Whip (8 page)

He had said no more, and they had drifted apart. And then there had been that grim and bloody disaster on the morning of December 7, and the world turned savagely upside-down, and Lou Goodman had lost him.

It was "down there," in the dust-choked outback of northern Australia, that he heard again of Whip Russel.

There were stories of a lunatic who flew his B-25 as if it were a bullwhip. Just the one word, that sound of bullwhip, when first he heard the stories, brought Lou Goodman to the realization that this might, it could, it
must
be that same kid who had first tasted the sky by Goodman's side. The crew of an A-20 Havoc had flown into Garbutt Field in an airplane holed and sieved and badly in need of work, an airplane that was as close to unflyable as it was for a machine to be and still stay in the air. Lou was in the shack they called a clubhouse when the A-20 crew made sounds of relief as they drained nearly forgotten beer.

Goodman caught snatches of conversation and found himself leaning to these men who were strangers but so closely of the same breed he feared no breach of crossing lines. He rose slowly and went to their table, excusing his intrusion, which was all the more remarkable because he was a colonel and they were all far down the ladder of rank.

They also knew, in that certain instinct of the veteran, that this colonel gave not a damn for his own rank, or, theirs.

"This, ah, fellow you've been talking about," Lou Goodman said quietly. "Have you flown with him?"

"Not exactly, Colonel. I mean, we joined up with his outfit for a strike against some shipping at Finschhafen, off the Huon Gulf. You know, just — "

"I know where it is, Captain."

"Right. Anyway, we had three A-20s, and this outfit, which was led by some lunatic in an all-black B-25 with some sort of death's head insignia, he led the strike with five ships from his squadron. The eight of us amounted to everything we could put into the air."

The captain shook his head and grinned. "I'd thought I'd seen it all, Colonel. Until I saw this guy fly that day, and then I knew maybe I was all wrong and I really didn't know that much about this business of driving iron birds through the air."

"What was so… unusual?"

"Well, the target was a bitch. The Nips had moved in some barges just loaded with flak.

A real shitty mission, because we had to get in close and it was like getting right in the middle of a whole nest of wasps. They had fighters in the area, also, and the odds were

— well, frankly, Intelligence estimated we'd take about one-third losses. That don't make the odds so good."

Lou Goodman nodded. "No, Captain, that don't."

They saw he was as serious as they, and the captain went on. "We
should
have taken those losses, and we would have, except for this guy who led the show. The moment we got within range of the Japanese he called for everybody to firewall their throttles, give out all the power they could make and stay close to him. You ever see this man fly, Colonel, and you'll know what a joke that is."

Goodman thought of a youth caressing the first control yoke he'd ever seen, and — he forced the past away and concentrated on the man before him.

"I've never seen or even known of a bombing run like that one. Jesus, we were in a long shallow dive all the way into the target, getting all the speed we could, and this black B-25 seems to go crazy. Follow him? Oh, man, it was like watching a snake with wings up there. The damn airplane was undulating. That's the only way to describe it. He's making subtle changes all the time in his approach, and the flak is all around him but he's just not taking any real hits. He's weaving and jinking
all
the time, he's throwing off the flak, and the fighters that are coming after us now haven't got a chance to set us up, and all this time this guy knows exactly what he's doing. I mean, when the Japs least expect it, when they figure the man in that lead ship has got to be scared shitless of all the flak and the rest of it, he goes forward on the yoke and he's in a steep dive now, closing to the target, and, well, we were full up on power, the props flat out and the engines ready to come apart, the airplane shaking and vibrating, and we see that black bomber firing with all guns, and he's
still
all over the place and, well, all of a sudden he comes out of a diving skid, a falling turn, but with lots of power and speed, and suddenly he's all through with this nonsense. I mean, we're almost there, and we should be trying to dodge everything when he, this cat in that lead B-25, all of a sudden he's not twisting or turning anymore, he comes out of that snake dance of his, and his airplane is flying now like it's on a set of rails.

"It's like, well, it's like all this time he's been throwing his arm forward, holding a whip, and now he's cracked the whip. See, all this time he's set up the target, he's got us past the fighters and through the worst of the flak, and now what's left is dumping our bombs right where they belong. It's straight in and to hell with everything, and would you believe, that son of a bitch creamed a bunch of barges, and we were hanging on to his tail feathers for dear life, we were scared shitless of losing him, and when we came out of it, every goddamned one of us was still in the air."

The other crewmen nodded slowly in full confirmation of their pilot.

Goodman drummed his fingers on the table, looking from one man to another.

"Uh, Colonel? You said, I mean, it sounded like this man is a friend of yours. Excuse me, sir, but can you tell us his name?"

The disappointment showed on Goodman's face. "I was hoping you might be able to tell me that."

"I'm sorry, Colonel," the captain said. "I wish I knew it. Because me and my whole crew are lined up ready to kiss that man's ass, anywhere he says."

"Including Macy's window during the lunch hour," another man offered.

Goodman laughed. "Did you know what outfit he was in?"

"Yes sir. The 335th. Medium. But we never got a chance to track it down."

Goodman rose heavily to his feet. "Thank you, gentlemen." He turned and walked away slowly.

They kept their eyes on him as he left through the far door.

"You know something?" They turned to their pilot. "I'd almost swear he was talking about his own kid."

8

They trooped in slowly, hesitant, following the easy stroll of Captain Whip Russel, but, and it was obvious to the private amusement of Lou Goodman, without their leader's confidence in what the meeting would produce. As soon as they settled on old chairs and ramshackle furniture Whip introduced them to the commander of Garbutt Field.

Goodman took careful measure of each man as Whip went the rounds. "This is Captain Ben Czaikowicz. We call him Psycho, for reasons that become clear the longer you know this loony bin. But he flies a mean airplane." Goodman didn't miss the affection, or the total acceptance, as Whip spoke of the man who flew number two position in the Death's Head Brigade.

"Lieutenant Alex Bartimo, sir." Goodman shook hands with the ludicrous figure, the combination of stiff upper lip with rags and white sneakers. There was something else that tugged at Goodman's attention. Ah, there it was. A certain way of rising to his feet with the introduction, the unique formality of address to a superior officer. It tagged Bartimo, and when Goodman got it all sorted out in his mind he grinned hugely. "You're Whip's right-seat driver?" Goodman queried. The response was clipped and precise.

"Well, Lieutenant," Goodman said, "whoever you are that's an interesting skeleton you carry around with you." He caught the briefly revealed surprise that even Bartimo's self-control failed to hide. "It's all right, son," Goodman rumbled. "Whatever's your secret I'll leave it between you and your captain."

Goodman smiled to himself. Alex Bartimo would spend the rest of their meeting trying to figure out just what the devil this fat old colonel knew — and everyone else, save Whip, would be curious to discover
how
he'd overturned Alex's private rock.

There were other pilots brought into the meeting, but they were passed over lightly by Lou Goodman. It was the men who took care of the planes who really mattered. One look at the grizzled face of Master Sergeant Archie Cernan told Goodman he was in the presence of one of the well-experienced old-time line chiefs. Hands scarred and grimy, skin leathered from exposure to the sun from working outdoors for years on planes. This one was better than good and he was more than a mechanic; he was midwife to creatures with iron wings.

Lieutenant Dick Catledge wore pilot wings but wasn't on the list of active flight personnel. Young-old, reckoned Goodman. A man familiar with death and the dealing of same, and Goodman offered himself a private pat on the back when Catledge was identified as the squadron ordnance officer. That's why, mused Goodman, the smell of death with this man. It was his profession in more ways than one.

Goodman made a special effort in studying Captain Elmer Rankin. Bookish, yet,
that
didn't fit, and it took several moments of trying to draw his own picture of Rankin before Goodman realized he was dealing with an unusual brain. "How come you're not with headquarters?" Goodman snapped. It was a demanding question and its verbalization was much too sharp for the tone of this particular gathering. It almost put the captain on the spot. Rankin glanced at Whip but received only a thin smile in response. It told him to play it alone.

"To be frank about it, Colonel, I've been avoiding them like the plague," Rankin said carefully. He was testing Lou Goodman as thoroughly as the colonel was running him through the mill.

Goodman took note of the thin blond hair, the misleading build of the athletic body. He would have described Rankin as a man with haunting eyes. Goodman was almost sure he had it. He wanted to reach his own judgment before it was offered too easily. Rankin did it for him.

"Sir, uh, would you mind my asking why you brought up headquarters?" Rankin was out of water. No one had lifted up his mental shirttails for a long time.

"Headquarters," Lou Goodman said slowly, "is beating the bushes in every direction for people who know the Japanese better than other people." The look of surprise on Rankin's face was matched by every other man in the room, and they shared the same unspoken question. How the hell did Goodman know about —

"Does it bother you, Captain," Goodman went on, "to kill the Japanese?"

Even the manner of wording the question was enough for the two men to understand one another. The look on Rankin's face sewed it up. He nodded his head slowly, then stared directly into Goodman's eyes and gained all the more respect from the colonel.

"Yes, sir, it does."

"You speak the language well?"

"Yes, sir."

"Where did you live in Japan?"

By now every man in the room save Lou Goodman and Elmer Rankin were staring open-mouthed at the two. Not even Whip Russel had known what he was hearing for the first time.

"Nagoya. Off the main drag of the town. Near Higashiyama Park. A small school there." A thin, humorless smile appeared. "I think of
those
people, Colonel Goodman, and yes," he reaffirmed, "there are times when it hurts."

"I'm glad to hear that," Goodman said quietly. "There's hope for the rest of us then."

He swung his bulk about to face Whip squarely. "All right, Whip," he said brusquely,

"you've been priming my goddamned pump for two days now. Every single thing that's happened since you and your band of roughnecks showed up has been aimed at softening up the fat old bastard. You can open your fists now and let me see what you've been hiding. Are you going to deny setting me up like a clay pigeon?"

Whip held his right hand over his heart. "Who? Me?" He leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and the physical tightening of his body was almost a visible thing. His face took on an aspect Goodman hadn't seen.

"I want some airplanes that will let me fight." The words came out flat, no-nonsense. It wasn't a request or a demand. It was a statement.

Lou Goodman didn't answer immediately. Let it come out. "The B-25 you're flying," he said. "Not good enough?"

"Shit, no, Lou. Those airplanes of ours. They're good ships." He made a wry face. "Or they will be as soon as your people and mine have the chance to cure them of their leprosy. That isn't the point. Even when they were brand-spanking-new, when they came off the line, they were good airplanes."

Whip shifted in his seat. He was into it. now and he was comfortable. Screw the fight he knew he would have with Lou Goodman. He had his teeth into it. "That's just the whole point, like I said. They're good
airplanes
. But for what we need they're not good enough."

Goodman toyed with the cigar butt. "I want to stay with you. Take it step by step. You're not talking about getting another type of bomber?"

Whip shook his head. "Hell, no. You're a miracle worker, Lou. I never called you a magician. There
aren't
any other bombers."

"You are so right," Goodman sighed. "So what you're talking about is changing what you've got."

"Not changing, sir." Goodman turned his head to Lieutenant Dick Catledge. "That's not enough. Improving what these machines can do."

"You're the expert with the guns." Another statement from Goodman.

Catledge started to reply and was cut short by a gesture from his commander. "You've seen those reports from Eglin Field?" Whip threw in.

"I've seen them."

"Is that all the hell you've got to say?" he demanded.

"That depends," Goodman told him. "It depends upon many things, Whip. It depends upon where you are. It depends upon what you've got to work with. It depends upon what regulations say you can and can't — "

"Screw the regulations."

Goodman shrugged. "Okay. We'll play it your way. Screw the regulations then. That doesn't change what you've got to work with." Goodman shook his head in mild self-rebuke. "I'm getting ahead of myself again. You tell me what you want."

"Okay, Lou. You know that we can change these airplanes we have. Turn them into something that can survive in the air with Japanese fighters. Right now our outfit has used up all its luck and borrowed a hell of a lot. Most other outfits, I don't care what they're flying, if they get caught by Zeros and there's no fighter escort, it's slaughter time. Our people get creamed."