Wingmen (9781310207280) (15 page)

Fred walked
slowly down the passageway toward his six-man cabin, savoring the
almost imperceptible roll of the ship and the hot-oil smell of the
vast machinery humming and throbbing all around him. He wasn’t
exactly sure where his stateroom was, but he knew that if he just
followed this corridor, sooner or later he’d find it. He stopped
for a drink at a water fountain and realized then that his knees
were shaking and his hands trembling. He’d gone topside half an
hour earlier to try to stop thinking about the skipper. Now it was
all back again, hanging over him like a thick, smothering
cloak.

He tried three
different doors before finding his own. All the bunks but his were
occupied by shapeless bundles of sleeping men. The euphoric glow
from talking with the skipper was gone now. He undressed in the
dark and took his hurtful, helpless feelings to bed.

“Banger One, vector
two eight five, angels five.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot.”
Turkey
Trot
, thought Fred.
How ridiculous.

“Request
altitude confirmation, Banger One.”

“On contact,
Turkey Trot, on contact.”
Pushy bastard.
Fred listened to the FDO and Higgins
exchange information and said nothing.

“Target course
one zero zero, speed one six zero. Please confirm.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot. Wait one. This one’s yours, One Three.”

Fred looked
into the cockpit of Higgins’ Hellcat and gave him a thumbs-up.
Applying power and pulling back on the stick to gain altitude. Fred
started a climbing turn that would bring him to eight thousand feet
on a heading of two eight five. They had been doing these simple
interceptions of the antisubmarine patrol for the last two hours.
The novelty of the feat was beginning to wear off, even when the
FDO was wrong, which was frequently.

“Tallyho,
Turkey Trot. Beginning attack.” The Dauntless was at approximately
three thousand feet, idled back, and cruising along in as leisurely
a pace as was possible in the middle of the ocean, a thousand miles
from the nearest friendly base. The FDO needed to bone up on his
tactical operations, thought Fred. He should know that an ASW sweep
wouldn’t be at five thousand feet. Fred began his attack from high
and to the right, glancing around to make sure the exec was still
with him, then rolling into a deflection shot made easy by the
steady course of the Dauntless. When the target was still small in
the gunsight, Fred squeezed off an imaginary burst and pulled up
and away. The Dauntless waggled its wings and continued on its
way.

“Turkey Trot,
this is Banger One. Interception completed. Altitude angels three,
course one zero zero, speed one six zero.”

“Sorry about
the altitude, Banger.”

“No problem,
Turkey Trot. Returning to station.” Fred started back in the
direction he had come and realized as he did so that Higgins was no
longer with him. He rubbernecked, seeing only empty sky and the
rapidly retreating Dauntless. He was about to call for the exec
when his voice broke in over the radio.

“Turkey Trot,
this is Banger Leader. I have smoke in the cockpit. Request
immediate clearance for landing.”

“Banger Leader,
estimate your position.”

“Quadrant One,
dropping through angels six at this time. I will make a right turn
onto final approach.”

“Roger, Banger
Leader, you have a clear deck. Bring her on in.”

“Thank you,
Turkey Trot.” Higgins used a calm, everyday voice, as if a fire in
the cockpit were a common occurrence. Fred pushed over to get below
the scattered small clouds blocking his view of the task force and
tried to find Higgins’ aircraft. Five miles away, the ships of the
force turned in unison, their white wakes more visible than their
gray hulls.

“Banger One
Three, you are now Banger One. Remain on station.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot.” Fred looked once more at the force, satisfied that he could
find it again without trouble. The ships were already straightening
out their turns and steadying on a new course, obviously into the
wind, to allow the exec to land. Fred climbed back to ten thousand
feet, passing through the milky gray interior of a cloud before
emerging into dazzling sunshine above. He waited. Checked his
instruments. Circled. Looked and caught a glimpse of
Ironsides
through the
clouds. Waited some more. Heard the FDO direct the other pair of
Hellcats orbiting on the other side of the force, into an
interception of a returning patrol bomber. The routine workings of
the task force were being carried on without incident.

“Turkey Trot,
this is Banger One. Did Banger Leader make it back all right?”

“Wait one,
Banger One.” Fred promised himself to find out who the FDO was so
that he could see what kind of man could be callous enough to
ignore a potentially fatal situation in one of the fighters he was
directing. “Banger One, that’s affirmative on your last. Returning
to base course and speed at this time.”

“Turkey Trot,
will Banger Leader be replaced?”

“Wait one,
Banger One.” This guy, thought Fred, must be sitting in a black
hole with only his radarscope, a grease pencil, and a radio mike.
He doesn’t know a goddamn thing about anything.

“Banger One,
that’s a negative on your last. Remain on station until normal
relief arrives.” Fred checked his panel clock and saw that that was
half an hour away. He yawned and tried to get comfortable in the
cramped cockpit. He began daydreaming about the skipper.

Fred had gone
back to the deck edge elevator the following night and waited to
see if the skipper would show up, but he hadn’t. He had gone to him
every chance he got during the day, but the skipper was always
talking with the Corsair pilots or the Exec or the Air Group
Commander or a crew chief or another pilot with more important
business. Fred watched him closely, though, admiring the way he
talked, made decisions, carried himself with an unhurried sureness.
He makes me look
like a bumbling twelve-year-old
, Fred thought,
and that’s when he’s on the
ground. God knows what he can do in the air….
Fred imagined
for a moment that they were in the heat of combat, and he was
shooting a murderous Zeke off the skipper’s tail, fending off
others trying to finish off his damaged Hellcat, protecting him on
the way back to the carrier, and being acclaimed a hero and saying,
Geez, Skipper, it was nothing, while Jack Hardigan shook his hand,
put his arm around his shoulder, held him—

“Banger One,
vector two three zero, angels five, bogey not showing IFF.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot.”

Another
Dauntless was returning from an extended sub patrol. Fred turned to
the right and increased power, gaining altitude to intercept from
above.

“Banger Two,
unidentified aircraft approaching home base. Vector two seven zero,
angels five. Assume quadrant one position and assist in
interception.”

“Turkey Trot,
Banger Two, Roger.”

What is this?
thought
Fred.
They think
there’s a hostile aircraft out here? Oh, Jesus, what do I
do?
“Turkey Trot. Banger One. Estimate range of target.”

“Ten miles and
closing, Banger One. We are launching additional CAP.”

They’re serious
, thought
Fred.
This can’t be
for real. There aren’t any Japanese ships or planes this side of
Hawaii….

“Banger One,
bogey is losing altitude, still closing. Report on contact.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot. I am charging my guns.” Fred flicked the gun switches and the
lights came on that told him the six heavy-caliber machine guns in
the wings were armed and ready. His right index finger caressed the
trigger button on the top of the stick. The circular gunsight
glowed faintly in the bright sunlight. Fred looked for his target.
He could feel his heart pounding and the blood rushing in his ears.
He pulled his goggles down over his eyes and pushed the stick over
for additional speed. And he found the target.

“Tallyho,
Turkey Trot, bogey in sight. Altitude about four thousand. I am
attacking.”
What do
I do if this isn’t one of ours? Can I shoot it down?

“Identify
bogey, Banger One. Please identify.”

He was closer
now, turning to approach from above and to the right.
I just made a pass like
this
, he thought.
It was easy. I could kill this plane in a single
burst.
The target grew, and Fred could make out two engines,
a silver-colored body, twin tails. There were no markings on the
wings.

“It isn’t one
of ours, Turkey Trot. Twin engine, twin tails, silver color. I see
no markings, Turkey Trot. Please advise.”

“Wait one,
Banger One.”

Oh, Jesus
, Fred thought,
this guy is
unreal.
The twin-tailed aircraft grew in the gunsight and
was almost in range, dropping closer to the surface of the water.
Two minutes
,
thought Fred,
and
he’ll spot the force.
Fred was behind him and above him. He
was also very close, but the other plane seemed not to notice.

“Banger One,
put a burst in the water in front and to one side, repeat, in front
and to one side. We don’t want to kill a friendly. Make him turn
his aircraft.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot.”
Here
goes
, thought Fred,
for better or worse.
He banked slightly to throw off
his aim and squeezed the trigger.

The report of
the guns was always surprising. The plane vibrated powerfully. He
thanked the heavens above he wasn’t in the path of these guns. The
tracers reached out; between each of these tracers were dozens and
dozens of hot slugs, which churned up the surface of the blue
ocean, kicking wide, lopsided fountains of spray into the air. Fred
released the trigger and lined up the target in the gunsight, ready
to kill this time. The silver plane turned quickly to the right and
continued to lose altitude. Grimly, Fred followed, reducing speed
to keep from getting too close. He was already so near that he
would have to make an effort to miss.

“Cease fire,
Banger One, cease fire.” The target began to circle to the right
now and Fred followed. “Keep target under your guns, Banger One. Do
not fire.” Fred glanced around quickly, spotted two Hellcats
circling several thousand feet above him. If this plane’s a Jap, he
thought, he’s a goner. He looked back at the target. Curiously, it
had lowered its landing gear.

“Banger One,
target is an Army aircraft off course. Repeat, target is a
friendly. Wait for instructions.”

Fred pushed his
goggles up and reached out to deactivate his guns. Then he brought
his Hellcat alongside the silver plane and looked inside its
cockpit. He could make out a face looking back, breaking into a
smile. A hand waved.
You poor stupid bastard
, Fred thought.
If you only knew how close I
came to—

“Banger One,
assume a course of three three zero and maintain altitude until
notified.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot.”

“Banger Two,
return to station.”

“Roger, Turkey
Trot.” Fred recognized Fitzsimmons’ voice and looked up in time to
see the two Hellcats wheel about in formation and head for the task
force. And Fred escorted the errant Army plane out of the area,
climbing to a higher altitude only when they were safely out of
sight of the ships. When he returned, he found that two more
fighters had taken over his CAP station. He was taken aboard where
everyone pounded him on the back and asked him questions and
admired his sure hand in the air. Everyone except the skipper.

“Come on,
fella, tell us how you did it. Did the bastard try to get
away?”

It’s the story of my life since
joining the Navy
, thought Fred.
A dozen sweating men packed into an
oversized closet, all smoking to beat hell.
The hairy-necked
ensign named Duggin kept punching Fred in the ribs with his
elbow.

“Hell, if that
was me up there, I’da shot first and asked questions later.”

“I hear there
was a broad in the copilot’s seat. That right, Trusty?”

“Just like a
broad to get lost in the middle of nowhere.” Everyone laughed
except Fred.

“I didn’t see
the copilot’s seat,” said Fred. He needed air. He wanted to go to
bed. He had the first CAP in the morning, and it was already past
ten. His problem was the location of the bull session: his own
stateroom.

Duggin lit
another cigarette from the butt of his previous one, then offered
the pack to Fred. Fred refused.

“I went out
with this female pilot once,” said Ensign Rogers.

“Only once?”
someone asked.