Well, there we were at the Last Chance restaurant (no grease just good eats) on Friday night. There was me, Bubba, Joe Bob and the Italian Babe chomping down on all you can eat catfish. I looked around and surveyed the situation. Over in the corner was Tommy the tattoo man sitting with a blue haired lady. Off to the side I could see Chuckles the clown making balloon figures for the little kids. Up front Jim Paul and the Texas Boys were knocking out some Willie Nelson tunes. Even though we had a full house something just didn’t seem right. It was like something was missing. Then I heard it, off in the distance, the thunder, the rumble, the roar. As that thumping and clanging grew closer anticipation ran through the crowd like a spark of static electricity. A great “Varooom” and the squeal of tires and breaks announced the arrival of the Parker County Range Riders, those daredevils of the road on their magnificent glow in the dark machines, the king of the road, the Harley Davidson motorcycle.

Nurse Susan was moving on down the line trying to avoid the leaks from the old army mess tent. Particularly she was trying to avoid the eye of the scruffy Air Corps motorcycle messengers sitting near the old scratchy phonograph machine. For the fifth time that night the Glenn Miller song “The White Cliffs of Dover” was playing as she looked around for the young handsome Lieutenant Clark, the guy with the big sparkling brown eyes. She thought it strange that for a Friday night an emptiness prevailed in the 357th Fighter Group mess. Then she heard it, off in the distance, “Whup, Whup, Blam, Blam, Bam Bam Bam!” It started slowly at first but then came the roar of those 12 cylinder engines. Then it hit her, young handsome Lieutenant Clark was in his magnificent flying machine, the ace of the sky, the P51 fighter. With the squeal of brakes unlocking and the hiss of tires rolling they were off across the channel once more, those defenders of freedom and their magnificent flying machines.

Bubba who was full of that all you can eat catfish eased slowly back in his chair. He looked around in satisfaction and waived to a few friends. Then he kind of slipped sideways and smoothly moved off to the dartboard. I could see him flexing his muscles under that black leather motorcycle jacket, then with a jerk of his head he announced, “Let’s have a party.

At 30,000 feet Lieutenant Clark eased slowly back on the stick and checked to see that he had full manifold pressure. Then he pushed the pedal and slipped into a dive. He waived at his wingman and pointed to the gray fighters trying to sneak across the channel in the twilight. With muscles tensing under his leather flight jacket he hit the “Arm” switch, watched the gun sight do its job, squinted through the crosshairs. Suddenly the fighters below were nose up and screaming towards the evening clouds hoping to get topside on the Mustangs. Lieutenant Clarke snapped his head up, jerked his goggles down and hollered into the mike, “Bandits at High Noon, Let’s Go Guys.” The fight was on.

I watched the Parker County Range Riders tromp into the Last Chance restaurant. Their tired faces, their muddy boots, their wet greasy clothes, told me that it had been a rough ride. They sprawled out across the restaurant ordering up cold beer and hot coffee all around. Suddenly I was spotted and over come a few of those grease monkeys seeking out my autograph. With caution I pull out my trusty fountain pen and scribble away. Out of the corner of my eye I see Bubba flinging darts with wild abandon.

Nurse Susan had just settled in her seat when the flaps of the 357th Fighter Group mess tent were flung open as if all inhibitions had been thrown to the wind. Pouring into the mess were the mechanics, the fuelers, the ammo loaders from the flight line. Tired men in greasy coveralls shouting for a cup of hot Java. Chief Mechanic J. Howard sits down next to Nurse Susan and with a smile says, “How about your signature on this three day medical pass?” Warily Nurse Susan pulls out her trusty fountain pen.

Bubba is red hot now, the leader of the pack. Darts are flying through the air like red rockets on the 4th of July. Bubba is doing this twist and shout each time he lets one fly. He’s jerking to the left, jerking to the right, and shouting, “Hot diggity.” I see him reach down for a dart. I see him pick up my Parker 51 fountain pen. I see his arm cock. The steely squinty-eyed look on his face tells me that this time it’s go for broke. No Bubba! No! Zing - it flies through the air. I see this trail of dark red ink streaming out of the pen. I see the pen make a beautiful arch; I see the power as it slams into the dartboard. The walls shake, the glass rattles, a stillness settles over the room.

Lieutenant Clark leads the pack in a tight turn. The machinegun bullets are flying through the air, their red tracers arching through the sky. Great balls of fire are exploding all around. The Lieutenant is hot tonight, he jerks the stick to the left, he jerks the stick to the right, slams the pedals, yank and bank; flip, flop and fly, he screams out, “Freddie, bandit on your six, break right, break right!” Then the canopy shatters, the wings shake, and he sees the trail of dark red coolant streaming by, and he knows. With a steely glare he squints at the gauges. No power, no engine noise, he’s all alone in the still of the night.

Oh, Boy! The damage to my 51 looks like the front end of an Oldsmobile Rocket “88” after hitting a guardrail. In a frenzy all of the Parker County Range Riders come running over to check the damage. Leroy shouts, “C’mon everybody, look at this, Woo-Hoo, what a mess.” At this point I felt no mercy towards Bubba, the little demon had done ruined my pen. Bubba looks up and says, “I’m sorry, I wish it had been somethin’ else besides your old pen.” I just say, “That’s all right Bubba.” “I’m going to fix your 51 for you Will, I am even if I have to work all night long.” I believe what you say Bubba (and I believe in the tooth fairy!).

Over there, over there on the left the Lieutenant sees the harbor lights, the runway is just ahead. As misty as it is he can see the edge of the runway. Dead sticking it in, he lines up, flips the flaps 10 degrees, slow down baby, let the nose settle, wheels on the ground, roll to a stop. Chief Mechanic J. Howard and the rest of the grease monkeys come streaming out of the mess heading to Lieutenant Clark and his beat up P51. Up on the wing, unbuckle the pilot, no injuries, jerk him out, check for fire. How you feel Lieutenant? I feel good Chief, I’m shakin’ a bit after that race with the devil. Chief looks at the damage, shakes his head and says he can fix it; they might have to work all night long though. Lieutenant says, “I’m walkin’ over to the mess tent, let me know when I’m ready to roll. Lots of hand clappin’ when the Lieutenant enters the mess. One of the motorcycle messengers yells out, “Wake up little Suzie, your brown-eyed handsome man has arrived.” Nurse Susan explodes into jumps, giggles and shouts until she’s breathless then she has a good cry.

Me, Bubba, Joe Bob and the Italian Babe walk out of the Last Chance heading for home. I hear Bubba whistling a tune. What’s that song you’re whistling Bubba? Oh just some old Glenn Miller tune Will, for some reason, it’s been on my mind all night.

Copyright 2007. All rights reserved. No part of this article may be reprinted in any form without permission of the author except for brief editorial quotes.