by CDR Jack D. Woodul, USNR(Ret), artwork by Carl Snow
The pitiless Yuma sun burned down on the hapless plane captain as he emerged from the relative cool of the sleazy temporary building that served as the squadron's deployment ready room. It was filthy work, but it must be done. He had been assigned Dirtball duty for the 1300 launch.
Already, the industrious plane captain had collected a nav bag left in the ready room. At approximately 30-yd. intervals, he retrieved a Martin-Baker leg restraint, a kneeboard and, from maintenance control, a flight helmet. Rushing out to the flight line, the plane captain, the ready equipment, the world-famous, fighting wonder LT Dirtball and a waiting F-8 rendezvoused in a miracle of operational preplanning.
Many squadrons perhaps had folks of this ilk,
Puresome knew, but the original icon, the pinnacle, guru and
essence of all Dirtballismo had to be their own. Tall and
saturninely handsome, Dirtball had been an honest-to-gosh West
Coast F-8 driver. Despite being an excellent stick, his detached
approach to what was happening kept him in heated water with his commandantes.
Dirtball was extremely intelligent—the problem was he
dedicated only a smidgen of his considerable gray matter to
whatever was going on. The rest of his mind was devoted to
oblique and lofty scams. That, and the fact that his military
appearance made dog squeeze look good, finally led to his being
invited to find work elsewhere during the reduction in force
following the Big War.
That he was being involuntarily deprived of a career in his chosen profession caused Dirtball to become unusually focused. He checked out law books, transformed himself into a sly sea-lawyer and successfully sued the government for depriving him of the - opportunity of driving the Naval establishment bat-guano. Not surprisingly, he won a considerable bag of dinero in the process.
Dirtball showed up on the doorsteps of the Reserves after depleting this largesse, as he needed cash to finance his battle with various airlines who had not seen fit to hire him. Dazzled by his operational F-8 credentials and the prospect of another full-time reserve bum, the Old Fudd selection board snapped him up, and he duly found his place on Puresome's squadron roster.
Due to reports by other West Coast F-8 jocks in the squadron, Dirtball's legend and nickname preceded him—he was Dirtball from square one. However, he wasn't really Dirtball until he starred in "The Ballad of Greasy Rider."
Dollops of active-duty money fell upon the Reservista squadron from time to time to be snapped up by reserve bums with lots of time available to supplement their drill pay. So it was that Dirtball pounced on a two-week school happening at fighter-pilot paradise, NAS Miramar, on the sunny south coast of California.
Jumping on this opportunity to scam like the legendary duck upon a June bug, Dirtball produced a plan. The deal was this—instead of spending the authorized travel money on airline tickets, Dirtball would ride his 250 Yamaha motorcycle from his snake ranch on the range to San Diego and back, costing him zippedy-do-dah, and pocket the considerable difference. The fact that he would ride perched atop a motorcycle for some two, two and a half days across desert and mountain pass, alternately frying and freezing, deterred him not.
And so, dressed in shorts, T-shirt, flip-flops and Ray-Bans, Dirtball rolled up his uniform, the world's raunchiest flight jacket and some shave stuff, bagged it on behind him and putted off to disappear into the western haze.
"You dumbshit," thought Puresome with admiration.
Of course, Dirtball was an instant hit when he arrived at Miramar, whose powers had thought they were done with him. Fried a deep brown, covered with grease and bugs on his teeth, Dirtball impressed the Regular Navy enough to pass their observations back to the Reserve squadron big guys. Their reaction to this less-than-welcome report was enough to ensure his unique and long-remembered spot in the squadron pantheon of characters.
Dirtball earned an entry in the squadron dictionary and a place on Puresome's blacklist during a two-plane hop that Puresome led. Climbing out in the goo en route to the operating area, Puresome's Crusader didn't have a transponder, and Dirtball, tacked onto Puresome's right wing, did all the squawking and identing requested by the air traffic control folks.
Puresome was locked onto the gages when the good ol' boys at Fort Worth Center requested an ident. Glancing first in his right-hand mirror and then the left, Puresome realized with horror that Dirtball was not with him. He also felt the hair rising on his neck, realizing that ATC was up to something. Maybe, just maybe, Dirtball would be hip enough not to squawk ident and prove he and Puresome weren't in standard formation. Before he could say anything, Dirtball's "Roger, ident," came over the airways.
"Alpha Fox 112, are you holding hands with Alpha Fox 103?" queried the controller.
"Negative, Alpha Fox 112 is in one-mile radar trail."
"Holy mierda!" thought Puresome, as ATC launched into a prissy mini-lecture on Federale Air Regulations concerning the requirement to stick together in formation while flying in instrument conditions. "Now I got to call up and make nice."
But back on the ground, the Federales, in a snit, had Puresome lined up in their sights as the flight leader, non-observer of rules and probable child molester. Plead as he might, the incident seemed to gain a life of its own, and Puresome was about to be hammered. Dirtball, of course, was dreamily bemused by the whole proceeding, no matter how hard Puresome chewed on his butt.
Finally, the skipper showed up from some two-week junket around the Orient, took pity on Puresome and worked out a complicated pleabargain deal that involved counseling and a certain amount of public service. Puresome emerged with a couple more notches in his beautocks and several notches wiser. Dirtball became Dirtballier, and the phrase "Dirtball trail" gained currency in squadron jargon.
Dirtball eventually joined up with a commercial outfit and drifted away from the Reservistas. The last thing Puresome heard was a rumor that the IRS was mad as hell about something, but Dirtball had turned states' evidence and buggered off, scot-free.
Somehow, this didn't surprise Puresome one bit.