BOOKS: The flying cliches

The crew of seven from the 53rd Weather Reconnaissance Squadron was a tight-knit but sundry lot. Major Larry "Montana" Fletcher was from the beaches of Southern California -- the steady, all-American leader type with blond hair, a close shave and a square, dependable jaw. The copilot was ex-Lieutenant Colonel Lee "Southpaw" Barnes, a crusty and foul-mouthed veteran with hangover stubble and a footlocker of vintage Playboys who had been demoted for moral turpitude so unsettling that the Air Force conveniently lost all records. His job was to repeatedly tell Montana he "couldn't fly for shit." The flight engineer was Milton "Bananas" Foster, the highly excitable yet gifted mechanical wizard. Marilyn Sebastian was the plucky aerial reconnaissance officer, as tough as any man, but every bit a woman. The navigator was Pepe Miguelito, the forlorn youth with a pencil mustache and unending girl troubles. The weather officer was "Tiny" Baxter, the massive country boy from Oklahoma with simple but strong values. The instrument operator was William "The Truth" Honeycutt, a former all-services bantamweight champion....

Baxter silently double- and triple-checked his weather charts with drafting tools. Pepe Miguelito's lip quivered as he read another Dear John letter.

"I got a baaaaaaad feeling about this mission," said Milton "Bananas" Foster. Then he began crying. "We're all gonna die!"

Marilyn Sebastian shook Foster by the collar. "Be a man!" She slapped him, then kissed him hard.

Back in the cargo hold, Honeycutt skipped rope in his boxing trunks.

--Tim Dorsey, Hammerhead Ranch Motel