Billy versus Rumsy

August 7, 2002

My Bedroom

Atlanta, Georgia

Wednesday morning begins at 3am. My cell phone is going off. “Michael” glows on the screen. I hit “answer” and then clear my throat into the receiver to let him know that (A) I was there and (B) that he had had woken me up.

MICHAEL: It’s three in the morning. Do you know where your superkid is?

It takes me a second to realize what he’s said and then I’m instantly awake.

ME: What?

MICHAEL: Turn on your television.

I scramble for the TV remote and flick on the television.

ME: What’s going on?

The screen fades on and I’m treated to a series of aerial view of the White House.

MICHAEL: It’s on every station.

ME: What’s going on?

The news anchors aren’t able to make sense of it and neither am I. The secret service have flooded the lawn. The army is filling the street. Beyond them, the media. Spotlights from circling helicopters bob through the early morning, and are roughly intersecting at the same point thirty feet above the ground. Floating over the rose garden, facing the Oval Office, is Billy.

This is me speechless.

The cell phone vibrates and “BILLY” appears on the screen.

ME: Michael, I have to take this other call.

MICHAEL: What?

ME: Call ya’ back. Billy?

BILLY: Tim! I would have called you sooner but . . .

ME: What’s going on?

BILLY: I am about to give you the exclusive of a lifetime.

ME: Billy, you either need to get out of there fast or you need to land now. You’ve got a lot of guns pointed at you right now.

BILLY: You can see me?

ME: You’re on every channel.

BILLY: Really?

ME: You’re floating outside the Oval Office. ESPN and the Home Shopping Network are covering this.

BILLY: Cool.

ME: Not cool. What are you doing?

BILLY: Getting some answers.

There’s a scratching, a ruffling, and a soft THUMP and I know Billy’s dropped his phone into his pocket. The sounds from outside are muffled but discernable.

BILLY: Dubya! I’m lookin’ for Dubya! Duuuuubya! Come out, come out, wherever you are!

When the Secret Service finally decide to shoot him out of the sky, I wonder if they’ll broadcast it?

BILLY: Dubya!

VOICE: Land!

BILLY: Dubya!

VOICE: Land!

BILLY: Mister President!

VOICE: Son, you need to land it RIGHT NOW!

My lips and tongue are dry. I’m breathing through my mouth in anticipation as I watch Billy on TV. He’s looking down at the secret serviceman who’s just addressed him. He turns away, tries to peer through a window of the Oval Office, and the nods. He lands softly on the grass. Nobody moves. Billy laughs and I realize, a split second after he does, that everyone’s scared of him. One of the secret servicemen later tell me “what if he exploded when we shot him? We didn’t know what he was!”

BILLY: I’m here to see the President.

VOICE: Keep your hands where we can see ‘em.

BILLY: I don’t have an appointment, but I’m sure he can squeeze me in.

VOICE 2: Get ‘em inside. The media’s loving this.

I watch as they take Billy away. He’s led out of the sight from the cameras. As soon as he’s gone, the anchormen, women, and their correspondents start theorizing what’s going on and “what this means” for the rest of us.

I turn the TV off, slide off the bed, and sit on the floor, leaning against the bed. All I can hear is the ruffling and scratching of Billy’s pants. Someone’s saying something, something I can’t quite make out, and then I hear patting. They’re frisking Billy. The cell phone’s pulled out of Billy’s pocket.

VOICE: What’s this?

BILLY: That’s my cell phone.

VOICE: Who’s this?

I don’t say anything. I have nothing to say.

BILLY: Can I have that back?

The phone is snatched and then dropped back into a pocket.

BILLY: Can I see the president now?

VOICE: You can see me.

BILLY: Who the hell are you?

I gasp and then laugh. Billy doesn’t know who he’s looking at, but I recognize his voice instantly.

RUMSFELD: I’m Donald Rumsfeld.

BILLY: Okay?

RUMSFELD: I’m the Secretary of Defense.

BILLY: Where’s Dubya?

RUMSFELD: Show some respect.

BILLY: Respect is earned. What has he done lately? And for that matter, what have you done lately?

RUMSFELD: If you were anybody else, you’d be dead already, you know that?

BILLY: Yeah, and I’ve got a problem with that.

RUMSFELD: You’re just lucky America loves you so damn much.

BILLY: What? And by “what” I mean, “what?!”

RUMSFELD: You know how many men have died approaching the White House unannounced?

BILLY: No –

RUMSFELD: A fair share.

BILLY: Noted. Can we go back to the implied preferential treatment I’m receiving?

RUMSFELD: If we must.

BILLY: I don’t think I like you.

RUMSFELD: I’m crushed. Really. Your opinion matters so much to me.

BILLY: May I please speak to the President?

RUMSFELD: No.

BILLY: Why?

RUMSFELD: Whatever you came here to say, you can say it to me. Or you can piss off.

A moment of silence. I imagine Billy unhappily weighing his options before nodding.

BILLY: Fine. What is going on?

RUMSFELD: You’re going to have to be a little more specific.

BILLY: I can fly, Mister Rumsfeld. I can fly fast. Why isn’t the army using me? Why am I not being sent out on recon missions or . . .

RUMSFELD: Your duty is not to ask questions.

BILLY: Yeah, I get that. But men are dying, Rumsy. The whole reason I joined, the whole reason I went over there, was so that I could help. I could be saving lives. I could be providing distractions or providing air support. Give me an automatic rifle or grenade launcher and watch the chaos I could reap.

RUMSFELD: And what happens when you get shot outta the sky?

BILLY: I pray someone catches me, I don’t know.

RUMSFELD: You have any idea how demoralizing it would be for America to watch you fall outta the sky?

BILLY: Wait . . . wait, wait, wait. You’ve been keeping me out of combat?

RUMSFELD: You’re a symbol of hope, kid. We don’t want to lose you.

BILLY: I’m a publicity stunt? Friggin’ P.R.?

RUMSFELD: It’s what we need.

BILLY: Why didn’t you tell me?! Why didn’t you say so?! Instead of training me and making me think I was going to be fighting? You could have just said, “Billy, this is what we need,” I would have done it!

RUMSFELD: You did do it.

BILLY: Against my will though, man. Geez.

RUMSFELD: So what do you wanna do? You wanna go back or what?

BILLY: I’m not your puppet. I’m not your dog and pony show. I’m not your distraction.

RUMSFELD: Fine. We’ll honorably discharge you.

BILLY: I want more than that.

RUMSFELD: What? You want a medal?

BILLY: I want an expense account.

RUMSFELD: What?

BILLY: I can make a difference. I can do things. I can do things other people can’t. I can do things other people won’t. But I can’t do it if I have to work some nine-to-five name tag job. So you’re going to bankroll me.

Rumsfeld laughs.

BILLY: You’re going to give me a limitless credit card so I can afford to be the symbol of hope that this world needs. And you’re going to foot the bill.

RUMSFELD: You’ve got a wild imagination, kid.

BILLY: No, I’ve got CNN on the line. And I’m sure they’d love to know that you and Dubya would rather me be your dog and pony show than be on the front line saving the lives of brave young Americans. Can you imagine that scene? Can you imagine the public response to Billy Hughes – a hero of 9/11, the boy that might be an angel, the boy who can fly, the boy who was surely sent from God? Can you imagine that young man going on the news and saying, “I wanted to fight terrorists. I wanted to use this ability I’ve been given to fight and find Bin Laden. I wanted to fight and fly for freedom. But the White House lied to me. They wouldn’t let the generals put me into action. They chose my life over the lives of Doug Drifmeyer and Conrad Melancon – just to name two.” What do you think the media response would be to that?

RUMSFELD: You’re going to extort the White House?

BILLY: Is that the same as black mail?

RUMSFELD: Yes.

BILLY: Then yes. Whattaya say?

I’m shocked by the silence that follows. Rumsfeld is taking this proposal seriously!

RUMSFELD: We’ll get back with you . . .

BILLY: You’ll tell me now or I go out there and hold an impromptu press conference. Tell the world how your pride and ineptitude is getting people killed.

It’s not quite silence that follows. It almost sounds like someone’s growling.

RUMSFELD: If the president needs you . . .

BILLY: What, for a photo-op? Screw that. If he needs me to do some good, he can call me. Otherwise I’m going to go out there and change some lives. Here . . . is . . . my mailing address. If a super-duper platinum or adamantium card doesn’t arrive in the next seven weeks, I go public.

RUMSFELD: But . . .

BILLY: See ya’ Rumsy.

Glass shatters and I know Billy has just flown out the nearest window. He laughs excitedly, proudly, and then hoots.

BILLY: Call me when it arrives, Tim.

And then he hangs up on me, before I can say anything. Three days later, an envelope is delivered to my house with “BILLY HUGHES” written across it. I open it. It’s Billy’s credit card, as he requested. It has an American flag on it.

e-mail from the front

From: J William Hughes billyhughes@#####.###

To: Tim Craine tcraine@###.###

RE: Updates & Such

Sent: Sunday, July 21, 2002 11:45:13 PM

Tempers and frustration are high. Life is not good. Damn jihadists pop up outta nowhere, blast us to bits, and then disappear back into the wind. They got Doug on Thursday. Shot him with an RPG. I don’t know what they were aiming for, but they shot him in the chest with a rocket-propelled grenade. Blew him into “chunky confetti,” as Conrad put it. What was I doing during this? I was doing air-aerobics over the Dallas Cowboys cheerleaders, who were high-kicking the morale of the men.

Maybe I couldn’t have done anything. Maybe I would have cowered behind a rock until the shooting was over. Or maybe I would have flown between the bullets and the rocks, grabbed the prick who mulched my best friend, flew him to the stratosphere, and dropped him to see if Allah saved him from the infidels. Maybe I would have flown next to him as he plummeted. We would have rocketed to the earth head-first. I would have slapped him as he tried to pray. I’d pry his eyes open, make him face inevitability, and then make him watch me fly away safely on the warm current of American freedom.

Or maybe I would have just punched the guy. I don’t know how fast I can fly, but I’ve been able to catch up to, and then fly side-by-side with, airliners. Flying at that speed, I wonder what a fist would do to someone’s stomach?

I don’t know why I’m here. I know why we’re here, and I’m totally behind it, but what am I doing here?

-B

PS: I feel like a complete idiot including this, but could you take a look at this contract Warner Brothers sent me? They want to adapt my team-up with Superman into a movie and want to include my “origin story.” So I guess it’s going to be one part superhero movie, one part biography. Not many of those out there, I’d bet.

Billy Hughes Contract.pdf 9K View Download

Mascot

April 19, 2002

Bagram Air Field

Bagram, Afghanistan

We’re sitting at the end of the flight line under a hot and muggy sun. It’s the first time I’ve seen him since January. He looks good. He looks different. He had always been slim, but he had also been soft. Now he’s hard. His scruffy blond hair is gone, shaved close to his skull.

BILLY: I got a tattoo.

It’s the first time I’ve heard words from him since his letter in February. I laugh, these being the first words he speaks to me.

BILLY: Guess what and where.

ME: Ah . . . Well, since I don’t see a 666 on your forehead . . .

Billy laughs.

ME: I’m going to have to go with the Superman symbol on your chest.

Billy groans.

BILLY: No, man! I got a rampant lion on my right shoulder.

He says this like I should know better.

ME: Really?

BILLY: Yeah, it’s awesome!

He rolls up his sleeve and twists in his chair so I can see it. It’s on the back of his right shoulder. It’s not filled in, as I was imagining it. It’s an outline with interior detail.

ME: When’d you get it?

BILLY: Just, like, a couple of days ago.

ME: And he told you it was a rampant lion?

BILLY: What?

Billy twists the other direction in chair. It’s like watching a dog chase its tail. There’s no way he’s going to be able to see it. He twists the other direction and I start laughing.

BILLY: Jerk.

ME: You might change your tune when I tell you what I brought ya’.

BILLY: You brought me something?

ME: I brought you some one.

BILLY: You brought me – who?

ME: You answer me a couple questions first.

BILLY: Who’d you bring?

ME: How’s it going out here?

BILLY: Aw man, it’s great. I am serving with some of the greatest men and women Uncle Sam ever spawned.

As if to punctuate this statement, a serviceman peddles by on a low-riding red tricycle, trying not to giggle as he does so. Billy laughs at him.

BILLY: That’s Doug Drifmeyer. We call him “Doug Funnie” because he hates it – but look at him!

Billy laughs.

BILLY: He’s from Charlotte. If you could somehow give a shout-out to his parents and to Conrad Melancon – that’s Mel-in-sin. It’s spelled like Mel-an-con, but it’s Mel-in-sin. If you could let their parents know that they raised two fine and upstanding young men, that would be fantastic.

ME: When we actually start the interview, you can.

BILLY: Oh, cool. That'll work. I'll just sing everybody's praises then. Who’d you bring me?

ME: How are the locals treating you?

BILLY: Aw, they’re great, man. They are so supportive and so excited and so thankful that we’re here.

ME: Really?

BILLY: Totally.

ME: That’s not you just towing the company line?

BILLY: No man, not at all. No. Dude, nobody likes the Taliban. At this point, I’m not even sure the Taliban likes the Taliban. They haven’t told me how much I can say – someone’s supposed to come by and let me know – but I’ll say this much: We’re kicking their asses out and nobody’s sad to see them go. So who’d you bring me?

ME: One more question before we actually start rolling. How are you?

BILLY: Good. Great. We’re kickin’ ass.

ME: No. How are you?

Billy leans back in his chair, glances over his shoulder, and then leans in close.

BILLY: Frustrated and bored. They won’t let me do anything. I don’t go on patrol, the only time I leave the base is to go to another base! I feel like a friggin’ mascot. They have this whole dog and pony show they have me do. Fly up, do a flip, strike a pose, pick someone up, crack a joke, do this speech. I have guard duty but it’s like . . . this isn’t what I signed up for! Use me, ya’ know? Use me! Send me out! I could do recon in half the time it takes them – if not a quarter! Two days after I got here, they went down to south of Gardez, and they're fighting al-Qaeda in the mountains and I'm here, twittling my thumbs! It’s just grrr, you know? And the frustrating - no - the weird thing is, Major Curtis is hear. And he's been, like, my guy since the beginning. Me and him came up with all sorts of tactics and strategies that I could use in combat. He doesn't say anything. Even if he had something to say, he couldn't. I think someone's tied his hands. And it sucks. It sucks big time.

ME: Why would they do that?

BILLY: "Need to know," ya' know?

ME: Well maybe this’ll cheer you up.

BILLY: Who’d you bring me? It’s not my mom, is it? I mean, “yay, it’s my mom!” Is she listening? Can she hear me? Yaaay Mommy!

ME: It’s not your mom. Do you remember Leigh?

BILLY: Leigh? Leigh, Leigh? My Leigh? Leigh Oliver?

ME: Have you ever noticed how your girlfriend has a boy’s name?

BILLY: What are you talking about? She’s totally got a girl’s name. She’s here?

ME: But it sounds like a guy’s name.

BILLY: Why do I care what her name sounds like? L-E-I-G-H. Totally a girl’s name. Where is she?

ME: I guess if you read it first, it’s okay. But if you heard it first . . . totally sounds like you’re dating a dude.

BILLY: Where is she?

ME: CNN’s not in the business of fulfilling soldiers’ needs for Middle Eastern booty calls. I had to hire her as my personal assistant.

BILLY: You did that for me?

ME: And I’ve been needing a new P.A., so it all works out.

BILLY: Dude, you rock! Where is she?!

ME: I gave her a camera. She’s off taking pictures.

As if to punctuate this sentence, Leigh suddenly comes squealing over. She hurls the SLR camera at me. I juggle it before hugging into my chest. She tackles Billy, knocking him and his chair over. They’re laughing, rolling around on the ground, and kissing each other.

This, of course, became the image that defined Billy for so many people. For it was while they were rolling around on the tarmac that I got my cue from Brian. We were live and being broadcast all around the world. I smiled into the camera and another little piece of history was made.

4/19/02 – the first “Afghan Interview” of Billy Hughes

TC

* All pictures taken by Leigh Oliver and are the copyrighted property of CNN.

Letter From Boot

On February 8^th, 2002, I receive this letter from Billy:

Tim,

Sorry it’s been so long. I haven’t been able to call anyone and I thought I should wait to write you until I had something interesting to write about.

My boot camp experience has been more about me training them than them training me. What’s an obstacle course for someone who can fly? You should have seen their faces when I jumped over the climbing wall. It was like that was when it hit them: “Oh, we’re dealing with something totally different here.” :P

Ever since then, they’ve been trying to figure out what to do with me. I’ve spent a lot of time at the shooting range and learning strategy.

There’s one guy here, Major Curtis, who really seems to like me. As they shuttle me from base to base (trying to figure out what to do with me), he’s followed me. He’s got a lot of ideas for what I can bring to a combat situation. It’s so cool and I’m so excited.

Seems the war is going well. I might not even get to leave the States, if things keep going this well. I hope I can. I hope I can help.

I’m at Fort Dix right now and I’ll try to be better about keeping in touch. I’m not sure how easy it’ll be if I ship out, but I’ll do what I can.

Fightin’ the Good Fight,

Billy

How could would it be if I became some kind of trained special forces trooper? Flying in at night, taking out my targets all stealth-like. Ooh, I just gave myself chills.

blog facelift

A quick and special thanks to my trusty assistant Scott, who PhotoShopped together this new website. Looks great, Scott!