Wingmen (9781310207280) (43 page)

Fred touched
his face. “Me? Really?”

“You’re
bleeding,” said Jack again, and he touched Fred’s face with his
fingers. They came away wet with blood. “We’ve been wandering
around in the dark all this time and you’re bleeding.”

“I didn’t
know,” said Fred. “The canopy glass…”

“Come on,” said
Jack, “we’re going to sickbay.” He led Fred, almost like an anxious
parent leading a child, down and around to sickbay. And the
enormity of the whole night began to dawn on Fred as he realized
that he had indeed gained three kills and probably an air medal and
that Jack Hardigan, really, deep down, cared for him. It made him
feel very, very good.

5 December 1943
: U.S.S.
Constitution
, as part of TG 50.3, assisted in
strikes on the Japanese-held atolls of Kwajalein and Wotje. This
squadron provided force CAP during the morning hours, flying a
total of sixteen sorties totaling sixty-four hours of flight time.
No interceptions were made. Launching at 1330 hours for strike on
Wotje were eight aircraft of this squadron led by Executive Officer
Higgins escorting sixteen aircraft from VB and VT squadrons. No
aerial opposition was encountered, but Mister Higgins and Lt.
(j.g.) Bracker assisted in the destruction of at least one grounded
amphibian aircraft found at the target sight. All aircraft returned
by 1600 without loss.

6 December 1943
: En
route Pearl Harbor naval station. Operating with standard CAP for
first time since 17 November. Squadron available strength totals
thirty aircraft following receipt of numerous spare tires during
underway replenishment this A.M. Squadron Leader Lt. Comdr.
Hardigan attended memorial services for pilots of other two
squadrons lost in action since 18 November.

Late dispatch
from Personnel indicates the following ensigns have been promoted
effective 1 December to lieutenant (j.g.): Hughes, Levi, Jacobs,
Rogers, and Trusteau.

Duane eased
himself into the cushioned seat of a small-wheeled tractor that was
parked on the starboard side of the hangar deck and idly watched a
volleyball game between members of VF-20 and the torpedo squadron.
Much to his irritation, CAG had instituted an intersquadron
competition in basketball, volleyball, and weightlifting, and
indicated that every pilot would take part, without exception. To
make it worse, hardly anyone could see how juvenile all this was;
they threw themselves into the games with unbounded enthusiasm. It
reminded him of when he’d been a teenager in parochial school,
where the sisters made everyone wear the same sweater and pants and
play the same little games. Duane had known there were much better
things to do with the girls on the recess field. But he didn’t
grumble out loud. He seemed to be a minority of one.

The volleyball
game was being played forward of elevator number one, which had
been lowered slightly to provide fresh air and light. Eight fighter
pilots, including the skipper and Killer Trusteau, were battling it
out with their counterparts from the torpedo squadron. Everyone was
serving, setting, and spiking with a fervor that was almost
embarrassing. Most of the fighter pilots were in athletic shorts
and T-shirts, but Jack Hardigan had merely removed his shirt and
put on a pair of sneakers. Sweat had plastered his T-shirt to his
chest and stained the waistband of his trousers.

As Duane
watched, the fighter pilots (they called their team the Aces)
scored a hard-won point by a clever deception: A rear man set the
ball high; both the skipper and Trusteau in the front line jumped
as if to spike in a different direction, and Trusteau slammed it
into an unexpected corner of the opposing court. The team cheered
as one, snatched up the returned ball and served. The game went
on.

It was galling
to Higgins to see Trusteau do so well in everything he tried. He
realized that it wasn’t healthy to be envious of another pilot, but
the acclaim that had been heaped on the new j.g. since that night
was sickening. The Captain’s casual remark about being glad that
Trusteau the Killer was on our side had spread through the ship
with predictable, though still remarkable, speed. And now wherever
he went, crewmen and officers whom he hadn’t known until now would
nod seriously to Trusteau and say, “Hi, Killer.” To make matters
worse, the force OTC, a vice admiral from the
Enterprise
, had flown over the
next day and met with the skipper and Trusteau in the captain’s
cabin. They had been in there the better part of an hour, prompting
fantastic rumors about their careers. True, it had been a neat bit
of flying and shooting, but Trusteau himself admitted that he had
been blessed with a great deal of luck when he made his first turn
and found himself in perfect attack position. Duane had convinced
himself that almost anyone could have done the same thing if they
had been fortunate enough to have the last CAP of the day.

The Aces scored
again and cheered like high-school kids at a football game. A rear
man had set to tall Frank Hammerstein on the end of the front row
and instead of spiking it himself, Hammerstein had tipped the ball
the length of the net to Killer Trusteau who dunked it in for the
point. The torpedo pilots were being routed. Jack called the team
into a huddle; they conferred earnestly, standing with arms over
shoulders and heads close together, for secrecy. When they broke,
the Skipper clapped Trusteau on the back in a chummy gesture. They
looked for all the world like fraternity brothers or sand-lot
athletes happily proving their prowess over a neighborhood
gang.

They spent a
lot of time together now, the Skipper and Trusteau. Higgins had
kept an eye on them for quite a while now. They were indeed very
close. Just last night at the crew’s movie on the hangar deck they
sat in the front row, on the very end. Duane had sat behind them
and noticed that as soon as the movie was underway, Jack leaned
over against Trusteau, and they watched the whole movie (a Basil
Rathbone-Nigel Bruce affair with Sherlock Holmes pursuing a runaway
matchbook containing secret information) with their shoulders
touching.

There was
plenty of room; they weren’t crowded together. The hangar deck was
so big that on the other side of the screen, a half-dozen mechanics
and a crew chief were lowering a spare Dauntless from the overhead.
It made Duane wonder.

The sunlight
streamed through the huge square hole in the flight deck and crept
up to where Duane sat in the little tractor. It felt warm and good
to sit there in the cool breeze and have a little sunshine soak
into his body. Duane closed his eyes and thought about Pearl, and
Eleanor Hawkins. They had been so busy the past few weeks that he
hadn’t thought of her more than two or three times. His mental
picture of her voluptuous body, her unspoken promise of “other
nights,” made him smile. He closed his eyes.

“How come
you’re not playing, Mister Higgins?” Without looking, Duane knew
Carmichael’s voice, a crew chief for the fighter squadron. He
opened an eye to be polite. Carmichael was an old-timer, a cynical,
bored man with a crew cut and the usual tattoos.

“They don’t
need me, Chief,” said Duane, to the accompaniment of another round
of cheering from the Aces.

“I see what you
mean,” he said. The chief came closer and propped a big boondocker
up on the fender of the tractor.

“So what’s
going on that’s important, Chief?”

“Nothing much.
Just thought you might like to know there’s a game making up.”

“Isn’t there
always?”

“You being one
of the regulars, I just thought you might like to know.”

“Does that mean
I’m invited?”

“You didn’t
suffer none last game.”

Duane smiled.
“Nope,” he said.

The chief
squinted into the sun and said, “About eight o’clock, I imagine, if
you were to drop by the chief’s quarters, we might be able to show
you a good time.”

“Where’s it
going to be this time, the chain locker?”

“You just leave
that to us, Mister Higgins. We got it all figured out.”

“Think I might
spill my guts and tell the master-at-arms?”

“Hell, he’s
invited, too. Can’t play a hand worth a shit.” The chief snorted.
“You ought to join the college boys over there, Mister Higgins.
Looks like they’re having themselves one hell of a time.”

“Nah. Too much
like work.”

“You know our
new hero with the big balls was luckier than a home port
whore?”

“You mean
Trusteau?”

“Two red cunt
hairs to the left and that Jap shell would have taken off both his
ears at the same time.”

“Some of us
were just born lucky.”

“Right,” said
Carmichael. He turned to go. “Tonight. Chief’s quarters.”

“Sure.”

“And bring your
bankroll.” The chief sauntered off.

Duane closed
his eyes. The game would help pass the time until Pearl and
Eleanor. The game itself was always something to look forward to,
and sometimes even profitable. And it was always entertaining to
find out at the last minute which oddball, obscure little
compartment the chiefs had chosen as the game site. Last week it
was in something they called “rag stowage,” a tiny, cramped little
room on deck five, forward of the torpedo magazine. It had never
occurred to Duane that there was a separate compartment solely for
the stowage of rags. Live and learn, he had thought at the
time.

On the
volleyball court, the last point was scored by the Aces and the
game broke up; the losers stayed behind to take down the net and
stow the ball. The fighter pilots began to pick up shirts, wallets,
cigarette packs, and to head below. Hardigan and Trusteau came over
to Duane and sat down heavily on the tractor fender. They were
panting and perspiring, exhilarated by the win.

“Good game,
Fred.”

“You did all
right yourself, Skipper.”

“I take it you
guys won,” said Duane.

“Easily,” said
Jack. “You should have joined us.”

“Some other
time.”

“You have to
play one of the sports, Duane.”

“I will. I
will. Just give me time to decide.”
Duane
, he thought.
He called me Duane
.

“Better decide
quick. It’s only a few days to Pearl.”

“Yeah. I
know.”

Jack stretched
a sleeve of his T-shirt and wiped the sweat from his eyes. “I don’t
know about you,” he said, “but I think I need a shower.”

“That sounds
like a good idea,” said Trusteau. He heaved himself to his
feet.

“Don’t stay out
in the sun too long, Duane. Might get burned.” Jack laughed as he
got up. The two sweaty wingmen walked away.

Duane sat up
and opened his eyes to watch them go.
He called me Duane
, he thought.
In front of
Trusteau he called me Duane
. Just before they disappeared
into a door in the island, Jack grabbed Fred’s neck in a rough,
playful gesture, and they both laughed loudly, openly.

Duane sat in
the sun for a few minutes more but had to leave when the hangar
crew came to raise the elevator back to closed position. Then he
went down to his bunk and lay down to think.

Fresh, clean,
and dapper, Jack Hardigan sat at the desk in the squadron office.
He was reading through the memo from CAG one more time. It was
neither unpleasant nor demanding. It simply informed him that the
entire air group would spend three days and two nights of rest and
recreation at the Moana Hotel in Waikiki. Two men would be in a
room, and there would be no curfew or bed checks. The squadron
would like that.

Jack leaned
back and thought hard for several minutes. Death came so frequently
these days that he had no fear of it. He didn’t even fear his own
death very much. But it was disconcerting to think that he might
die without ever discovering the truth about the strange,
complicated feelings he had for Trusteau. He accepted them now as a
part of life, just as he accepted the fact that CAG no longer hated
him. Both sets of feelings were new and curiously appealing. He sat
forward suddenly and drafted a note to be pinned to the bulletin
board outside the ready room.