“We have that meeting at one o’clock,” I said, looking at my watch. “When do you want to go to lunch?”
“What’s the meeting about?” my friend Charles asked.
“I’m not sure, but it must be important. It’s for all officers. We better leave now if we want to eat off base.”
It was a Saturday in early spring. We were Weekend Warriors, Naval Flight Officers, in the Navy Reserve. Charles and I were in the same crew; I was the Tactical Coordinator, he was the Navigator. We were in our squadron’s ready room charting out our flight for Sunday.
It was the early 1970’s, Nixon was president, and Americans were demonstrating at home while still fighting in Vietnam. Our squadron was flying out of the Naval Air Station Willow Grove, a reserve base north of Philadelphia.
Charles and I had been flying together for over two years and had a lot in common. We were the same rank - full lieutenants, veterans of Vietnam, and college students in our civilian lives. We generally had lunch together once a month when we played Weekend Warriors. While at lunch we would talk about school, politics, and the war. Our war talks usually included regular updates about guys we knew: guys who were still flying combat missions, still getting shot down, still dying.
We wanted to have lunch off base; the chow at the officer’s mess was bland and the atmosphere drab. It was my turn to drive, and we selected a restaurant close to the main gate. We ordered cokes instead of the usual beers; we didn’t want to doze off during the meeting. Skipping dessert, we left the restaurant in plenty of time for the one o’clock meeting.
At the main gate there was only one car in front of us, a dark blue Oldsmobile sedan several years old. The white-haired couple in the front seat appeared all dressed up, maybe their Sunday best. I noticed that the woman was wearing a small Mamie Eisenhower hat.
The man, the driver, was talking to the Marine guard at the gate. The guard was very expressive, pointing down the main road and then making slashing motions as if giving directions. He appeared to be repeating himself several times.
“Damn! What’s the holdup?” I said more to myself than to my friend. I was becoming restless; it was getting close to one o’clock. Charles didn’t say anything.
Finally the Olds moved through the gate and down the main road. I quickly pulled up. Since my car had a base bumper sticker and we were in uniform, Charles and I were waved through with a snappy Marine salute.
It did not take me long to catch up to the white-haired couple. The speed limit on base was only twenty-five miles an hour. I was going my usual five to ten miles above the limit. They were barely going fifteen miles an hour. The double yellow lines on the main road kept me from passing. I was willing to violate the speed limit, but not the no-passing zone. Base police could easily spot no-passing violators.
“Damn!” I repeated aloud, again to myself.
Now I was getting real jittery; it was getting close to one o’clock. I could see the white-haired couple talking, shaking their heads. They were confused, even though they were only a few hundred yards from the main gate. Finally they pulled to the side of the road and I was able to pass.
“Pull over,” Charles said just when I was passing the Oldsmobile.
Shaking my head, but trusting my Navigator, I pulled to the side of the road ahead of the Olds. Charles got out of my car and walked back to them. He talked to the old man but quickly returned, coming to my side of the car. I rolled down the window.
“They’re going to the theater. I’ll ride with them. Why don’t you follow?” Charles paused; I nodded okay. He added, “I’ll explain later.”
I consented, now resigned to being late for the meeting, maybe even getting a verbal reprimand from our captain. Charles went back and got into the rear of the Oldsmobile, settling himself midway on the backseat, between the couple. The Oldsmobile turned unto the road and I pulled out behind it. I could see my friend leaning forward, talking to them. From time to time he would point the directions to turn to the old man. I struggled with my inner demons not to tailgate.
Eventually we turned into the theater’s parking lot. Charles got out and said his farewells. I could see that the couple was very grateful; they were smiling and waving good-bye. The lady wore white gloves to go along with the Mamie Eisenhower hat. They continued to wave at my friend as he got into in my car. As I drove away they also waved at me; I could see that they were thanking me as well. I waved back in acknowledgement.
Once on our way, Charles told me the old couple’s story. Their son was a Navy fighter pilot flying off the carrier, Hancock. Charles told me the pilot’s name, but Charles and I didn’t know him.
“He was shot down over North Vietnam,” Charles continued. “That was over three years ago. There’s no trace of him; no one saw he eject. He’s listed as missing in action. They believe he’s still alive and will be coming home someday. I told them that I hoped so too. But I don’t think so; it’s more likely that he’s dead.”
“Yeah,” I contributed.
“The Navy is giving a briefing to the relatives of MIA’s and POW’s. You would think that the base would do a better job as host. They should have had some personnel at the gate to take them to the theater, or at least provide some directions, some maps.”
“Yeah,” I repeated myself and continued, “It’s after one. I hope we’re not too late.” I felt sorry for the old couple, but what could I have done to help? Once more my focus quickly returned to the meeting. In the Navy, meetings were considered direct orders; officers especially had to be on time.
I got up to forty going back to our office. The two of us walked into the training room fifteen minutes after one. The room was half-empty and the meeting hadn’t even started!
“Where is everybody?” I asked, again mostly to myself.
“Welcome to the reserves!” one of the pilots said giving the reserve salute – shoulders hunched and palms pointing upwards. Evidently meetings in the Navy Reserve were not the same as in the real Navy.
Charles and I sat down and joined the small talk. More guys drifted in. The meeting finally started at one-twenty.
Throughout the years I have often thought about the parents of the fallen pilot, alone in their Oldsmobile. Each time I think about them, I always envision my own mom and dad. In the 1970s, their hair not yet white, Mom would also be in her Sunday best and Dad in his only suit. They also may be alone, but in a silver Ford Falcon. And each time I think about the white-haired couple, I thank my friend for telling me to pull over.
By the way, I can’t remember what the one o’clock meeting was about.