimidated by his scowl.
"Wasn't born with any," the gunner shot back, the feral look back in his eyes. "Should go finish this, now," he continued ominously. His eyes narrowed as he looked toward the door, shifting to rise.
"Sit down, St. James," Murdock snapped, glaring at the specialist. "You get out of that chair, I will have the MPs pick you up." He regarded the door gunner authoritatively, as he continued, "You can spend the night in the stockade."
Remy turned his glare at the pilot, who stared evenly back. After a long, uneasy silence, the door gunner relaxed and sat back. "Yes, sir," he said impertinently, holding the pilot's gaze a moment longer before looking down and shifting his chair closer to the table. He picked up his beer mug and tipped it, staring down to the bottom. It was empty.
Damn, he thought as he set it down, pushing it away from him in frustration. A full mug appeared in front of him. Startled, he turned to the peter pilot, who smiled uncertainly. Remy returned the smile, still a little tight, and felt some of the tension leave him. He sipped beer, while listening to the bar slowly fill again with the sounds of people having a good time.
This situation needed to be dealt with eventually. Now that Forsythe had located him, the sergeant would continue applying pressure until Remy capitulated. The requests were always so reasonable at the beginning. Then Forsythe would give him a small respite, before starting again. Like a Chinese finger puzzle, we both need to let go or we stay at this impasse. Remy had no intentions of ratting out the sergeant. Forsythe could involve him in too many things, some in which he was actually guilty.
Remy glanced across at the bar, where Face and Ray were talking. He knew Forsythe was interested in that lieutenant. A con man, if what Malueg had said was true. He still wasn't sure if he should warn Peck or let him get involved, hoping it would appease Forsythe enough to back off on his demands.
He pushed away the thought, listening instead to the small talk being bantered around the table. With the absence of Forsythe, that subject had been temporarily shelved, a full bar not conductive to serious discussion. Hiding his amusement behind an impassive face, he listened as Murdock and Cass were again trying to convince BA of joining the chopper crew. Unable to verbally spar with both their agile minds, BA was reduced to glaring and growling. Remy couldn't blame him; he had found himself in that position too many times.
The jukebox changed tunes again, back to something more appropriate for dancing. Remy pushed back his chair, then stopped as the pilot lifted his brows and pointed at the chair. The door gunner sat sullenly and watched as the other three went to find dance partners.
BA looked questioningly at the gunner. "Aren't you gonna dance?"
Remy scowled, slouching down in his chair and folding his arms. "I'm grounded," he grumbled.
The sergeant glanced toward the pilot and back to Remy. "For how long?" he asked.
Remy shrugged, annoyed at the question. He watched Peck walk over to the nurse's table. The lieutenant was charming and--judging by the nurses' reactions--flattering as well. The door gunner's eyes narrowed, as Peck convinced Renee to join him on the dance floor.
BA also watched Face with the nurse. He studied the door gunner, not sure of his reaction. The lieutenant had an eye for women and wasn't shy about going after what he wanted. They had already pulled him out too many similar situations and BA could see problems here.
Remy shrugged again, seeing BA's scrutiny. "She's a big girl. She can dance with whomever she pleases," the door gunner said, dismissively. His eyes said otherwise.
Not sure if it was really that easy, BA was relieved when the record changed and the crew chief went to dance with Renee. Face clearly wasn't pleased with losing his partner, though he never lost his smile. She had glanced over at the table before going with Cass, obviously puzzled as why Remy hadn't asked her.
He glanced again at the door gunner for his reaction. Remy hadn't said much, but BA knew he was paying close attention, whatever his words.
Remy caught the second glance and smiled. "Dancing with Cass is like dancing with the Pope. You know nothing is going to happen." He picked up his beer, leaning back as he watched that couple dance.
BA looked at him puzzled. "Why not?" The women all seemed attracted to the crew chief.
"He's married. Period. End of discussion, as far as he's concerned," the door gunner replied as he turned back to the table. His impish grin made him look ten years younger as he continued, "To the disappointment of most of the women here." The mug raised to toast the crew chief.
BA turned again to the dance floor. Cass and the nurse were talking as they danced, glancing toward the table. As the music ended, they separated. Cass went to find another partner, while the nurse walked over to Remy.
She smiled a greeting at BA, then turned to the door gunner. "Dance with me," she told him.
Remy shifted uneasily, looking up at her. "Renee, I . . ." he started.
"That was an order, mister," she said sternly.
Remy glanced at BA, looking for help. He turned back to the nurse and protested, "But Murdock . . ."
"Are you disobeying a direct order?" she asked, folding her arms as she frowned down at him, without a hint of a smile.
"No, ma'am, but . . ."
"Then let's go," she said. She grasped his hand and towed him toward the dance floor.
Offering token resistance, Remy accompanied her. Glancing back at BA, he shrugged and spread his free hand helplessly. He shook his head and spoke to the nurse as they danced.
Amused, BA scanned the room, locating the pilot just as Murdock noted the empty chair. The pilot's gaze surveyed the room, looking for the door gunner. Locating the crew chief instead, he made an interrogative gesture at him.
Cass nodded toward the couple. Remy, apparently, was still unsuccessfully pleading his case. As they watched, Renee reached up and laid her finger across his lips, silencing the protests. She then leaned forward and kissed him.
The men exchanged conspiring glances and the pilot pulled his face into a scowl. Cass laughed and turned his attention back to his partner.
As the music ended, the crew made their way back to the table. They were all seated by the time Remy had walked Renee back to hers and returned.
Murdock looked sternly at Remy, "I told you to stay in your seat."
The door gunner protested, "But, Renee . . .ah, the lieutenant . . . said . . .." Faltering, he looked around the table for help.
BA looked uncertainly from Murdock to Cass, who both scowled at the door gunner, wondering if he should intervene. He hadn't thought the pilot would be unreasonable. He watched Pete's initial confusion smooth out into a barely concealed smile.
The silence stretched as Remy struggled for an explanation. He stared down at the table, back at Murdock, and then looked helplessly toward the nurse's table.
As he did so, the three chopper crewmen exchanged looks and burst out laughing. Cass signaled the waitress for more drinks. He turned to the door gunner and made the same gesture Remy had earlier, chalking one up on an imaginary scoreboard.
Remy snorted. He looked around for something to throw, but there wasn't anything left that wouldn't cause serious damage. Shaking his head ruefully, he reached for the fresh drink the waitress brought. "Why do I go out with you guys?" he muttered.
The pilot glanced at his watch. The bar was starting to empty as people headed out, finished for the night. "Should call it a night," he said. "Just one more thing." He looked at the crew chief and smiled teasingly.
Pete frowned at the pilot, then picked up on the thought. "How old are you, Cass?" he asked as his face also curved into a considering smile.
Cass opened his mouth to reply, then shut it abruptly, belatedly realizing what they were up to. "Oh, no you don't," he shook his head in protest, a reluctant grin on his face.
Remy lifted his brows in mock puzzlement as he glanced sideways at the crew chief, "What was that? A hundred?"
Cass shook his finger at the door gunner. "Don't even think about it." He glanced warily around the table, the reluctant grin still on his face, watching for any movement.
As BA watched in amusement, wondering if they were serious, they heard the sound of mortars and felt the tremors as they hit. "Sounds like the airfield," he said, but the chopper crew was already on their feet and headed toward the door.
BA joined Face and Ray as they exited the building. The night attacks were usually of short duration, but the flimsy building that housed the bar provided no shelter. The three made their way quickly toward the airfield, checking that the defenses they passed were manned.
Before they reached the airfield, the incoming fire had stopped. The heliport bustled with activity as the crews hurried to get the choppers airborne; both to scout for the enemy and to provide less of a target than sitting on the ground.
They watched as the "Lady Crazy" flashed by overhead. Murdock had gotten his bird off and was headed out, away from the base.
BA didn't envy the crew. It had been a long night and would be longer for them before they had any opportunity for sleep. He headed for his bunk, wondering in idle amusement if, when they were finally through, Cass would get the birthday spanking that they had insinuated. As he quickly got ready for bed, he decided they probably would. He fell sleep with an amused smile still on his face.
Author's notes:
Elephants are normally gray in color. In certain areas of Vietnam, especially by some rivers, the soil is red. When the elephants would roll in the mud to cool off, it gave their skin a reddish color.
The military uses a code of letters and numbers to indicate a soldier's rank, area of expertise, etc. This is known as a Military Occupation Specialty or MOS. O62B indicates a UH-1 Iroquois (military designation of a Huey) pilot who is a warrant officer, rather than a commissioned officer. All pilots are officers, the difference being: warrant officers are appointed, not commissioned, and occupational specialists, not in line for command positions. Most of the pilots in Vietnam were actually warrant officers. 67N2 is a UH-1 Crew Chief, rank Sergeant.