The Age of Bush, Part III: TANG Dang Doodle

Part III of a continuing series chronicling the life and times of President George Walker Bush.

Click here for part I.

Click here for part II.



Part III: TANG Dang Doodle

"Houston… Shit… Still only in Houston."

Lieutenant Bush opened his eyes gradually against the Texas sun, realizing wearily that he'd once again passed out in the middle of Ellington Field's main runway the night before. Memories of a frenetic bar crawl through downtown Houston came back to him on waves of nausea. He hoisted himself upright, queasily watching the heat waves boogaloo over the tarmac. An open Heileman's Old Style can sat nearby. He grabbed it, and finding it mostly full, chugged its hot, flat contents in a single gulp. "Good to the last drop," he thought. "Heh."

It was 1968, a fateful year for America, and Texas Air National Guardsman George W. Bush was flying F-102s out of Ellington.

Outside the base, the world roiled with race riots, antiwar protests, free love, talk of revolution. Perhaps worst of all, those wholesome Cowsills were in danger of being nudged out of the Billboard Top 10 by such hippie drivel as "Jumpin' Jack Flash" and "Hurdy Gurdy Man". To Lieutenant Bush, the world seemed poised on the brink of a moral and musical precipice.

Still a rookie, his prowess in the cockpit was already so fearsome that the Viet Cong had so far not dared to infiltrate the area, though the scuttlebutt had it that they'd hit Woolworth's and a few other high-value targets up in Abilene.

With his father now a rich Congressman, Lieutenant Bush could have coasted in the Texas Air National Guard. But his jib simply wasn't cut that way. Most days he was up at 4:45 AM, peeling half a ton of potatoes before ironing 40 or so copies of the day's Houston Chronicle, lest senior officers have difficulty turning the pages. Then it was out to the hangar to wash his beloved plane, which he had puckishly christened "Peruvian Flake". Finally, as the rest of Ellington was waking, Bush would repair to the base chapel and pray that none of his squadron would encounter Charlie that day, but that if they did, mainstream American values and a couple of dozen FFARs would prevail over the godless yellow hordes.

He took his rare leisure time just as seriously. Friends and acquaintances on the base got into fistfights for the privilege of having a beer with him, foreshadowing the day when all freedom-loving Americans would vie for the same honor. All the career girls on the cheatin' side of town knew and loved him. They were enthralled not only by his little heat-seeking missile, but by his easy way with a rolled-up Benjamin and a bag of sneezing powder, his abiding patriotism and his sophisticated humor.

Yet his outward poise masked deep unease. The Tet Offensive was in full swing, panic permeated the halls of the Pentagon, and even some dependably compliant Republicans were beginning to speak out against the war, their misgivings fueled by a steady diet of Socialist claptrap from the likes of Walter Cronkite. Bush worried most that LBJ might pull the plug on the war before the young ace got a chance to dance the skies over Southeast Asia on laughter-silvered wings and kill some Japs, or whatever those people were called.

He wrote directly to the White House and the Joint Chiefs almost daily. "Please, Mr. President," one such letter read, "You're the decider. You have to send me over there. You just have to." Finally he had to admit to himself that trying to reason with a pinko like Johnson was pointless. There had to be another way to join the noble struggle.

One evening, he crept out to the hangar and taxied "Peruvian Flake" quietly out to the runway. The familiar preflight routine came so naturally to him that it was as if he didn't have to think at all.

"Engine; check. Wings; check. Jim Beam; check. Blow; check. Girlie mag; check. Crunchy snack foods; check. Here we go," he muttered as the sleek Delta Dagger picked up speed. A burst of static filled his ears, and then a scratchy voice from the control tower asked angrily, "What the hell are you doing there? You're not cleared. Who the hell is that?" Bush smirked and said nothing. "Lieutenant Bush, is that you again? Identify yourself at once. You are not cleared for takeoff."

The flyboy cleared his throat and answered, "So long, numbnuts. Next stop, Bangkok, Australia. Then it's on to West Vietnam, and damn the tournedos. And don't you puds try to follow me, or I'll take evasative measures." The F102's nose lifted into the Texas night, the rest of the plane following dutifully behind.

Below his wings, Houston sparkled like a thousand points of light and smelled like food freshly spread on a family. He banked north, then east, then south, and finally, gloriously, west. It was then that he noticed his fuel gauge. "Crap, not again," he thought, as he began to lose altitude. With steely determination, he reached for the Jim Beam and took a stiff swig. There wasn't time to lower the landing gear. He was going to have to bring her down quick and dirty. He was heading for Hermann Park, and perhaps his destiny. "Jesus H. Christ, get me out of this alive," he prayed.

Brushing the treetops, he executed a precise forward slip and felt the plane's belly hit the reflecting pool. He bounced once, twice, and came to a stop, the plane's nose pointing squarely at the statue of Sam Houston.

He did a quick inventory, seeing at once that his Fritos were now crumbs and his Jim Beam had spilled all over his cocaine. For Lieutenant George W. Bush, this would be the toughest challenge of his storied military career.

A group of nearby winos burst into applause as he climbed from the cockpit and jumped into the water. Briefly, he considered loosening his parachute harness, but the way it cradled what he liked to call "the Bush Twins" was irresistible.

He waded to the edge, climbed out and addressed the crowd with a swagger that would one day cause Chris Matthews multiple on-air orgasms. "Thank you and may God Bless America!" he shouted. With their cheering still ringing in his ears, he trudged south through the park, the first leg of an arduous fifteen-mile hike back to the base.

His wallet empty, his snacks destroyed, his coke ruined, Bush walked warily through the darkened streets of Houston, constantly scanning the shadows for Viet Cong. Along Old Spanish Trail, he found a garbage can lid and ingeniously pressed it into service as a shield. He commandeered a broom leaning up against a house a little farther on. Now he could fight on equal terms with the enemy, if it came to that.

He turned at Long Drive, continued to Broadway and turned again, then followed the big curve of Airport Boulevard to College Avenue, finally reaching Galveston Road. For the first time he could remember, his senses were fully alive. Every chirping cricket, every passing car, every locked Piggly Wiggly seemed more real than real, reminding the flyboy of his sole experience with mushrooms back at Yale.

Steadily, step by step, even without a compass, he was able to continue unerringly along Galveston.

At last, after hours he couldn't count, he made out the lights of the base ahead. Mission accomplished, with just enough time for a little shuteye before another harrowing day of TANG duty.

Looking back on it all now, he says modestly, "I felt I owed it to the country that gave me so much. The Reds were hungry for our dominoes. Nobody ever shut up about those fucking dominoes. I had to keep Texas safe, even if the other 23 states fell to Hootchie Minh."

He stares out at the White House lawn, where another America-hating traitor with an anti-Bush sign is being rounded up by the Secret Service for shipment to Guantanamo Bay. He smiles enigmatically, and adds, "And it was way better than getting drafted, of course."

The war dragged on, month after month, year after year, and with a Republican now in the White House, just seemed to get better and better. Finally, in 1972, the call came. The base commander summoned Bush to his office and told him he would be shipping out for Vietnam. The young lieutenant was startled, and had uncharacteristic trouble finding words. "You see, your commandership, I was just going to apply for a transfer to Alabama, so I could continue my beloved military career and also help a real good guy win a Senate seat. It kills me to say this, sir, but I think you'll have to give my place to someone else."

His superior officer sighed, and nodded slowly. Bush saw tears in the older man's eyes. "That's the sort of selflessness we've come to expect from you, son," he said in a hoarse whisper. "Go to Alabama, and make me proud."

Bush did.

Next Thursday, Part IV: Risky Bidness.

:kick: :kick: :kick:

I'm off to read them now.

great work!

I am absolutely loving these, Jeff.