Wingmen (9781310207280) (44 page)

“Fighting
Twenty will spend 24, 25, and 26 December 1943 on stand down at the
Moana Hotel, for rest and recreation. Two-man rooms will be
provided and will be assigned on the basis of the section leader
and wingman per room. Specific room numbers will be posted when
available.”

Jack signed the
notice, appended the date. Christmas would be as good a time as any
to find out what he had to know.

The awards ceremony
was long and complicated. Had Fred Trusteau not been among the
recipients he would have been horribly bored. As it was, he was
merely uncomfortable. The ceremony was held on the flight deck of
the
Enterprise
, at pierside in Pearl Harbor. Carrier
flight decks seemed to be peculiarly well suited for the sort of
function that needs space: There was room for not one but two
marching bands, one Navy and one Marine; the speakers’ platform
held at least fifty chairs for dignitaries and, of course, the
recipients themselves; spectators occupied about a hundred chairs
on either side of the platform; formed-up detachments of ship and
squadron personnel stood across from the platform.

The sun was
hot. A stiff breeze pressed continually against the side of Fred’s
face and made the job of the Marine color guard distractingly
difficult. Fred looked up and down the brigade of white-uniformed
officers and men until he found the
Constitution
detachment. The officer in
front, complete with ceremonial saber, was Duane Higgins. He
wondered if every ship in the harbor was represented or just the
ships or units of the men receiving awards. Then he decided he
didn’t care. All he wanted right now was for the ceremony to end so
they could get on with the party at the Officer’s Club. Although it
was being called a wetting-down party for the new j.g.’s, it had
turned into a sort of congratulations party for the skipper and
him, the only members of the air group to be decorated.

The ceremony
had begun with everyone rising to their feet (“attention,” they
called it) for the arrival of none other than Admiral Nimitz
himself. Then the people on the platform and the spectators were
allowed to sit down in their folding chairs. There were two
speakers: The first was a civilian from the Defense Department, the
second an admiral who talked too long. Before he finished, there
was a slight commotion in one of the formations where a hapless
sailor had passed out on his feet.

Then everyone
stood again and the colors were marched up and down the line. Then
the Marine band marched up and down the line. Then the Navy band
did the same thing. There were no surprises; the briefing and
rehearsals had been thorough. After the music and the marching, the
citations were read and the medals given out.

Eight men were
decorated this morning. When Fred had first discovered that it
wasn’t just him and the skipper getting awards, he had been mildly
disappointed. Now he was glad there were others to take the
attention away from him.

Instead of
starting with the minor heroes and working up to the most glorious,
the most important citations were read first and the appropriate
medals were pinned on. As each man heard his citation read, he
stepped out of line, walked (“smartly,” as the captain had said at
the briefing) to front and center, saluted, shook hands with
Admiral Nimitz and had the little decoration (of gold or silver or
bronze with a brightly colored ribbon) pinned to a vacant spot over
his heart. After that minor trial, the recipient walked “smartly”
to the other side of the platform and stepped into line next to the
color guard. Fred and the skipper were the last in line.

Among the first
to be decorated were men who had performed specifically heroic
acts: a navy corpsman who had carried wounded Marines out of
danger; a boat coxswain who had piloted his burning, sinking
landing craft through incredible peril to its assigned landing
spot, carried five wounded Marines into his unloaded, still-sinking
boat and made it back to his mother ship before the boat finally
went under; a gunnery officer on a battleship who had saved a
number of lives when his mount exploded. There were also several
officers whose deeds had been more general: a planning staff
captain who continually inspired the men under him to greater
levels of efficiency and output; a submarine skipper who carried
out all his assigned tasks in an inspiring manner; a commander in
charge of a photograph interpretation outfit whose predictions of
enemy strength had been extremely accurate. Then they came to the
skipper. Fred listened to the citation with interest, to see if
they got it right. It was accurate, though it sounded
melodramatically unreal, and Fred couldn’t help thinking that
citations and medals had been the furthest thing from his mind that
dangerous, dark night in the skies over the task group. When Jack
left Fred’s side to receive his medal, Fred drew himself up a
little straighter, feeling immensely privileged to be so close to
such a man.

Then they read
his
citation. It was identical to Jack’s. As it was read he felt the
eyes of hundreds of people settle on him. His starched white dress
uniform felt tight and constricting. Sweat puddled in the small of
his back. His nose itched. Finally the reading was finished. He
felt horribly clumsy as he traversed the short distance to Admiral
Nimitz—perhaps trying too hard to walk “smartly.” For a second he
worried that he might knock his hat off when he saluted or forget
to shake hands with the admiral or trip and fall in front of all
those people, instantly bringing shame on himself and the skipper.
But the admiral’s hands were competent and practiced as they pinned
the medal to Fred’s blouse, and his handshake was firm and
friendly. Then Fred looked into a pair of startling, steel-blue
eyes, as Admiral Nimitz said softly, “Thank you”; and Fred thought,
He really means it,
he really is thankful to me for doing what I did
. And he
squeezed the admiral’s hand again before stepping back and saluting
a second time. Then he was in line next to Jack, and the band was
playing “Anchors Aweigh”—which sent an uncontrollable shiver down
his spine and brought tears to his eyes.

When it was
over and the neat lines of men were dissolving into a snowy white
mass, Jack turned to Fred and clapped him on the shoulder. “Well,
Trusty,” he said, “how does it feel to be a hero?”

“Terrible,”
Fred replied, pulling at the high-necked collar that threatened to
choke off his breath. The new medal dangled strangely on his chest.
The shoulder boards were brand-new and had one more stripe than he
was used to wearing. In contrast, Jack Hardigan looked impossibly
comfortable in his dress white uniform; his trousers were
unwrinkled from an hour of sitting, his shoes were a pure, dazzling
white. He had two other medals beside the new one.

“Let’s take a
look around,” said Jack cheerfully. “It’s been a while since I’ve
seen the Big E.”

“You’ve been
aboard before?”

“A couple of
times.” They picked their way through the crowd, heading for the
island.

“It looks
different,” said Fred.

“It is
different. A few years older.”

“There aren’t
any guns.”

“Not as many,
but they’re there.” They reached a rounded hatch left open for the
ceremony, and entered the island. The differences in construction
below decks were greater than topside. In minutes Fred was
completely lost. But Jack seemed to know where he was going, so
Fred dutifully followed.

“Where are we
heading, Skipper?” Fred asked.

“Squadron
office. There’s someone aboard I want you to meet.”

Fred was now
beginning to pick up on some of the similarities of the
Enterprise
to the
Constitution
. Some of the passageways could have
been on either ship—there were the same steel bulkheads cluttered
with pipes, insulation, electrical conduit, and firefighting
equipment, the same everpresent smell of hot oil that pervades
every ship. The
Enterprise
was, he noticed, remarkably clean and
shipshape; but then, with Admiral Nimitz aboard, they’d probably
spent the last forty-eight hours frantically swabbing and
polishing.

They reached a
right-angle turn and stopped. Jack looked around perplexedly.
“Maybe we’re on the wrong level,” he said.

“We’re lost,”
said Fred, somewhat amused.

“No, we’re not.
They’ve just changed things around a bit.” Jack struck off in
another direction, looking carefully at compartment identification
plates. Presently they came to a normal-looking door with the words
“Fighting Six” painted on it. Jack opened the door without knocking
and entered.

“Jack
Hardigan!”

“Mat
Braden!”

A man in
working khakis stood up behind a desk and came forward to shake
hands with Jack. “How’ve you been keeping yourself?” he said
warmly.

“Fine, Mat,
fine. I want you to meet one of my pilots.” Jack put his arm around
Fred’s shoulders and pulled him forward. “Fred Trusteau, Mat
Braden.”

“Pleased to
meet you,” said Fred as they shook hands. Mat Braden was a full
commander.

“Mat was my
boss on the old
Hornet
,” said Jack.

“Yeah,” said
Mat. “Those were the days, weren’t they?” He sat on the edge of the
desk. “That was some bit of flying you did out there.”

“You heard
about it?”

“Word gets
around,” said Braden. “Congratulations.”

“Thanks.” said
Jack. “But Trusty here did most of the work.” He still held Fred’s
shoulder, and now he squeezed it.

“So you got
three Japs at one time. At night.”

“I was lucky,”
said Fred.

“They don’t
give air medals to lucky pilots,” Braden said.

Fred felt
himself blush and looked away.

“What’s that on
your finger?” asked Jack, nodding toward Braden’s left hand. A thin
gold band adorned the ring finger.

“That, Jack, is
called a wedding band.”

“Finally hooked
you.”

“Yeah. She’s a
real honey.”

“In the
States?”

“Philadelphia.”

“Never thought
I’d see the day.”

“Me, neither.
But it kind of works on you, if you know what I mean. You’ll throw
in the towel one of these days.”

“Nah.”

“You wait and
see. Some nice little gal will get her hooks in you and the next
thing you know it’ll be wedding bells and crossed sabers.” Braden
laughed. “What about yourself?” he asked Fred.

Fred had to pry
his mind away from the incongruous, unsettling picture of the
skipper and a woman coming through an arch of crossed sabers. “I
beg your pardon,” he said.

“You
married?”

“No, sir.”

“Any
plans?”

“Sure,” said
Fred, and Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise. “I plan to avoid it
as long as possible.”

Braden laughed
at that, but Jack didn’t. He looked thoughtful. “Say, Mat,” he
said, “we’re having a little party over at the Club. Why don’t you
drop by and we’ll chew the fat for a while.”

“I’m awful
busy, Jack. I’ll have to pass on this one.” There was a sharp knock
on the door; then Duane Higgins opened it and poked his head
in.

“Anybody here?”
he asked. He spotted Fred and frowned. “Trusty, what are you
doing…” Opening the door further, he saw Jack and Mat Braden.

“Come on in,
Higgins,” said Braden. “Always room for one more.” Duane edged
himself into the crowded little room. He closed the door behind him
and shook hands with Braden.

“Long time no
see,” said Higgins.

“Did you know
Duane’s my XO?” asked Jack.

“You two guys
are still together,” said Braden. “It’s good to see you again,” he
said to Duane.

“Yeah, Jack and
I have really been around,” said Duane. He worked his way between
Jack and Fred. “But they keep sending us back to the same air
group.”

“There’s
nothing wrong with that,” said Mat.

“Remember
Punchy Drake?” asked Duane. “Whatever happened to him?”

“I don’t know,”
said Mat. “Last time I heard from him he was in the Atlantic on one
of those jeep carriers.”

“And Herb
Edelman,” said Jack. “What’s he doing these days?”

“You didn’t
hear? They lost him up the Slot in January, I think. New Georgia,
somewhere along in there.”

“Say,” said
Duane. “You’re married.”

“You bet,” said
Braden. “Here, I got a picture of her.” He pulled out a wallet and
began to pass around some snapshots of a nice-looking woman in a
tight sweater.

Fred wasn’t
interested. Then the three old friends began talking again about
marriage and women, and he decided that it was time he left. He
waited for a chance to interrupt politely, then excused himself.
When he closed the door behind him, they were laughing uproariously
over some comical mishap they had all shared on Guadalcanal.

Without trying
to find his own way, he collared the first sailor to come by and
received explicit instructions to the quarterdeck. In fifteen
minutes he was at the O Club, Scotch and soda in hand, waiting for
the skipper.