A CHANGE OF SCENE

The sleek, dark green, camouflaged F-4 aircraft came crashing
through the sky near Hanoi, North Vietnam, at Mach 1. The Wing
Commander, Col. Sterling M. Bradshaw was at the controls with Major
Roger L. Singleton riding the backseat as the Weapons Systems Officer or
WSO. Even at 750 MPH the F-4 Phantom was in trouble. Heavy flak and
surface to air missles (SAMS) rained from every direction. It was April
of 1967 and it was the wrong place to be. The two U.S. Air Force pilots
were sweating profusely, despite the temperature control in the cockpit.
Col. Bradshaw jinked, twisted and turned the big bird, trying not to set
up a predictable glidepath, trying to avoid letting the enemy get a bead
on his position but his time was running out.

His flying squadron of eight aircraft had been given the vital
mission of destroying the Donner Bridge that was a main supply route to
the south. The first flight of four had taken down one span of the
bridge but that was not enough and could be repaired by enemy emergency
crews almost overnight. The three planes in his own flight, just ahead
of him, had narrowly missed the target and had already begun to turn
south toward home at DaNang Air Base. Bradshaw's explosives had to be
accurate or the mission would be a failure. This was before the days of
TV camera guided or laser directed bombs and trajectory, wind sheer and
a little luck were vital.

Bradshaw began to level out. This was the most dangerous part of
the flight because he had to slow down and align himself with the
target. The enemy had shot at and missed the seven aircraft that had
already made their passes. His aircraft was buffeting wildly from
near miss groundfire and he had to fight to maintain control. Thick
puffs of black smoke were everywhere. I've never seen it this bad, he
thought. Red fingers from the ground made beautiful but deadly patterns
all around him, tracers from heavy caliber guns. Steady, don't panic,
he thought. Almost there...don't release too soon...NOW! As soon as
the weapons were away he felt the aircraft rise in response to the
lighter load. Bradshaw put the F-4 into a bank so he could watch the
bombs fall. A tremendous blast shuddered the air as the entire remainder
of the bridge collapsed.

"The bird is in the nest," Bradshaw transmitted with exhilaration
over the radio. It was the code message for mission successfully
completed. "Now let's kick this bird into afterburner and make like a
bullet outahere," he rattled, realizing they were still in intense
danger. He had just shoved the throttle outboard into the afterburner
selection detent when it happened.

It was like they ran into an invisible wall in the air. Airspeed
began dropping rapidly, the fuel indicator started a race downward and
every emergency light on his warning panel began to flash. The caution
beeper began to sound. BEEP...BEEP...BEEP. "We've been hit! We've
been hit!" the WSO began screaming into the intercom. BEEP...BEEP...
BEEP. "Losing altitude fast! Can we make an emergency landing?" he
continued. BEEP...BEEP...BEEP.

"Not in this thick jungle terrain!" Bradshaw responded. "Shutdown
the right engine. That will cut our fuel consumption. Maybe we can
slowly limp home!" He was struggling hard to keep the terror out of his
voice. BEEP...BEEP...BEEP.

"Engine shutdown, Sir. Still experiencing severe drop in fuel
flow. Groundfire must have hit our main fuel tank. Airspeed dropping
to 300 knots, if it drops below 250, we fall from the sky like a rock!"
BEEP...BEEP...BEEP.

"Radio our coordinates to headquarters." Bradshaw ordered, knowing
every second counted. "Prepare to eject." BEEP...BEEP...BEEP.
The aircraft began to trail long black streaks of smoke. The Col.
knew his Phantom was dying and he had to let it slip away or he would
die with it. Headquarters was notified and Bradshaw pointed the bird
straight south, still deep in enemy territory.

"God help us Major! Get out! Eject!"

"See you on the ground Sir!" There was a flash of light from
behind the Col. and the bubble plexiglas canopy that shrouded both
pilots from the blast of air was blown away and immediately thereafter
the Major's ejection seat left the aircraft. The sudden force of warm
air traveling at 250 knots struck the Col. like a quick slap of the
hand. He pulled the ejection "D" ring between his legs to blow his own
seat, being careful to keep his arms, legs and back straight to avoid spinal
injury, but the seat mechanism malfunctioned. He pulled again, still nothing.

One other option left, thought the Colonel, his F-4 beginning to
fall straight down; puIl the two face curtain rings above my head.
This was an alternate firing method, should the first fail. Normally
the rings were straight above the shoulders and over the head. The
pilot merely pulled the two rings as if he were pulling a curtain over
his face. In this case, however, the blast of air racing across the
cockpit had blown the face curtain rings back and away from his grasp.
The only way the Colonel could reach them was to twist his back around
and reach and pull. He did so. The rocket paek under the seat fired.
Immediately 14 Gs were exerted on his spine as he suddenly accelerated
to 2,000 miles per hour and 500 feet away from his dying Phantom. The
pain on his back was severe. Blood suddenly rushed from his head and he
blacked out...


Clark Air Base was a sprawling place. Lush green trees and bushes
were everywhere, fed by the Philippine tropical climate. The humidity
usually matched the temperature and today, in the summer of 1970, they
both stood at about 95. Good thing they've got a decent bus system at
this place, thought MSgt Michael G. Thompson, otherwise a guy could
sweat to death just going to and from chow. It was 5PM, 1700 hours and
yet the air felt like a wet blanket. Doesn't it ever cool off, Thompson
pondered, but what bothered him more was the strange message he'd just
received.

He'd been told by his boss at the jet engine shop to report to the
personnel building, room 218, for a priority memo. He had not even had
time to change but was still in his green, fatigue work uniform. Why did the pencil
pushers need to see him now, at quitting time? Why not first thing
tomorrow morning, on government time?

This better not be a change of assignment, I'm just getting accustomed to the base. Why do I have to be there now, anyway? I thought the admin guys went home at noon. If
this turns out to be some kind of mistake, they're gonna hear from me.

Thompson got off the bus at the personnel building. The air conditioning
inside felt so good, but the place was empty. when he got to
218, he almost expected it to be locked but it wasn't and he went in.
The usual furnishings filled the room, desks, typewriters, phones,
and the like, but no people. He was about to exit when he saw a door
that was open at the far end of the room. Light was streaming through
and he walked over and glanced inside.

There, sitting behind a large, teakwood desk, sat a two star, major
general, looking over some paperwork. To say that MSgt Thompson was
surprised was an understatement. What was a General doing in personnel,
alone, after duty hours? None of my business, he thought, I'll just ask
directions. "Sir," he offered. "Sorry to bother you but I was told to
report to this room for some kind of message and I was wondering if you
knew..."

"MSgt Thompson, I've been expecting you. Please come in!" The
request was firm yet kind and Thompson was surprised again. Still, when
a General commands you follow, so he marched sharply to the front of the
General's desk and rendered his best military salute.

The General returned his salute with an air of dignity. "Stand at
ease, MSgt Thompson, this is an informal meeting. I'm General Donavan.
Your first name is Michael, isn't it? May I call you Mike?"

"Certainly sir." Thompson's mind was racing. Now what have I
done, he thought. The General's uniform was meticulously appointed and
the numerous ribbons he wore spoke of many long years of honored service
to his country.

"Mike, how long have you been stationed here at Clark?"

"Not quite a year, sir."

"And are you happy at the...let's see...jet engine shop?"

"Yes sir." Where was this leading, he wondered.

"Ever think about a change of scene?"

"Sir, I'm not sure I'm following you."

"You know, Mike, maybe a different job and different rank." There
was a definite twinkle in the General's eye, like he had his own little
secret that he was about to share.

"Well, sir, promotion usually does mean changes in responsibility."
My promotion finally came thru, he thought, but why tell me about it
this way? "

General Donavan eyed him carefully. "l was thinking about a rather
large promotion, one that would bring a great deal of difference in
responsibility. Mike, have you ever thought about being promoted to the
temporary rank of Colonel?"

"Sir...I don't quite understand. How could this be?" His mind was
reeling. What madness was this?

"Mike, here's a photo of Col. Sterling M. Bradshaw. He looks alot
like you. Except you're a little thinner than he was when this photo
was taken. Ever hear of him?"

MSgt Thompson eyed the photograph. It showed a Colonel sitting in
a chair, wearing his combat boots, flight suit, garrison cap and
sunglasses. "Sorry sir, can't say as I have. It's kind of hard to tell
what he looks like with his gear on."

"Bradshaw got shot down in enemy territory back in '67. Injured
his back and spent most of his time being shuffled from one prisoner of
war camp to another. They treated him pretty bad and he took lots of
head blows with bamboo sticks. He was recently rescued along with his
WSO backseater,"the General explained.

"l understand Sir, but what has that got to do with me?"

The white haired General got up from his chair and began pacing
back and forth behind his desk as he talked, as if doing so could
relieve some inner turmoil. "Our problem is Bradshaw. Call it amnesia,
call it temporary memory loss. He doesn't remember anything that's
happened to him since the academy. Oh, bits and pieces are there, but
not enough to make sense. The doctors say the trauma of captivity, plus
the poor nutrition and head beatings may have combined to cause the
problem. Medical authorities believe he will recover but it's going to
take some time."

"But, Sir, I still don't understand why I..."

"A great deal of expense and effort were expended to get these two
flyers free and at tremendous risk to the rescue team. Now we need to
show results. The WSO is fine and has told us how Bradshaw was treated
during captivity. The Col. is in an isolation room at the hospital.
All we need you to do is temporarily take his place. you know, walk
around, browse about the hospital as if you are convalesing, answer
superficial questions, that sort of thing. we need you to temporarily
be Col. Bradshaw until the media is pacified that you're alive and well.
No close up shots, no recorded interviews. we'll let you know what to
say and when the Col. is better, you're free. Just consider it a little
vacation from the same old routine. Your present duty section will be
informed that you had to go home on emergency leave." The General was
on a roll but Thompson had his mouth open.

"l know this is sudden Mike, but just think of this as another way
to serve your country. We haven't got much time. The press is already
clamering for reasons on why we haven't made Bradshaw public yet.
Draped over that chair is the Colonel's flight suit, his cap and
sunglasses. Put them on."

"But sir, there's so much I don't know about..." Thompson couldn't
believe this was even happening.

The General was relentless, pushing forward with his plan, despite
the misgivings of Thompson.

"Outside this side door are two security guards. They are accompanied by Lt. Colonel Sam Burke, my aide, and SSgt Jim Tyndall, my driver. Those four people are there to serve you
and I Mike, or should I say, Colonel? I want you to do more than just
look like Bradshaw, I want you to become him. Be a little arrogant;
learn to swagger a little. You've seen how senior officers act.
They've worked hard to get where they're at and they show off a little.
If you goof up some, don't worry about it. People will think that all
the captivity time with the enemy has dulled your memory."

Mike laced up his second boot and then looked at himself in the
long mirror at the end of the room. He couldn't believe the striking
similarity between the man in the mirror and the photograph he had so
recently looked at.

"You look great!" General Donavan said admiringly. "Now, here,
take my briefcase, Sam Burke will need something to carry. It will make
him feel useful. You came in this room a Master Sergeant, you walk out
a Colonel."

In a moment the General was hurriedly out the side door, as if to
forestall any more questions. Thompson, or rather the Colonel, was in a
daze, but quickly fell in step.

As advertised, the foursome were waiting outside the door. Lt.
Col. Sam Burke saluted smartly and was first to speak. "Good evening
General Donavan. Good to see you Colonel Bradshaw. We have awaited
your arrival for some time. Here, let me take that briefcase." He's
almost pleading, Mike thought.

"Thank you SSSam." Mike had almost slipped on his very first test.
The word, Sam, had almost come out as Sir. I've got to be more careful, Mike
thought. The General moved briskly toward the exit and soon Donavan,
"Bradshaw" and Burke were into the waiting VIP sedan and on their way to
the hospital.

Major Canell Olivia Penrose was beside herself with anxiety. As a
nurse of many years she had the knowledge and experience to handle
almost any crisis, but not this. How could she give all her time to
just one patient? Yes, he had a memory loss, but how could she help?
Nevertheless, orders were orders and General Donavan had been so
insistent. Tell the Colonel all about himself, he'd said. You are his
shadow till he's better, and how long will that be, she thought.
Since her own husband had been missing in combat, she had wrapped
herself in her work with a zeal that surprised her peers. still, it
seemed the only way to block out the lonliness and she had hoped against
all odds that one day he would return to her. Above it all, she could
still muster a warm smile and tried to keep a good attitude. Her
children were raised and had their own families and so she turned to
nursing as a way to forget herself in the service of others.

The major took care of her appearance and despite her years, had all the grace and
charm that made men look as she passed by. She busied herself in the
private hospital room making sure all was in its place when the three
officers walked in.

"Good evening, gentlemen," Major Penrose said as her eyes fixed on
"Bradshaw."

"Colonel, I want you to meet the best nurse in this man's Air
Force. Canell Olivia Penrose, meet Colonel Bradshaw." said the General.
"You listen to her Colonel. She'll help you remember many things about
yourself. You're lucky to have her around! Olivia, you tell me how he
progresses and don't forget to mention if he decides to get too
friendly," the General laughed. "Col. Burke and I have got to get back,
but keep us posted Olivia," and in a moment the General and his aide
were gone.

Bradshaw tossed his cap on the bed and glanced around the room. It
was very white, sanitary and orderly. A typical room except there were
two beds, one in each corner, with a draw curtain inbetween. "I thought
this was a private room. why the two beds?" he questioned.
"That one is mine," Penrose offered. "Seems the General thinks
you're too important of a person to stay all alone, but don't worry, the
curtain will be drawn when it needs to be."

Bradshaw decided to think about that one. "The General said your
name was Canell Olivia but do you go by Olivia?"
"My first name was my grandmother's.' I prefer Olivia. you may
call me that if you wish. How about you? What's your full name, or do
I call you Colonel, while we're living together?"

It caught him by surprise. "Oh, my full name, ah, er, well, I
guess that's one of the things I must have forgotten," he stammered,
feeling himself turn red.

This is going to be harder than I thought, she pondered. "Well, it
says here on your chart that your name is Sterling Michael Bradshaw.
So...does that mean I can call you Sterling?"

Here was a break, he realized. "Actually no. You go by your
middle name. Why not do the same for me. Why not call me Mike?

"OK, Mike it is." she responded, glad to start out so informal.

Yeah, Mike, he thought, I might even be able to answer to that one.
In fact, I'd even answer to MSgt Thompson, but I don't think I'd better
try to explain. She may think I've lost my mind.

During the next three weeks the pair of them set about to retrieve
what he had "forgotten." There were dates to be memorized, names
to be learned and pictures studied. Long walks on the hospital grounds
were taken several times a day, when the weather at Clark Air Base
permitted. Surprisingly, Mike was growing rather fond of the nurse the
General had picked to "school" him. She was kind and patient and the
radiance about her made him long for the wife he had lost so long ago.
The magic that was happening between them was broken, however, when
Mike got notified that General Donavan wanted to see him.

"You asked me to come by General?" reported Mike, wondering what
was up.

"Mike! Glad you're here. How's the memory work progressing?"
Donavan looked tired, as if he were under some sort of strain.

"Actually, I'm beginning to enjoy this whole charade. The real
Bradshaw must be better and it's time for me to go back to being a MSgt,
right?" Mike was trying to prepare himself for the worst.

"Not quite, Mike. How long have you been in Bradshaw's shoes?"

"A little over three weeks sir, something wrong?"

Donavan ignored the question and began pacing behind his desk
again, not a good sign. "Have the media or press been out to the
hospital? Have they taken any pictures?"

"Yes Sir. You, know, the usual. Candid shots from a distance. No
recorded interviews. Just what you told me."

"l see." remarked the General. "Tell me Mike, does this look like
a candid shot from a distance to you?" Donavan threw him a copy of the
Stars and Stripes newspaper. It showed "Bradshaw" and Penrose sitting
very near one another on a bench outside. They were looking into each
others eyes and Bradshaw was obviously talking. The caption read,
"Former POW receives tender loving care from the nursing corps."

"I don't know how they got the camera in so close Sir! We gave
specific instructions that no member of the media was to take..."

Donavan cut him off and looked grim. "Mike, it really doesn't
matter how it happened. A hidden camera, telephoto lens maybe, whatever
it was, it shows your physical features plainly and that adds to our
problem."

"Problem sir? What problem is that?" Mike was beginning to look
as worried as the General.

Donavan quit pacing and looked at Mike squarely. "The real
Bradshaw died this morning, cardiac arrest."

"What!" It hit Mike like a 45 pound sledge hammer and he fell into
a nearby chair. "How can this be? I thought Bradshaw was in good
health except for a memory loss? This is so sudden. Has he been sick?"

"The doctors were as surprised as we are. They don't know what
caused it. We've requested an autopsy." the General answered as he sat
down across from Mike.

"What are we going to do, Sir? Maybe I should "die" too. Then
the real me can fade away and be reassigned to some jet engine shop at
an obscure base. There are plenty of those around. We can't go on with
this charade forever. Eventually, someone's going to find us out and
when they do..." He couldn't bear to finish the sentence.

"There's too much light on you now Mike to do that. Maybe in a few
months, when things quiet down. Only a few people know your true
identity. We've also got another concern. It's come down through
official channels. You've just been promoted to Brigader General."

Mike felt his face redden as the emotion built up inside. "Pardon
my frankness Sir, but I've not been promoted. I don't deserve a
promotion. If the public knew what I really was l'd be lucky to avoid a
firing squad. I'll be lucky to keep the stripes I've got. I'm
receiving the rewards of a man I've never met, a man who is dead. To
keep playing this dangerous game I not only need to know Bradshaw's
background, I need to know how to be an officer. Sir, you know that is
only really learned through experience."

"Yes, yes I know Mike. Be patient. We'll figure a way out of
this. Just play along for a while longer at the hospital. Keep letting
Penrose school you and pretend to convalese. We'll keep in touch."

When Mike returned from his meeting with the General, Olivia could
see he was very somber and despite her efforts, nothing seemed to cheer
him. Finally, in desperation, she tried the direct approach.

"You know Mike, here at the hospital, we know all about you."
Olivia suddenly got Mike's attention. He broke out in a sudden
sweat. "What do you mean? " he said, trying to look unsullied but failing
miserably.

"I mean you can't keep secrets from us, even military secrets.
Sooner or later we find out. We even know why you went to see the
General, so you might as well confess and bring it out in the open."
She was acting coy and he was starting to feel sick.

"This news is too big to keep hidden. We all know you made
General. Congratulations!" She threw her arms around him and he heaved
a sigh of relief and blushed at the same time.

Then it happened. He couldn't live a lie. He cared for her too
much. It didn't matter what it cost. He had to tell her. "Olivia, I
can't except the promotion, it's not mine. I'm not who you think I am.
My name is really Mike Thompson. I'm only a Master sergeant. I'm just
a look alike to Bradshaw. I wanted to..."

"No, no, no Mike." She wouldn't let him finish. "General Donavan
said you might do this. No doubt the head beatings you received as a
POW caused you to..."

Then it was Mike who interrupted her. "What head beatings? What
POW? Don't you get it? This is all a ruse! A deception! A trick!"
He was adament and then ashamed. He bowed his head, the game was up.

Olivia just stared at him. Finally she walked over to the window
and looked out, deep in thought. After what seemed an eternity she came
back and took his hand. He let her hold it, but with reluctance, not
feeling worthy of her. With her other hand she raised his chin up to
face her and said, "Michael, we have been through alot together these
last three weeks. We've slept in the same room, eaten together, cryed
over memories, struggled to learn and it hasn't been easy, so I guess
I'm asking, how do you feel about me? Do you trust me? Do you care?
Would you do me a favor?"

What was this, he thought, a new tactic? Michael instead of Mike,
what's going on he wondered. "Olivia," he moaned, tears suddenly
welling in his eyes. "Do I care? Of course. Do I trust you? Yes I
do. What favor could I possibly do for you?"

"Kiss me right here," she said, pointing to the nap of her neck,
just below her ear, "and then breathe in deeply as you do so." Her voice was
a husky whisper.

"Uh, Olivia, I really like you alot but it won't solve anything if
I . . . "

"Don't say anything more. If you really care for me, do it.
Consider it a favor." she repeated.

He looked at her. If this was some kind of silly trap, the least
he could do was enjoy it. She was beautiful. This would probably be
his farewell. He leaned forward. It was a long and lingering kiss.
She did not stir nor stiffen. He inhaled the smell of her perfume but
there was something more. What was it? A fruit? Suddenly it was kind
of like dominoes.

The first one hit the next one and then the next one.
Sort of the same as when he was a Captain and worked in the
communieations building and was first to turn on the big lights that
were in the hallway. First one light would illuminate, then another,
then another, until the whole long row of lights came on and it all was
lit up. A Captain? A Captain? It smelled like canolopes, like Canell
O. P. Like Canell Olivia Penrose Bradshaw. He fell back, his eyes
wide, his mouth open and realized he was staring into the eyes of his
wife.

"Canellope! What is going on? Where have you been? What have
done to your hair? How are our kids? What are you doing here?"
she began to sob. Long, gut wrenching sobs, but she did manage to
get three words out. "Welcome home Michael."

They embraced and cryed together for several minutes. clinging to
each other, drinking in each other, not ever wanting to let go, finally
she said between tears of joy, "General Donavan said this game we've
been playing would probably work but it was the kiss on the neck that
did the trick."

"I still don't quite get it." Bradshaw said, smiling and squeezing
his better half. "I was MSgt Thompson. I remembered the jet shop and
all sorts of details."

"That was all hynotically induced just before we put you in that
sergeant's uniform and on that bus. You wouldn't respond to the
ordinary ways of getting your memory back so we decided to fabricate
something a little unorthodox."

"Well, at least this solves one problem," Bradshaw explained. "I
don't have to figure a way that a MSgt could propose to a Major."
Olivia laughed and grabbed the phone. "Col. Burke? Would you
please convey to General Donavan that Bradshaw has finally come home!
That's right. Goodbye."

She sat on his lap and they cuddled for a few moments and then she
at last remarked, "This is really cozy. I never sat on the lap of a
General before."