After flying and not seeing any WP in the skies, a lonely Named, thirsty and saddle sore, parks his bullet riddled plane at his usual hanger. An eerie silence fills their. It being Sunday , he didn't expect Chief Petty Officer Wrench Turner to be anywhere near hanger two.Surely though one of the fine Petty Officers or Non Comma would be close at hand.
Checking his Timex, hesighs and leather helmet in hand trudges over to the Den. As he stuffs his rumpled Garrison cap on, he returns a salute from a young airmen. The young airman scurries off as if he has seen a ghost. Perhaps he has.
As he approaches the hatch to the Den, the base all hands club, he grins. On the door are the patches from the original three hunt groups. He rubs a stiff paw over the names listed under the Charlie insignia. He stops at his own name. Listed as a squadron air Marshall, he was a young gun back then. A brief minute for guys no longer here, he pulls the hatch open.
Silent... The young Sergeant tending bar, is staring at his cell phone. The TV is tuned to Face The Nation, and only one person , some new kid, sits alone at the corner table. Named nods but he kid just looks uninterested back at him. Planting himself at stable he orders Shellback Rum and a Devil Dog with onions and chili cheese.
The Sargent says " No food here on Sunday. Got some stale pretzels though." Named just hangs his head...
Where has everyone gone? Will the Den ever be the same? Until now, he thought the Den was the place. Apparently some new communication thing is taking over. Sadly Navmedwals back to his plane, gets the Spackle,and dabs the holes. He hits it with the heater, paints it and seals it. "Not bad, it will do" Where is the hanger crew? So, he turns the plane around, taxis out to the fuelpit, hops out, refuels,leaves his fuel voucher and rolls to the taxi area. No response to his request for clearance, he guns the throttle and rolls out left to fly another mission. Maybe, just maybe,today he will find a WP or a GI.