by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow

Nobody at Tailhook much noticed that Puresome was wandering around the second deck of the Nugget Hotel with an ice pick buried up to the hilt in his forehead. The Little-Man-With-The-Ice-Pick had left it there after Puresome had attended a gathering of The Usual Suspects the night before at a ritual Scotch-a-thon. A sampling of boiled, baked, fried, fricasseed, glace’d single malt scotch whiskey was served with the proviso that, after the cap or cork was removed and flung away, the bottle had to be emptied completely lest peat fumes cause the polar ice caps to melt even more. Even though none of the scotch juice consumed earned the amusing, yet flaccid label, a jolly time was had by all. Eventually Puresome actually found his way back to his own room.

But at least one of the solitary ice cubes that decorated his many glasses must have been imported from Bolivia and seasoned with llama discards, because morning found Youthly unaccountably wounded and considering either some dog hair to get back up on the step or ending it all with a butter knife from the restaurant.

He had just decided on the butter knife solution when there arrived the Great Disturbance in the Force — something like the whirling mini-tornado that used to accompany the Tasmanian Devil in the cartoons. When the dust settled some, it revealed the Great Whiz, founder and king of the Skyhawk Association, waving his arms and talking in Gatling gun speed ethnic. When translated from Cajun Puresome realized that Whiz was asking him something rather like “Did he want to get a ride in a P-51?” Given a reason to live and a reprieve from the butter knife, the only possible answer was, “Hale, yes!”

The Great Whiz, now a dentista in Bossier City, Louisiana, somehow knew everybody in the known universe, and two pals of his had flown a T-28C and a P-51 from LaLaLandia to Tailhook. Of course, they had asked Whiz to come along on a local fam hop, and he had fortunately spotted Youthly before any other candidates showed up. An afternoon rendezvous was arranged, and Puresome, lacking flight gloves that might be filled if needed, went about healing himself.

The Good Ol’ Boys had a couple of beautiful airplanes. The T-28 Chuck was painted up in orange and white Naval Air Training Command colors and the P-51, named “Risky Business,” was highly polished aluminum. The T-28, with Whiz in the back seat, would lead the two-ship flight. Puresome was squoze into a wee jump seat behind the pilot in the Mustang as number two. Feeling rather better and hugely excited, Puresome watched the T-28’s big round engine clatter to life in a puff of exhaust smoke and settle down to a happy roar. Whiz had just signaled him a happy “thumbs up!” when a whole mess of sectional charts and other papers sucked out of the front cockpit of the T-28 and disappeared down the flight line. “We don’t need no steenkin’ maps!” he thought, and concentrated to the throaty roar of the Mustang’s Merlin engine. But, being long acquainted with Grong’s deviltries, he might have figgered that the Goat God was up their frequency.

The section taxied out among gaily painted many-motored airliners and they did a run-up to check all the mysterious things that round and in-line “V” reciprocating engines needed checking. The noise, coming from in front, was tremendous, and even though it resonated the fillings in his teeth, the sensations caused Puresome to grin a fierce grin.

The T-28 called for a takeoff for two, and the section taxied on the runway. Everything looked tickedy-boo, and the T-28 roared away. Ten seconds later, Puresome’s pilot shoved the coals to the Mustang, and off they went. The tail came up right away, and gear and flaps followed shortly. Out in front of them, the T-28 had started a right turnout, and the Mustang cut inside the turn for join-up. “Whut’s that?” thought Puresome. “The T-28’s taken a hit! He’s streaming fuel from his left wing!” But, he hadn’t seen any tracers or missile trails from neighborhood casinos, so, it had to be … the left wing fuel cap hadn’t been secured! Puresome’s pilot kindly radio’ed the T-28 to inform him of that fact, and its disgusted pilot acknowledged and asked the tower to let him land. Puresome should have known better than to think “Nonny nonny boo-boo!” as Risky Business proceeded to go have righteous fun, but he did.

Shortly thereafter, the Mustang’s Merlin engine started going pocketa-pocketa-gleep. Indeed, Grong, the Goat God, had heard him exult and had zorched the engine. They hadn’t even left the traffic pattern, and his pilot declared a rough-runner and asked for an emergency landing, greasing it on the runway they’d just left. They pulled off on a taxiway and the pilot ran the engine up and leaned the mixture, trying to clear clogged plugs. The best he got was pocketa-gleep. Since the situation was still pear-shaped, they taxied back to the ramp and shut down. About that time, the Great Whiz and his pilot were taxiing out, having remedied the missing fuel cap problem. Whiz thumbed his nose, and off they flew.

When Whiz got back, it was evident that he had been thinking “Nonny nonny boo-boo!” too, but they went off, and Whiz got to do loops and whifferdills from the back seat. After some 30 minutes of ’splaining to Puresome how much fun it had been, the Great Disturbance in the Force wound his arms up to speed and disappeared in a mini-tornado cloud of dust.

“That’s all right, dirtbag! I could log a point-two of back seat P-51 time if I really wanted to!”

But Puresome knew that he had messed with the bull and caught the horn, messed with the butcher and got the cleaver. It didn’t matter that his strength was not as the strength of ten because of peat fumes. You don’t ever say “Nonny nonny boo boo!” until you get back. Especially if Grong and a Great Disturbance in the Force might be buds.