Chickenhawk: Back in the World

“They threw new paint away?” I said.

“Yep. Then they had us saw up strapped pallets of plywood with chainsaws into chunks we could fit into the Dumpsters.”

“Naw,” I said. “Really?”

“Really,” said Jeff. “It’s a fucking crime.”

John said, “Hell, some guys told me they buried a two-million-dollar jet engine. And remember when the Army was here a couple of months ago for some joint training operation? Well, they left all the C-rations and stuff they brought—excess. They have inmates digging huge trenches to bury whole fucking truckloads of food.”

I knew that the staffs at every military and government installation we supported all over the world were at this very moment doing very much the same thing. If they had any supplies left over at inspection time, their budgets would be cut. If their budgets were cut, it would imply that they were not doing their jobs. This could slow advancement among the military personnel and government civilian employees. The only thing to do, in this kind of system, was to get rid of the excesses, thereby proving that one’s agency was operating as described in the books. A commander or manager only had to point at his empty supply shelves; his requisite collection of office memos; his efficiency reports for every member of the staff; the monthly safety meeting reports, each with the signatures of all the staff, proving they had all been there; fire-drill maps that showed people how to walk out the doors; OSHA posters on every wall, and their one hundred percent participation in the payroll Savings Bond plan, to prove to the Inspector-General that everything was up to snuff. I knew this, and I tried to explain it to Jeff, but he didn’t seem to understand. John, being a veteran, knew what I was talking about.

Jeff was obsessed with the subject of government waste. He started to say something, but his voice was drowned out by a jet fighter taking off. It’s a stunning sight and we stopped to stare as the plane rose vertically on a column of smoke and disappeared into the deep blue upper atmosphere. Wow! What a kick that must be, I thought.

“How much does one of those things cost, Bob?” Jeff asked.

“F-16? I’m not sure. Somewhere around twenty million. I’d guess.”

Jeff nodded and we continued our walk. By the time we got by the weight shack, Jeff said, “Okay. If you figure that the average middle-class American family pays, say, five thousand dollars a year in taxes, then it takes four thousand families to buy that one plane we just saw, right?”

I nodded. John nodded. “Seems right,” I said.

“They say a person works three months to pay his federal taxes. Can you see it?” Jeff points out beyond the fence by the tennis court. “Four thousand families, twelve thousand people, each having given every penny of three months of their wages, all standing out there, beaming, as they watch the result of their labor blasting up into the sky?”

“Makes you feel proud, don’t it?” I said.

“Makes me sick,” Jeff said.

John laughed. “Think of this,” he said. “It costs about twenty thousand a year to keep each of us here. That’s about four taxpaying families for each of us, right?”

Jeff and I laughed, too. Jeff pointed out at the field and said, “Yep, there they are, over there next to the twelve thousand people who bought that plane. Twelve families, sitting on the grass over there, having a picnic, nodding with satisfaction every time they see us walk another lap. ‘Yep,’ Fred Taxpayer says, ‘getting our damn money’s worth, Edna. I worked three months to keep one of them foul fellows behind that white line for three months, and damned if I don’t feel just fine about it, too. Damn drug dealers. Pass me a beer, Edna.’ “

“‘Why couldn’t we buy part of that plane, dear?’” John said, mimicking a woman’s voice. “‘We might, Edna. Next year. This year, we take care of these fellows,’” he said gruffly.

We were laughing like kids by now. I could almost see them, the taxpayers, grimly watching us paying our penance, believing they were winning some war on drugs our leaders said we were fighting. The thought was funny, but also depressing. I was a taxpayer, too.

Another F-16 blasted into the sky. I saw this flight differently because of Jeff. I wondered how many people had had to give good money for that one flight. There are thousands of such flights every day, all over the world. God! And what about all the people who work for the government? There are hundreds—no, thousands—of government departments. The money wasted! It boggles the mind.

When Foster left, he threw a giant ice-cream party, one of the biggest the camp had seen. Most of the inmates who left Eglin cashed in their commissary accounts in ice cream, had a party and invited their friends. Foster must have served ten gallons of ice cream. He also had a big bowl of fresh fruit salad and a huge chocolate cake from the kitchen. He collected much status as a prisoner doing this, but who was going to remember? He was leaving.