Whip (5 page)

Chippola looked up at the suddenly open door, and Psycho carried it just a bit further. If Bartimo didn't want to pick it up, that was up to Alex. "They were together at Midway,"

Psycho added.

Tod Chippola showed his surprise. "So was I. Flew a B-17 there." He studied Alex Bartimo. "I thought I knew most of the people who flew Forts at Midway. I don't remember you."

Alex sighed. Ordinarily he would never have responded to this man. But Psycho, and the others from the 335th, had picked up the deep strain running through these poor bastards at Garbutt, and the empathy had worked its way into the open. If Psycho had given him this much lead, well, what the hell.

Alex Bartimo turned his eyes to Chippola. "You were too high to see us," he said at last.

The B-17 driver nodded slowly and they saw he'd put it all together very quickly. "B-26s.

I remember now. There were four Marauders there. Two from the 22nd and two from the 38th Bomb Groups. You were all under navy control from Midway." He snapped his fingers. "Sure. That's right. You carried torpedoes." He stared at Alex Bartimo in a new light and with open respect. "Jesus, you poor bastards went in on
the deck
." He shook his head. "We could hardly see the goddamned Japanese fleet, we were so high."

A deep moan swept overhead and then there was the rush of thunder and wings passing by. "P-39s," someone called out. "They keep away most of the flies."

"They sure as shit don't bother the Zeros," came another catcall, and the laughter followed the fading moan of Allison engines.

It was a pause for searching back through the months. They all remembered the Battle of Midway in June. The first week of the month. Hell, yes; we won that session with the Japanese. The biggest air-sea battle since the war started, for Christ's sake. Everyone knew what the Japanese had in that engagement: an armada of six aircraft carriers, seven battleships, sixteen cruisers, forty-five destroyers, twelve transports and hundreds of fighters and dive and torpedo bombers. They outnumbered us by three or four to one and before the whole thing was over we had broken the back of the whole Japanese fleet and —

They drew up short in their introspection. Let's keep it straight, they might have said to themselves. The navy won that battle. Because sure as hell the Army Air Forces did not.

Not because they didn't try. Everybody tried, and for most of the way through that savage melee the Japanese beat the absolute living shit out of the army, the marines
and
the navy. Not until the very end of things, when we were on our way to one of the most disastrous defeats in our history, with consequences far more critical than resulted from the battering at Pearl Harbor, did the navy dive bombers cut loose and run.

The Japanese were busy tearing the hell out of torpedo bombers trying to get through to the Japanese warships. And while they were enjoying their massacre of the hapless souls flying just over the waves, the SBD dive bombers rolled into the screaming plunges that ended with the enemy carriers gutted and exploding.

Tod Chippola openly studied Alex Bartimo. You could almost hear the thoughts rustling through his mind. Bartimo didn't look like the kind of man you expected to find in a flying wreck in the midst of a brutal air war. Especially in a hell-bent-for-leather outfit that was scoring hard against the Japanese. No matter those carefully patched rags and sneakers. You couldn't miss the signs. Alex was a fancy, a smooth dude, and he hadn't spoken more than a few words for Chippola and the other crewmen in the club to recognize he was no American pilot.

"Underneath all that fancy spit and polish, gentlemen," Psycho announced suddenly,

"we got a pure naked Aussie. A renegade from this godawful continent on which we now stand ass-deep in dust."

Goddamn if that big hulk wasn't right. Somehow Alex seemed,
was
, different. He stared unblinking at the scrutiny to which he was being subjected.

"I was supposed to fly that mission," added Czaikowicz. "Fly right seat for the captain.

We were in the 22nd then. Two of our B-26s and two more from the 38th, and they stuck torpedoes under our bellies, Jesus, I'd never even seen what the hell a torpedo looked like before that day, and they were gonna send us out with six of them new Avengers the navy got in a hurry to Midway." He shook his head with self-chagrin. "There I go again, making it sound like I was on that run. I was supposed to, but I can't go." The look on his face even now showed his incredulity at what had happened then. "Food poisoning. Of all the rotten luck. Can you believe it? Food poisoning, for shit's sake. Anyway, I'm all doubled over with cramps, and I can't even stand, let alone fly, and Alex was there, and…" Psycho let it hang. He knew someone would ask the question.

"What the hell was an Aussie doing at Midway?"

Alex smiled, and the deeply tanned face with the thin white mustache took on a rueful look. "Navy, you know.
Our
navy, I mean. Australian. Liaison officer with your people.

Why" — he shrugged to encompass the enigmatic workings of government — "I never did know, really. Ours not to question why, but only to stumble forth and, well, and all that sort of rot." He sipped at his beer and smiled.

"After all, I was a pilot. A ruddy good one, I might add. I thought I would be flying in this war. Certainly I had every intention of it. Shooting down Zeros left and right in my trusty Wirraway, you know."

Laughter met that last remark. The pilots recognized the Wirraway. An American trainer to which the Australians had added a more powerful engine than the original model, and then with no more than ghostly faith and monumental courage, was sent out to battle with the tigerish Zero fighters, which with appalling ease tore them to shreds.

"But everything became scrambled," Alex went on. "My rotten luck not to have one of those splendid machines. Someone goofed. I was shipped off by flying boat to Midway to coordinate with your navy on our fighting the war together. Of course, I appreciated the faith my government had in me, since I was
all
the Australian forces on Midway. I found myself, bluntly, with my thumb stuck up my ass. Not a thing to do, everyone too busy to talk to me. So I watched what was going on. The big battle was shaping up. And the aircraft they brought in."

"I saw those brand-new TBFs, those Avengers, that were going out to destroy the Japanese fleet." He shook his head and they saw he was serious. "Poor, misguided souls."

Alex Bartimo seemed to come alive as his words shifted to the machines in which they were so interested.

"And the Marauders. Those Martins you people call the B-26. A lovely airplane, really.

They were trying to sling torpedoes under them. I was in the operations center, the war room, I suppose they called it, and people seemed quite mad the way they dashed about.

Then, in the middle of all this profound insanity this little fellow came in. Whip Russel."

Alex chuckled with the memory, and suddenly he became aware of just how intent was his audience. Including his own men. Alex realized — funny he'd never thought of this before — that not even Whip's men had ever really known what happened that day at Midway.

"Well." Alex took a longer swallow. "He was in a real snit. I didn't know him then as Whip, of course. Captain Russel. He came storming into the war room and no one paid him the slightest. Just ignored him. Froze him out. They were rather busy, to give them their due. Whip took it for a few moments, I imagine he was sizing up the situation.

Suddenly he shouted, 'I need a goodamned pilot!' Just like that. No preamble, no how-do-you-do, my-name-is-so-and-so. Just opened his mouth and out came this bellow as from a drill sergeant. If his intent was shock, he succeeded. Certainly he attracted my attention. I attracted his, it seems. Or rather, the wings on my tunic. Everyone stared at him, but he was staring at me."

Alex Bartimo sighed, mixing the sound with a smile. "He came slowly up to me until we were only inches apart. I'd never felt the aura from another human being as I felt that moment. His eyes were wild. I imagine the look on my face by now was one of mild shock, or whatever, but the wildness went out of his face, and he knew quite precisely what he was doing. I was suddenly aware that I was a white sheep in a room filled with very dark and woolly animals. There I stood in all my glory, resplendent in my white uniform and R.A.A.F. wings and all that sort.

"The little captain tapped the wings on my chest. 'Do you fly?' he demanded. I mean demanded. He didn't ask.

" 'Not without an airplane, old chap, I told him.' He quite ignored my quick wit, I should add. I'll never forget his reply.

" 'I got a goddamned airplane and a copilot who's in the barracks throwing up blood and he can't walk and the Japanese fleet is out there just waiting for you and me to show up.

You want something to do to get the crease out of those goddamned clothes?'

"Some high-ranking officer, I really forget what he was, had listened to us, and he finally came over and told Whip Russel he couldn't take me in his machine, that it was against regulations. He had quite a bit of horsepoop to say, but somewhere in the middle of his speech my new-found friend offered to kill him right on the spot. Grabbed his attention, it did. Then he turned to me. 'You know where we are on the flight line. We take off in twenty minutes.' He turned around without saying another word and walked out the door and I thought to myself, My God, that's the kind of man who may yet win this bloody war."

Bartimo shook his head and smiled. "Would you believe it really happened, just as I've said it? I did fly with him that day, you know. Flew the right seat as copilot in a machine the inside of which I'd never seen until I climbed through the ruddy hatch. Ridiculous, really, you must understand. But I will lay claim to one distinction for the Battle of Midway."

They waited through his pause. "I'll tell you this, gentlemen. I was the best-dressed pilot in that entire battle."

He lapsed into silence, another quiet long swallow of his beer and lighting a cigarette.

Pilots and crewmen in the club looked at one another, not speaking, waiting for one man to say the words for all of them.

"Lieutenant."

Alex turned to the major who'd said only that one word. He simply waited for the other man to go on. The question came quietly and it came with total sincerity.

"What was it like… on the deck, out there?"

Alex fingered the beer can. "I was afraid someone might get around to that," he said.

He was surprised when Psycho nudged him, gently, with a thick forefinger. "It's all right, Alex. Just tell them."

6

"Well. You all know, of course, what those machines look like. The short-winged killers.

It's difficult to describe, but they gained a special sense of a killing machine with those torps slung beneath. Of course we were all feeling the tremendous tension from the day before. The Fortresses had gone after the enemy from high altitude, and the Nips simply shrugged them off. During the night following some very brave idiots went out in PBYs, flying as close to the water as they could, and I imagine they were doing all of ninety miles an hour when they drove right at the Japanese. They were using radar, as I recall, and they managed to put a tin fish into the side of a tanker. Of course, none of this really bothered the Japanese, when you consider the size of the fleet they had going for them.

Anyway, earlier that same morning, it was the fourth of June, the day of the real confrontation, the marines went out to intercept a force of Zero fighters. Buffaloes and Wildcats, and the Zeros came down on them. If you didn't know what happened I'm sure you can figure it for yourselves. Carnage. A bloody slaughter. The Zeros tore the marines into little pieces. We had just gotten the news of that mess when we started turning over our engines. We had four Marauders, as you know, and we were intended to perform in concert with those six Avengers. Anyway, the two Marauders of the 38th Group held lead and right-wing position. Whip was holding down left wing, and we had another ship from the 22nd behind us to fill the slot. We were only fifteen minutes out from Midway when we sighted them. The whole bloody horizon was filled with Japanese warships. Difficult, I daresay, to forget that moment. The time was precisely five minutes past seven. Not the most auspicious start for a day…

"Pity the poor bombardiers. Month after month they'd trained with their Norden sights and their fancy gadgets, and now that the enemy was growing ever larger on the horizon, all they could do was check their sights and activate their arming devices and turn everything over to the pilots. We weren't going to make any bomb runs, of course, we were going as low as we could and aiming was nothing more than the pilot pointing his machine where he hoped the enemy vessel would be, and sending his torpedo on its way. Sounds terribly simple, but it isn't, really.

"Anyway, things were happening quickly now. I mean, we saw the warships, and the Japanese saw us just about the same time. Whip was talking with the other pilots so they could each select a different target, and the gunners were on the line now, rather excited, and difficult to blame them, even for shouting the way they did, because directly before us, about twenty miles away, were more fighter aircraft than I'd ever seen in my life.

Two large formations of Zeros cruising in wide circles.

"I'd always prided myself on being cool in a nasty situation, but I found I wasn't cool anymore. I was cold right down to my toes. I realized quite suddenly that all those fighters out there were going to do everything they could to keep us from getting to the carriers. You can guess that's what Whip selected — the largest carrier in sight.

"The tempo began to pick up. Whip firewalled the throttles and eased ahead on the yoke.

What he calls balls to the wall. The Marauder is fast, and we were squeezing from them everything they had to give, and the dive helped.

But the torpedoes slowed us down and just gave the Zeros more time to make their move. I should add that the Zeros were high, oh, perhaps fifteen to twenty thousand above us, so they could pick exactly how they were going to make their runs on us, with all the advantages of speed picked up in their dives. They could trade off height for diving speed and perfect positioning, but I imagine you're all quite familiar with this sort of thing."