1340 Hours Local, 18 January 1966
Airstrike over War Zone C
III Corps, Republic of Vietnam
Travers had racked his little O-1E into a vertical bank, pulled it through a 90 degree turn, rolled level, then shoved the control stick forward until the plane was pointed nearly straight down. To Parker, the noise of the wind through the struts rose alarmingly. He was flung forward when the engine was suddenly throttled back, and was pressed against his seat belt as Travers pushed over applying more negative G-forces. Then, Parker nearly leaped out of his skin when, with a thunderous sharp bang, the starboard 2.75 inch Willy Pete rocket ignited, and whooshed out from its tube under the wing. As Toby tried to follow its smoke trail, he was pressed heavily into his seat when Phil the Fac Travers jammed on the power (he had previously throttled back to prevent engine overspeed in the dive), and racked the tiny grey airplane upward, pointing its painted red mouth with lolling tongue skyward. They leveled at 1500 feet. Parker, still not sure what had happened, looked down as the crisp, white smoke from the marking rocket drifted up through the jungle canopy.
"That's it, Copperhead," said a tinny voice on the FM, "we're about 100 meters south. Hit the smoke and any place around it for 50 meters except south. Repeat, don't hit south. The bad guys are in the trees and on the ground but not dug in. You copy China Boy, Ramrod?"
"Roger, China Boy, I got a good copy. All around my smoke except south. I'm going up Uniform now and talk to the strike flight. Hold one. Copperhead listening out." Travers had confirmed on his FM radio the initial air strike plans of where to place the ordnance with the Mike Force ground commander Captain Tom Myers, callsign China Boy Actual (which meant the leader).
"Toby," Travers said on the intercom, "Uniform is the abbreviation for UHF. I've got one intercom and five radio control heads up here. I talk to the ground guys on Fox Mike, and the strike flight on UHF. I listen to both at the same time, but can only talk to one at a time as I switch transmitters. I'm going back to Ramrod on Uniform."
"Ramrod, Copperhead," Travers transmitted, "you got my smoke?"
"Roger that, Copperhead," Darlington transmitted, "Ramrod flight, you got the smoke?" Each in turn acknowledged they saw the Fac's smoke: "Two," "Three", "Four."
"Okay, Ramrods,” Travers said, “I want a left-hand box north of the target with runs at my smoke from California to Virginia. Hit in a half circle arc from 50 meters short up to 50 meters towards Canada and 50 meters long. Don't unload south. Snakeyes first, then the nape and CBU. You copy?
"Lead."
"Two."
"Three."
"Four."
"You're cleared in hot, Lead. Call the Fac in sight."
"Just protecting myself," Travers hollered back at Toby.
As an experienced Fac, Travers knew this was a well established routine, and every pilot's eyes took in the target, the other ships, the FAC, the guns, and the weather formations. Each kept a three-dimensional picture in his head stitched together with the time factor. After x seconds of looking there, a pilot would look back expecting to see the other planes here. It usually took a new pilot about 25 missions to feel comfortable on a four-ship close air support mission. Until then, they were usually too busy making sure they flew in the proper position and the switches were set up correctly. It was mighty embarrassing if not dangerous to fire a rocket when one meant to drop a bomb or vice versa. Few pilots screwed up that bad on switchology, but it did happen occasionally to pilots with little experience or aptitude.
Travers whipped his bird into a tight orbit south of the target at 1500 feet, a FAC's normal altitude. It was perfectly all right for the FAC to fly over the friendlies for the position not only kept him out of the fighter's strike pattern, but it also kept him away from the ground fire that could so easily reach a low and slow bird like the O-1E. And, of course, the FAC didn't carry anything to drop accidentally on the good guys.
Travers smiled to himself as he set up his orbit. He had all those strike pilots to worry about plus five radios to juggle in an airplane that flew slower than the stall speed of the big fighters. He loved it.
"EEEEE HAHHH," he whooped in Parker's headset.
"Eeeee hahhhh," Parker whooped back, genuinely pleased and thrilled to be doing what he was doing. He could see the bombs fall from the planes; see their metal umbrellas open up; hear the crack-WHOOMP of the explosion, and watch more jungle canopy strip away. He heard China Boy on the Fox Mike tell Copperhead to relay to the Ramrods they were doing a great job; and if they would now be so kind as to lay in some nape and CBU, they could wipe out the bad guys and all go back to the hooch for a cold brew.
"Super, Ramrods. You're putting 'em right in there. Let’s go down with the soft stuff now. Get down there, and fry 'em up and punch 'em out. Hold the strafe until I clear you."
Darlington, as Ramrod Lead, rolled in with nape. Bannister, as Number Two, prepared to make his run barely above treetop level to put his cluster bomblets right across the area opened up by the bombs. He could see the smoke from the pitched ground battle drifting slightly east. He was mentally calculating his offset when Rawson started to speak on the intercom. Outside of grunts and groans from the G-pulling jinks coming off target on the dive bomb runs, Rawson had been strangely quiet.
Then, without warning to Bannister on the intercom, he got on the radio.
"Ramrod Lead," he transmitted, "this is Two. We've got an engine overheat condition, and will have to abort."
"Overheat," Bannister said on the intercom, rapidly scanning the instruments, "we don't have an overheat. Do you have a warning light?"
"Roger, Two, you're cleared to RTB (Return To Base). Do you want an escort, Harry?" Darlington asked, recognizing his voice.
"Ah, hold one, Lead," Bannister cut in, "I, ah, think everything is okay." As he tried to continue lining up for his low level CBU pass, the stick was suddenly yanked back and to the right pulling the plane up and towards the friendly troops. Bannister hastily safed the Master Arm switch with his left hand as he fought with his right on the stick to overpower the pressure from Rawson in the back seat. Although each stick activated 3000 psi of hydraulic fluid to move the flight controls, they were mechanically tied together and moved in unison subject only to the strongest input force.
Quickly Bannister used both hands wrenching the stick from Rawson's grip so severely the plane banked to a near inverted position directly over the friendlies. Both men were panting over the intercom.
"The gages are good," Bannister puffed, "and I don't have a fire warning light on."
"My TPT (Tail Pipe Temperature) is too high," Rawson said, "I order you to take us home."
"Two, what the hell is going on," Darlington transmitted. "Have you got flight control problems? Get out of the pattern if you can't work. Get the hell away from the friendlies before you drop something." He watched in amazement as the tandem seat F-100F pumped up and down, rolling first one way then the next.
Below, 60 meters to the northeast of China Boy's position, a two-man crew uncovered a 5 foot 2 1/2 inch Degtyarev-Shpagin K-38 model (DshK-38) 12.7mm (.51 cal) machine gun mounted on a high tripod formed by its trail legs for anti-aircraft use. The number two man fed a 50-round metal-link belt of API (Armor Piercing Incendiary) into the side of the MG. The weapon, of WW II vintage, was one of six recently brought with great care across Cambodia for use in South Vietnam by regular NVA troops.
The gunner took aim and began shooting the API which exited the barrel at a muzzle velocity of 2822 feet per second. He was experienced and did not need tracers to mark his bullet stream. From a side angle slant range of 100 meters he positioned the barrel to lead perfectly the speeding airplane. The Armor Piercing Incendiary impacted squarely on the belly and right wing root of Ramrod Four, First Lieutenant Douglas T. Fairchild, a split second after he pickled off a 750lb can of Napalm B from a height of 200 feet above the surrounding terrain.
At first Fairchild thought the napalm can had somehow hung up on the ejector rack, and was making his F-100 fly canted. He changed his mind when his engine exploded with a grinding roar, every warning light on the panel lit up, the control stick went dead in his hands, and his airplane pitched straight up with a crushing load of 8 g's.
Badly disoriented, Fairchild thought he was going in and wouldn't have time to eject. Hand still on the throttle, he punched the transmit button: "Four's hit bad!", he gasped, already feeling the g-forces slack off as the crippled jet lost airspeed. Fairchild raised his head, saw 2500 feet on his altimeter, looked out and saw and felt the airplane in an uncontrollable roll to the right, "Bail out! Four, BAIL OUT!" he heard over his radio. His training took over as he fought his body to the proper bailout position: head back against the headrest; feet pulled back into the footrests; elbows in; raise right armrest; squeeze trigger...
As the canopy exploded off the airplane, Fairchild saw himself looking up at a horizon crazily tilted 90 degrees from where it should be. The trees looked beautifully clear and green. He had a split second of regret that he hadn't punched the mike button, and told somebody he was getting out. With an instant's giggling comprehension of great clarity, he heard the words of "Rudolph" over the ADF. The seat went with a bang that seemed far away to Fairchild.
"Four's out! Four's out!" Darlington yelled. He had pulled high, popped his speed boards, and throttled back to match the slow speed of the crippled airplane. From over Fairchild's now burning plane, Darlington had watched the entire ejection sequence. He pushed the throttle forward, brought his boards up, pushed the nose down on his nearly stalling F-100, and transmitted, "Zero Three, you got his chute?"
"Roger, Lead, he's got a good chute. He's right over the friendlies."
"Keep your eye on him," Travers yelled to Parker as he swung the airplane around facing where he knew the gun was positioned. He switched his transmitter to Fox Mike.
"China Boy, China Boy. We got a shootdown. He's in his chute right over you. God damn he's almost in the trees. You got him?"
"Oh hell no, I don't have him. And Copperhead, you got to get that nape and CBU in here, that frapping Dash-K is shooting out our cover by the frapping roots."
"Roger, Roger, China Boy. I got the gun, you get that pilot, you copy?" Travers had already switched to UHF strike frequency when China Boy said on FM he'd retrieve the pilot.
"Ramrod, hold high and dry for a sec. Try to call a chopper for your pal. I'll put two smokes in on that Dash-K then you guys cream his ass," Travers transmitted. "Parker, keep your eye on that chute in the trees," Travers yelled as he pushed over into the gun from a slant range barely outside the 12.7s' effective range. Parker groaned as he twisted in his harness and survival gear to keep sight of the white chute that had plumed over the jungle canopy. He lost it as Travers whipped the O-1E around and down. The two Willy Petes went off with ear-shattering thunderclaps. In seconds Parker found the chute again. "I got it! I got it!" he yelled to Travers, scarcely able to breathe in his excitement but aware he was performing admirably in this, his first combat mission that he wasn't even supposed to be on.
"Ramrods, hit 10 meters north of my smoke. That's the gun. Stay low on pull-off so he can't track you past the treetops. You're cleared in hot whoever's first. Use everything you got."
"Ramrod Two," Darlington transmitted, "you're closest. Is your bird working or not? If it is, get in there and lay your CBU on 'em to keep their heads down, then Three, you take it out with your nape."
Darlington knew the CBU pellets probably wouldn't take the gun out but they would totally distract the crew as the bomblets floated down crack, cracking towards them, while Jack Ward would zoom down and scrape his napalm off on the gun barrel. What the hell was the matter with Bannister, Darlington said to himself as he positioned for a strafe run.
"Roger, Lead," Ward, Number Three said, "Two, are you in?"
In the front seat of the F-100F, Bannister drew his .38 caliber revolver from his survival vest. He took the stick in his left hand, held the plane straight and level, then turned to the left as far in the seat as his harness would let him. He pointed the gun back over his left shoulder in the general direction of Rawson's head, and spoke over the intercom.
"Touch that stick, and you're a dead man." Bannister tapped the gun barrel hard against the canopy. "Put your hands in your lap and shut up, Major. I'm in front. We go by my gauges, and they read real good."
Bannister turned back, tucked the gun under his G-suit leg bladder, set up the switches for CBU, and called he was in as he positioned for his run. He pushed outboard on the throttle to ignite the afterburner to boost his airspeed to Mach .72, and headed for the deck. He had a few seconds to think, as he leveled and lined up, that this was how he got shot up the last time. He lifted his gloved hand from the throttle and held it before his eyes. His fingers weren't trembling anymore. He exhaled sharply and concentrated on a perfect CBU run-in. He wasn't even aware how completely he had dismissed Rawson from his mind. He was ready.
"Two's in," Bannister transmitted.
Bannister's aircraft flashed over the Dash-K so fast and so close the gunner couldn't swing the barrel fast enough to track him as the roaring jet disappeared over the trees. The gunner heard the approaching blam-Blam-BLAM sound getting louder as Bannister's CBUs settled and exploded their marble-sized steel pellets into the 38-foot killing zone. The gunner told his assistant to duck on his command and they would rise together after the bomblets showered past them to fire at the next airplane.
They crouched under an overhang in the narrow gun pit as Bannister's CBU bomblets blasted by, sending hot pellets zinging harmlessly over their heads. Then, on command, they both jumped up to resume firing. The gunner spun and swung the barrel back. He barely had time to scream in sudden hot fear and rage as Jack Ward's shiny aluminum Blu-27 750lb can of Napalm B struck the ground 20 feet away sending a 2000 degree surf wave of flame curling up and over him.
"Goddamn, Copperhead, you got it," China Boy said on Fox Mike in an awed voice. "You earned your pay today. Yes, Sir. You did more than only fry some rice. By the way, we got a pilot who just dropped in. Says he knows you. His eyes are kinda big, but outside of that he seems in good shape. You want we should send him home?"
"Yeah, Tom, send him home. All you guys come home. I just got the word on HF. The C Team has ordered the Snake Pit to send a couple Hueys for you guys, Slicks and Guns. Race you back to the barn. And say, get us some BDA." Travers switched back to UHF.
"Ramrod flight," he called, "this is Copperhead; Four's okay, Hueys are coming to get everybody. You guys RTB. I'll wrap things up here. I got another flight coming in for top cover. You guys done good. See you at the hooch."
"Roger, Copperhead. Ramrod, close it up, look each other over for holes. We're going home," Darlington transmitted.
"Two."
"Three."
"Alright, Harry, what happened?" Darlington asked Rawson two hours later when the four pilots were on the ground and debriefed. He had pulled the Ops Officer off to one side as they walked out of the debriefing room. Ward and Bannister went back to the squadron PE room to clean their gear.
"I'm writing him up on charges," Rawson said, eyes chasing shadows.
"What are they?" Darlington asked, noting the rapid eye movements.
"Disobeying a direct order. Pulling a gun. Threatening a superior officer. Oh, I've got a lot on him. I've got him now." He pulled his shoulders back, and stared Frank Darlington right in the eye. "Yes, Sir, I've got him now."
"Harry, I didn't see any smoke from your airplane. Did you have a fire warning light?"
"Well...no. But the TPT was high, quite high. It was... almost in the red."
Colonel Frank Darlington put his arm gently across the Major's shoulders turning him toward the door. "Harry," he said, "we're going to see Doc Russell. He's going to give you a shot to let you sleep on this. You're going to take it easy for a while."
Rawson, mouth working, looked at Frank Darlington, the DO, with a quizzical expression, "Well, yes, Colonel, if you think so, yes. But you'll see to it that Bannister gets what's coming to him, won't you."
"Yes, Harry," the Director of Operations said quietly, "I'll see to it that Bannister gets what's coming to him."
0800 Hours Local, 19 January 1966
531st Tactical Fighter Squadron
Bien Hoa Air Base, Republic of Vietnam
Court Bannister and Jack Ward returned from a mission in II Corps and walked into the PE room, parachute and flight equipment jangling with each step.
"Christ," Ward said, barely eight o'clock and already we're soaked." He hung up his helmet and ran his hands through hair glued to his head with sweat. "You know," he said, "we need some sort of an inner cap to soak up all this sweat. It's damn near impossible to get rid of it when it drips in your eyes from under a helmet." He wiped his head with a piece of towel. "I'll tell you, Court, we really got into it up there. I thought that FAC was going to kamikaze the camp when he said the bad guys were coming through the wire. Hell of a mission, wasn't it?" Ward faced Bannister. "You did a great job on the wing, Court, and some great bombing, too."
"Thanks, Jack. You're great to fly with," Bannister said smiling.
Major Derham, the assistant Ops Officer, stuck his head in, "Hey Court, the DO wants to see you in his office. Pronto."
"Got it," Bannister said. Here it comes, he said to himself.
"Reporting as ordered, Sir," Court Bannister said as he stood in front of Colonel Frank Darlington's desk and saluted. Both men wore flight suits. After the Director of Operations returned the salute, he indicated the chair next to his scratched gray steel desk, and invited Court to have a seat and relax. Both men lit up after Darlington offered Court a Lucky Strike. Neither man smoked filtered cigarettes.
Darlington was a quiet man, not given to excess words, which was one reason he had made full colonel rather late in his career. In fact, if his former wing commander hadn't recognized his natural leadership abilities and jockeyed him from job to job to get several top block ERs (Efficiency Reports) for the promotion board, he would be retiring now at age 46 with 25 years service as a lieutenant colonel. If he didn't make any major errors, his present position as DO of the 3rd Tac Fighter Wing practically guaranteed him the slot of wing commander when Friedlander moved on. Darlington had thinning brown hair, brown eyes in a narrow face with thin squint lines drawn on his forehead and around his eyes. He was too thin for his height of six feet, and had been in the fighter business since P-51 Mustangs. The two men sat motionless for a moment as they listened to the ripping sound of F-100 afterburners on takeoff override the hum and hiss of a large window air conditioner.
Darlington leaned back in his chair, nodded at Bannister. "Well, Court, how're they hangin’?"
Caught unawares, Court couldn't help but smile as he chose one of the stock answers, "One in front of the other for speed, Sir."
Darlington chuckled. "That was quite a day with Copperhead and the China Boy Mike Force gang, wasn't it?"
"Yes Sir, it was," Court said warily. He didn't know Darlington and wasn't sure where he was heading.
"Glad we got those guys out of there and picked up Fairchild. Too bad we lost a bird, wasn't it?"
"Yes Sir, it was."
"Harry Rawson is in the dispensary. Did you know he'll probably be med-evaced to Japan?"
"No Sir, I didn't."
"Not quite sure what's the matter with him. You got any ideas?"
Court was silent. He thought he knew exactly what was wrong with Rawson. He also thought it strange a colonel would ask a captain's opinion of a major. It didn't make much difference, though, for Court figured he was about to get it, right between the eyes. You just don't go around pulling guns on people, especially superior officers, and get away with it. He resisted an urge to shrug.
"Guess I can't expect you to answer," Darlington said. "I relieved him because he is in the wrong business." Darlington took a moment to let the implications of Rawson's cowardice sink in. He lit another cigarette, looked up at Bannister and asked in words hard-cadenced like drum beats, "Do you think you're in the wrong business, Bannister?"
Eyes widening Bannister shot back "No Sir," he paused, "Absolutely not," he added for emphasis and stood up. "I'm in the right business," he said, starting to get the panicky feeling he was about to be tossed out of fighters. A fighter pilot's biggest fear was not pain or death but losing his fighter plane.
Darlington studied him for a moment. "Calm down," he said, "I happen to agree with you. You're in the right business and you're damn good at it. One of the Wing's best, in fact. So hang on. In a month or so there may be a job coming up you should take."
Bannister remained standing, astounded by the sudden words that all young fighter pilots yearn for. Then he remembered. "Sir, about that gun..."
Darlington interrupted, "Didn't say anything about a gun, did I? Extraordinary events call for extraordinary measures, don't they?" Darlington stood up. "Here's the lineup. Peter Warton isn't coming back so Serge Demski from Wing is taking over as CO, and Bob Derham is the new Ops Officer. You weren't under Major Rawson long enough to get an ER but I'm putting a favorable endorsement in your promotion file to cover the gap till Derham writes one on you. And you had best be getting to your squadron, you have a flight to lead at," the DO checked his watch, "in two hours at 1230."
"I've lost my flight lead status," Bannister said.
"Not according to this, you haven't," the DO said handing him a freshly cut copy of orders.
………………………………………………………………….
DEPARTMENT OF THE AIR FORCE
HEADQUARTERS 3RD TACTICAL FIGHTER WING (TAC)
APO SF 96227
SPECIAL ORDER 51 19 JAN 1966
1. The following named officers, 531st Tac Ftr Sqdn (TAC), this stn, are designated as Flight Leader in the F-100D/F aircraft. Authority: Para 9-2B, TACM 55-100.
CAPT COURTLAND EdM. BANNISTER A03021953
CAPT LAURENCE M. DALTON 69040A
CAPT RICHARD F. FARRELL 69330A
FOR THE COMMANDER DISTRIBUTION "C"
JACK E. MINTON, 1STLT, USAF
Chief, Administrative Services
……………………………………………………………………..
2100 Hours Local, 19 January 1966
Officers Club, Bien Hoa Air Base
Republic of Vietnam
As flight lead, Court flew two more missions before the end of the day. That night in the O’ Club he sat with Doc Russell at a small table off to one side. He had a Budweiser, the Doc was drinking Scotch and water.
"I spent some time with Rawson," the Doc said. "I'm keeping him on Thorazine and Seconal to quiet him down. He talked a bit. Said you pulled a gun on him. That true?"
"Yes, it is."
"Why, Court?"
Court lit a cigarette with his rubber band-covered Zippo, and sank a drag deep into his lungs.
"Did he say where we were or what we were doing? Did he tell you he panicked in a low threat situation when some of our guys were in trouble; Fairchild, for one? Or, that the Mike Force was down there with a Dash-K chewing on them? Did he tell you about that?"
"No, he didn't. All he said was he tried to tell you the engine was overheating, and you pulled a gun on him."
"Look, Doc, there was a hell of a lot more to it than that. Nothing was wrong with our airplane, and the guys on the ground needed everything they could get. We still had two CBUs and all our 20 mil." Bannister exhaled a strong puff of smoke, looking squarely at Russell.
"You think that's reason enough to kill a man?" Russell said, returning Bannister's gaze with steady eyes.
Bannister thought for a while. "I probably would not have pulled the trigger," he said finally, "in this case."
"Why not?"
Bannister took a pull at his beer. "Other airplanes were there with ordnance. I wasn't the only one that could help take out the gun pinning down the Mike Force. Also, there was the possibility my shot could have gone wild and damaged the airplane, so we both would have had to punch out."
"What do you mean `In this case'?"
"There were other people there. It wasn't a one-on-one situation.,"
"You mean if you were the only one with ordnance to take out that gun, you'd have killed to do it? You'd kill one man to save another?"
"Shit, Doc, isn't that what we try to do every day?"
"Look, Court, that's not how I meant it and you know it."
Bannister took another drag. "I suppose I do. But that's about as far as I can go with your corkscrew logic. I don't know where you're going with this, but I'm not going to try to stay up with you. Loc Ninh was what I considered a tight situation requiring something I could provide. I went the most direct route to provide it. Fortunately, things all worked out."
"Not quite. Rawson's been relieved of command and is in the hospital."
"Doc, with all due respect, that man has been coming apart for some time, and should never have kept the position he did." Court was silent for a moment watching Russell's eyes. "In fact, Doc, since you brought this mess up. Isn't part of your job as squadron Flight Surgeon to keep an eye on us, on our mental well being and all that?"
"Yes, it is," Russell said, "but I don't go around pulling guns on people to do it."
Bannister sat back. "Doc," he said, "the long and short of it is that my job is to take people apart, and yours is to put people together."
"True," Doc Russell said, "but the real long and short of it is my job is more satisfying because my craftsmanship results in life whereas yours results in death." The Doc delivered his words with strong conviction. Bannister looked away for a moment.
"Doc, you ever think maybe I'm saving lives? That in the long run the enemy I take out--"
Russell interrupted, "The people you kill, you mean. Say them, say the words, people and kill. That's the trouble, Court, you use words like `enemy' and `bad guys' when you mean human beings and words like `take out' or `waste' or `blow away' when you mean kill." Doc Russell's face flushed.
"Hold on, Doc. I'm a professional. My job is to kill these people now before they--"
Russell interrupted again, "Yeah, yeah, I know: `Before they are on the streets of San Francisco.' Right?"
"Something like that, Doc. Only closer, like say Saigon. Before they are on the streets of Saigon. Our whole job here is to push out the bad guys, kill them if you will, who are trying to take over South Vietnam and who kill those who resist them. What about that NVA outfit that took a flamethrower to the Montagnard village when the men were gone and torched 200 women and children? Or the VC here in the south who decapitate and disembowel teachers and village mayors who wouldn't teach what they want or give them sanctuary? And you know about their stringing the guts of live G.I.s they've captured down the trail so their buddies walk on them. What about that, Doctor Conrad Russell? And what's the matter with you, anyway? You didn't used to talk like this."
"Calm down, Court, for God's sake, or you'll need some of the same stuff I'm giving Rawson. I shouldn't be ragging you and I know it. I'm sorry. I'm getting fed up with this whole sorry scene, that's all. Politicians running a war. Hypocrisy. Euphemisms. The War Department is now the Defense Department. Bombs are weapons and airplanes are weapons platforms. At least in my business, a scalpel is still a scalpel."
Russell held his glass up, "Here, a toast. In the words of the immortal beagle, the great Snoopy, FUCK WAR," the Doc boomed. Court Bannister grinned and clanged his beer off the Doc's glass, "FUCK WAR," he echoed.
Two wing weinies at the bar looked over at them and shook their heads.