On Wings Of The Morning (27 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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I'd heard enough of his excuses. “Why did you come here? Why did you track me down?”
“I didn't go looking for you,” he said. “I knew you'd joined the service and that you were a pilot, and I was proud to hear it, but that was all I knew. My contacts in Washington aren't what they used to be. When we shook hands and you introduced yourself as Morgan Glennon, I was in shock. To tell you the truth, even coming here tonight, I couldn't quite believe I'd found you, not until I saw that quilt on your bed. She made it for me. Did you know that?” I didn't answer.
“She came to see me in Detroit. It was my last radio address for America First, my last feeble gasp on behalf of a cause that was already lost. America was going to enter the war and I knew it. Nothing I could say was going to change anyone's mind, but I went ahead with the speech anyway, knowing I was driving nails into my own coffin. I felt so awful that night, so completely alone. When I looked out into the crowd and saw Eva, I was really shaken. I couldn't imagine why she'd come, but a part of me felt glad to see her, too. After all those years, it was good to know she still cared. I think, maybe, that's what I'd been holding onto. In my heart, I knew she was waiting for me. Maybe I was waiting for her, too, a little, waiting for the life I'd left behind when I landed in Paris. Part of me always thought I could go back, that things would get simpler. Seeing your mother that night helped me realize it could never happen. I'd changed too much.
“She made that quilt for me. It was her way of saying she was still waiting, that you both were. We argued. I think she finally realized that she'd been living with her eyes closed, refusing to wake from a dream that had already passed. We both had. I sent back the quilt without a return address or a note. It would hurt her, I knew, but I had to do it that way. I had to make her believe once and for all that we could never go back.”
“You haven't answered my question,” I said coldly. “Why did you come here?”
He took a deep breath. “Because the dream of my father and the questions he never answered has been plaguing me for months. I kept thinking about you, what your questions were. I didn't come looking for you, but I would have before long. We met because we were meant to, and I came here just to say this: I'm sorry. I've done a few things that were good, but many more that weren't. I've made my share of mistakes but, Morgan, you weren't one of them. I never once thought of you as such. That's what I came to tell you. I thought you should know.”
I looked him in the eye. “Get out.”
30
Morgan
The Pacific—July 1944
 
T
hunderheads were forming to the west, and the radio crackled with static. “Brewster to Glennon. Hey? How was your big date with Lindbergh last night?”
Caldwell cut in, eager to toss out a quip of his own. “Yeah. Did he still respect you in the morning?”
Brewster was back and clearly resentful of the interruption. “Knock it off, Caldwell. I was talking. Seriously, Morgan, how was it? What did he want to talk to you about?”
I hit the radio button and yelled, “How many times do I have to tell you morons! No unnecessary chatter! The radio is to be used for communicating important information that relates to our mission, and that is all it is to be used for! It's a piece of vital military equipment, not a party line. Now, get your heads back in the game and stay on the lookout for Japs! Especially you, Brewster! If I have to tell you again, you'll be peeling potatoes for the rest of the war! Do I make myself clear?”
There was a long pause before Brewster responded, “Yes, sir.” After that, the chatter ceased, but I knew that they were all wondering what the hell was eating me.
It was a fair question. My outburst relieved a little of the tension that had been building up inside me all morning, but the minute it was over, I felt bad. Brewster knew I didn't like excess chatter over the radio, but we'd already been in the air more than three hours. It was hard to keep one hundred percent focus on these long missions. There was bound to be a little joking around now and then, and Brewster was a good kid. There'd been no need for me to go off on him like that. I promised myself I'd apologize to him and the rest of the boys after we landed. I never got the chance.
Not three minutes later, Caldwell broke in again. “Caldwell to Glennon. Sir! At two o' clock! There's a pack of Sonias coming for us! Looks like five ... no, make that six of them!”
But he didn't have to count them. In less than a minute I could see them for myself. Lindbergh and his group had encountered only one of the planes, but we were outnumbered two to one, facing an enemy that was desperate to strike one more blow in a cause that was already lost.
My boys did their best. We took out three of the Sonias before they got Brewster. A fourth flew his ship straight for Caldwell, purposely ramming his Sonia into Caldwell's P-38 and killing them. The flash of flame was blinding. One minute the Sonia was coming for Caldwell, and the next minute he was gone and I was the only one left. It was happening again. Just like the day Fountain had died.
I don't remember everything that happened after—just the feeling of intense panic. I couldn't outrun the Sonias. They made pass after pass at me, and I did my best to dodge the bullets, but they were scoring some hits. The way things were going, it was just a matter of time.
Certain I was a heartbeat from death, I was suddenly and sharply aware of all the mistakes I'd made and the hurts I'd inflicted. Conversations replayed themselves in my mind like recordings played double-time, and faces floated just out of my reach—Mama, Paul, Georgia. Too late. I knew that short of a miracle I was just seconds from death, and I was scared, but more than that, I was sorry—sorry for all the wrongs I would never have a chance to right. “Dear God!” I cried out. “Don't let me die!”
There was a loud, rumbling boom followed by an ear-splitting crack. I thought I'd been hit, but a bolt of lightning sparked and disappeared to the west, like some broken, celestial neon sign, and I remembered. The thunderheads. I banked hard and came around on one of the enemy ships, firing my guns for all they were worth, using the last of my ammunition.
I'd have killed the Sonia if I could have, but that still would have left one more enemy plane to deal with, and me without any bullets. My real goal was to somehow, by luck, surprise, or sheer audacity, get past the Sonia and fly right into the middle of the thunderstorm. It was a long shot. If I made it into the storm, I'd probably die, but if I stayed out in clear air my death moved from the realm of the probable to the certain. It was an easy decision to make.
I think the sheer foolhardiness of my move caught the Japanese pilot off guard. For a split second, he hesitated, and that was the break I needed. It seemed to take him a second to figure out what I was doing, that I was actually crazy enough to be flying toward the center of a raging thunderstorm, but as soon as he did, he was after me. The second plane came roaring after both of us.
“Come on, baby!” I said aloud, urging the wounded P-38 forward. “Give it all you've got!” My ship was damaged, and I could see a thin column of smoke trailing off my starboard wing, but she was maintaining speed and altitude. The thunderheads were close now. Ninety seconds more and I'd reach my destination, but the Sonias were closing. Of course, even if I reached the storm there was a good chance my plan wouldn't work. If the two Japanese pilots were as devoted to the emperor as their friend who had collided with Caldwell, and followed me despite the danger, I would be in big trouble. It all depended on how much they liked living. Thirty seconds.
Please God
, I prayed, l
et there be at least two traitors in the Land of the Rising Sun.
There were. They fired another round as I flew into the eye of the storm, but they pulled away and missed. Their hearts weren't in it. I didn't blame them. They probably figured there was no point in wasting bullets on a plane that was going to be hit by lightning or downed by gale-force winds any second. They didn't have to kill me. Nature was trying her best to do it for them.
The wind was blasting, making the plane shudder and shake, buffeting me from all directions. The turbulent winds tossed my ship around like a toy. The clouds were thick, and it was hard to see, hard to know if I was flying straight, or even right side up. I kept my eyes glued to the indicators, trying to maintain a semi-level attitude, but it felt like I was trapped inside one of those snow globes that kids get for Christmas and somebody kept shaking it up. Lightning bolts struck on every side of me. Half my instruments were fried, and I couldn't tell what direction I was going. I couldn't turn back. The Japanese would surely be waiting for me, hoping to finish me off in case God didn't. I kept flying in the direction I hoped was west and prayed that the storm wasn't as big as it looked.
And, thank God, it wasn't. I hung on for what seemed like hours, but it was probably more like twenty minutes. Gradually, the cloud cover thinned and the winds lost some of their fury. Then, suddenly, I was out of it, passing from black storm clouds to bright late-afternoon sun as quickly as if I'd been leaving one room and entering another. My hands were shaking with exhaustion and relief.
I whispered a quick and very sincere prayer of thanks, but when I opened my eyes and looked at my controls, I realized my problems were far from over. I had barely a hundred gallons of fuel left in my tank. What's more, I didn't know where I was, and, with my navigational equipment damaged, there was no way for me to figure that out. Wherever I was, it was a long, long way from base.
A look out my window showed nothing but endless miles of ocean. The sun was low in the sky. I only had a couple more hours of daylight left in which to find a place to land my ship. Otherwise, I'd have to bail out in the open ocean and hope a passing ship picked me up before I drowned, died of exposure, or became shark bait.
I glanced down at my fuel gauge again. The needle now hovered just under the hundred-gallon mark. During the altercation with the Sonias, saving gas had been the least of my worries, and I'd gone through a lot of it escaping them. Now I had to concentrate on stretching out my fuel and finding land. I adjusted the manifold pressure, reduced my rpm, and hoped for the best.
It was a race to see what I'd run out of first, fuel or daylight. The minutes ticked by, and fuel was winning, but not by much. There was still no sign of land. My most optimistic calculations said I had maybe fifteen minutes of flight time before I would be completely out of gas. It was time to start thinking about ditching into the ocean. While keeping one eye on the horizon I checked my survival vest. It had some basic survival gear—knife, flashlight, flares, and so on. I had a couple of Hershey bars, so I tucked those into the vest pockets along with the canteen of water that I always took with me for long flights. I found some rubber bands, so I shoved them in, too. I wasn't sure what good they'd be, but you never knew.
I took another look around me. This was it. There was nothing left to do but wait to run out of gas and pray. As the fuel needle dipped lower and lower, I was feeling increasingly edgy. I half wanted to bail out right then, just to get it over with, but I knew I should stay with the plane as long as possible.
I took a deep breath. It was time to decrease my altitude. That was when I saw something on the horizon, or at least I thought I did. Evening shadows were starting to fall, so I couldn't be sure, but there was a dark spot off to the southwest. I maintained my altitude and hung on, keeping my eyes glued to the horizon, watching the spot. But it wasn't a spot, it was an island—not much of an island, but at that moment I couldn't afford to be choosy. It was still a good way off. Was it too far for me to reach on the gas I had left? Probably, but getting there was my best chance of staying alive.
According to my gas gauge, the P-38 was close to fumes. I decreased my airspeed, hoping that might buy me another minute or two. With every second, the island loomed larger in my field of vision. Maybe, just maybe, I was going to make it. I could hardly believe it. It was a miracle.
Suddenly, a small voice in my mind whispered,
You know, if not for Lindbergh, you'd have run out of gas long ago and had to ditch in the middle of the ocean. Right now, some shark would be picking you out of his teeth—if not for Lindbergh. If not for your father.
As the thought entered my mind and refused to leave, I felt my jaw tighten. Just then, the plane started to jerk and sputter.
Not quite a miracle,
I thought.
The engines shut down, and everything around me was eerily quiet; the only noise in the world was the whoosh of air pushing past my rapidly descending aircraft and the adrenaline-pumped beat of my heart. My gas was gone. I would have to get as close as I could to the island, bail out, and, assuming my parachute opened and I wasn't knocked unconscious from the impact of hitting the water, swim for land and hope someone found me.
It was time. My finger hovered over the ejection button. In spite of the desperate situation I found myself in, I hadn't lost my sense of irony. Wouldn't it be something if the advice of the person that, at the moment, I hated most in the world turned out to be what saved me?
“Well,” I said with a laugh, “there isn't a bookmaker in the world who'd give odds on my chance of living through the day. So don't go taking any bows just yet, Mr. Lindbergh. The day's a long way from over.”

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