“All right, gentlemen, this cruise is going to be something none of us has ever been on before: a wartime training cruise. Mister Higgins and I spent a couple of hours yesterday with the skippers and execs and the air group commander, together with the Ironsides air officer and captain, to get our signals down straight.”
Fred Trusteau hardened his face into a show-nothing mask and considered the skipper through half-closed eyes. Jack Hardigan leaned back against the edge of the large table in front of the ready room, tapping a pointer carelessly against his left shoe. His voice seemed to fill the room and surround Fred with its resonance.
“The purpose of this mission is to operate the ships and aircraft of the task force under wartime conditions where the threat of enemy intervention isn’t expected. They haven’t told us where this area will be, but I think we can assume that it’ll be between Pearl and the west coast. As to how long the cruise will last, your guess is as good as mine.” The skipper braced his palms on the edge of the table, casually splayed his long legs toward the quiet, seated pilots. Had he noticed, Fred would have been surprised at their seriousness, but his attention was on the man in front, for reasons no one save him could know.
“VF-20’s secondary mission is the testing and qualification of the Chance Vought Corsair as a ship-borne interceptor. When we finish here, I want to see the guys I picked to fly the Corsairs aboard and we’ll work out the details.” Jack pointed toward the blackboard, on which was chalked a diagram of a carrier task force. Great pie-shaped wedges emanated from the center of the circular formation of ships. He said: “The ship will keep a minimum four-plane CAP on duty during all daylight hours. Mister Higgins will post the duty rotation for even and odd days by tomorrow morning and keep it current on board. Don’t rely on your memory as to when you’ll pull the duty. Check a couple of times every day. Ironsides will also be employing standard antisubmarine searches, close in and extended, so don’t think the bomber jockeys are getting off easy.”
A battle was raging in Fred’s mind as he considered the man with the pointer at the front of the ready room. He had given up trying to concentrate and retain the information that the skipper was giving out—information that could quite conceivably save his life. He was instead trying to sort out the first incredible rush of sensations that had nearly smothered him only minutes before. When the skipper had first taken the floor to begin the briefing, he had, for no reason at all, remembered the dream. In a way, it was as if a switch had been thrown, and a light had come on, revealing with perfect clarity what had heretofore been hidden in darkness, struggling to get out. And now that it was out, Fred wasn’t at all sure he wanted it that way.
The skipper was speaking: “The ship will go to General Quarters every morning before dawn and remain at stations until the launching of the morning CAP or whenever the captain decides to secure. We can also expect a couple of unscheduled GQs during each day and at least three a week after dark. There’ll be some major battle problems, maybe involving another carrier, but at this point they’re still unscheduled. From what I hear, most of the ships in the group will be brand-new so this is a training exercise all around. There’s even going to be a makee-learn admiral aboard getting his sea legs and learning port from starboard.”
“Peachy,” said Lieutenant Brogan, “no flight gear in the wardroom.”
“Now boys,” said Lieutenant Schuster, “start with the fork on the outside.” Laughter scattered through the room and some of the tension was broken.
“Tomorrow morning at this time Mister Schuster will conduct a half-hour seminar on wardroom etiquette.”
“Me, Skipper?”
“You’re the only Schuster we’ve got. Tomorrow this time.”
“Sure, Skipper.”
Fred decided he liked the way the skipper trimmed his sideburns in the middle of his ears and kept a neat quarter-inch of skin around them. He would let his sideburns grow out some and ask the barber to trim them that way.
“This admiral’s name is Berkey and he’s an air officer from way back. He’s going to be looking primarily at big strike coordination and radio procedure. CAP vectoring is another of his interests. What I’m trying to get across is radio discipline. It’s important that you not come up on the circuit unless you have something important to say, and for most of you that’s nothing. And the first person I hear calling the Ironsides or any other ship by anything other than its designated call sign won’t see a promotion for a long, long time.”
Fred studied the skipper’s hands as he talked, noting a small black bruise on his right thumbnail. His hands were big, like Fred’s father’s had been, but the skipper kept his nails trimmed and cleaned. And his father could never have handled himself the way the skipper did now. His father had not been either approachable or self-assured. It took me all these years to appreciate that, thought Fred. But why is it important?
“The squadron will form up on the twenty-eighth at about 0700 at fifteen thousand feet. Rendezvous point is point Zebra, due southeast of the airfield and one mile off the beach. Formation is squadron in echelon right, divisions in finger four. I’m telling you this now so that in case there’s an early sailing announcement, we can skip a briefing and get into the air without delay. And another thing: Beginning tomorrow morning, every pilot, without exception, will pack up his gear in regulation luggage with his name on it and leave it on his bunk, ready to go. Sailing dates are always subject to change and often as not they’re moved forward. And clear all your personal junk out of the ready room here. When we leave, everything here will go with you in the aircraft, and I don’t want to see anything except regulation flying gear.”
“Ah shoot, Skipper,” said one of the veterans, “my girl wanted to see the ship.”
“No ukuleles, no tennis rackets, and no booze. If you can’t get it into a sea bag and a B-4, it doesn’t go with us.”
“How about my golf clubs, Skipper?” asked Lieutenant Brogan.
“Only admirals can have golf clubs aboard.” Jack looked down at a piece of paper on the table and read silently for a few seconds. “One other thing. We’ll be bunking in four- and six-man staterooms for the most part. They’ve decided it’s best that the occupants of each compartment be taken from all three squadrons, so you’ll probably have a bomber jockey in the rack over you.”
“Why’s that, Skipper?” asked a young ensign.
Duane Higgins broke in and said primly, “It’s to promote better social relations between the pilots of the air group,” and a scattering of laughter ran through the room.
“Think about it,” said Jack. He had been leaning against the front edge of the table. Now he easily hefted himself into a sitting position on top of it. Fred watched his every movement. Jack continued: “With the ship in enemy waters, with subs taking pot shots at her, you don’t want all your important men in one spot. A single torpedo could kill them all at one time.”
“That’s why the captain and the admiral don’t share a stateroom,” said Brogan.
“And it’s also to promote better social relations between the pilots of the air group.” Jack smiled and scanned his pilots. “Are there any questions you need answers to?” Heads turned and looked but no hands were raised. “Mister Higgins has the stateroom assignments, so look him up sometime before you get aboard. If I don’t get the chance to talk to you again, assemble in the ready room on board as soon as you get there. Okay?” He scanned the room one more time. “Let’s do some flying.” Jack slid off the table while the room dissolved into stretching, talking men, but Fred stayed seated and watched the skipper. He liked the way the older man had kept his body in shape, the way his clothes enhanced his trimness. He was wearing a pair of gabardine slacks instead of the usual starched wash khaki. The top button was closed under his tie. His shoes gleamed. He was a very handsome man.
“You asleep, Trusty?” Hammerstein towered over him and tousled his hair.
“Just thinking, Frank.” Fred stood up and stretched. In the front of the room, the three lieutenants the skipper had picked to work with the Corsairs had clustered around him.
“About girls no doubt.” Frank laughed.
“Yeah,” he said. “Girls.”
“For the benefit of the less experienced members of the squadron, we will now attempt to demonstrate proper wardroom etiquette.” Lieutenant Schuster stood in the front of the ready room, facing the seated ensigns and a few j.g.’s. Under his arm was a blue, bound copy of The Division Officer’s Guide, which he now held up for all to see. “Our reference work will be Emily Post’s favorite manual, one which is both near and dear to our hearts.” Some of the ensigns snickered.
Schuster walked to the door leading to the outside of the building and opened it. Four pilots came in, all wearing their round, officer’s combination caps. Across the front of each man’s chest was pinned a wide strip of paper with words written on it. Lieutenant Bradley’s chest said “XO.” Frank Hammerstein’s said “Engineer.” Duane Higgins’ read “Guns.” Lieutenant (j.g.) Bracker was “Aviator.”
“These are four typical officers from the complement of an aircraft carrier,” said Schuster. “They have just entered the wardroom for the evening meal, which is called dinner.”
Fred sat uncomfortably in his chair and tried to get into the spirit of Schuster’s ridiculous lecture. But his mind kept wandering back to what he had realized exactly twenty-four hours earlier as he sat in this same chair and watched while the Skipper talked. The thoughts and feelings were no less real when Jack Hardigan was out of his sight; if anything, they were stronger. He had lain awake most of the night exploring them. The pilots in front masquerading as fools had no effect on him whatever.
“Gee, fellas,” said Bracker the aviator, “what’s for supper?” The other three men walked sullenly to the far end of the table, where they sat and huddled together, hands in pockets.
“Stupid Aviator,” said Higgins loudly.
Lieutenant Brogan came through the door now, wearing a blue baseball cap with piles of gold braid on the bill. His chest was covered with clattering medals and rows and rows of ribbons.
The three men at the end of the table all spoke sweetly in unison. “Good evening to you, Captain.”
Brogan walked into the aviator on purpose, knocking his hat off. “Stupid Aviator,” he muttered.
“Good evening, Captain,” said Bracker.
“Never speak to the captain unless spoken to by him,” said Schuster. The captain joined the men at the far end of the table. XO pulled out a chair at the end and offered to seat him. Engineer and Guns pulled out their chairs and sat down. Aviator did the same.
“Ha, ha,” said the captain, “got you, you dingbat. I’m not sitting down yet.”
“Never take your seat,” said Schuster, “until the captain does so.” XO took his seat beside the captain and Schuster said: “Notice how the order of seating allows the most important officers to sit at the head of the table and those of lesser rank and position are seated further away from them.” Aviator was by himself at the opposite end. All but Aviator now removed their hats and put them face up on the table in front of them.
The captain leaned over and spoke to XO. “Tell that stupid aviator to take off his hat.”
XO leaned over and said to Engineer: “Tell that stupid aviator to take off his hat.”
Engineer leaned over and said to Guns: “Tell that stupid aviator to take off his hat.”
Guns turned to face Aviator and said loudly: “Hey, you, Jerk, take off your hat.”
“Never wear your cover in the wardroom,” said Schuster.
The captain elbowed XO and said: “Hey, did I tell you guys about this broad I knocked up in Honolulu? Cheloobies,” he said, indicating the size with his hands, “they were like watermelons.”
Aviator took out his wallet and opened it up to reveal a small snapshot. “Did I ever show you guys a picture of my baby daughter?”
“Stupid Aviator,” said the captain, and the three officers beside him nodded in agreement.
“Never discuss women with your fellow officers while in the wardroom.”
“You know, your highness,” said Guns, “if we could just get rid of some of those silly airplanes, I think we could put an eight-inch mount up on the forecastle.”
“That’s a good idea,” said Engineer.
“Sure was a nice day for flying,” said Aviator.
“Who is that asshole on the end?” asked the captain.
“Just one of the flyboys,” said XO. “You know how they are.”
“Never talk shop while in the wardroom. Politics is also a forbidden subject. This leaves the officers and gentlemen free to discuss such exciting topics as art, the weather, and poetry.”
“There was a young lady from Dallas,” said the captain, “who used dynamite for a phallus. They found her vagina in South Carolina, and her asshole in Buckingham Palace,” The “actors” roared with laughter and elbowed each other broadly.
“Always laugh at the captain’s jokes,” said Schuster. “That one isn’t in the manual, but it’s a pretty good idea.”
“Oh, darn,” said Aviator, “I dropped my soup spoon.”
The Captain stood up, pounded the table with his fist and shouted, “Who’s the motherfucking son of a bitch who said that? There’ll be no fucking cursing in my wardroom!”
“Swearing in the wardroom is the mark of a brutish and insensitive cad,” said Schuster.
Guns produced a white handkerchief which he fluttered through the air toward Aviator. “You insensitive cad, you,” he said.
The five seated pilots pulled folded pieces of paper from pockets and hats. “If you are ever late for a sitting,” read Brogan, “and arrive after the meal has been served, approach the captain, apologize for your lateness, and politely request permission to be seated.”
“Never,” read Hammerstein, “never, never put your feet up on the wardroom furnishings.”
“Always start with the outside fork,” read Higgins.
“The uniform for the evening meal is the dress uniform for the appropriate clime,” read Bracker. He looked up. “Jesus, is that right?”
“Depends on the captain,” said Schuster. “Please continue.”
“If you must leave before the captain finishes eating, wait until coffee is served, then politely ask the captain if you may be excused.” Higgins read, then wadded up his piece of paper, and tossed it over his shoulder. “What a crock of shit,” he said.
“Do not tarry in the wardroom during working hours or after a meal,” offered Brogan, stumbling over the word “tarry.” “This gives the steward the chance to perform cleaning duties and prepare for the next meal.”
“Thank you, gentlemen,” said Schuster. “This concludes my presentation on wardroom etiquette. Are there any questions?” He looked around the room. One ensign was nodding off. No one appeared terribly interested.
“Hey,” said Duggin, at the back of the room near the door. “I think the skipper’s coming.” Brogan turned around and began taking off his medals.
Jack Hardigan came into the room. Fred took a sharp breath, turned his head, closed his eyes. “Forget the speech, Mister Schuster,” Jack said. “Ironsides sails in one hour and we take off in two.” He disappeared back through the door. Fred exhaled slowly and opened his eyes.
Duane Higgins was already on his feet, removing the “XO” paper, and forcing his way through the room to the door Jack had just gone through. When he reached it, he turned and spoke loudly to the whole room. “Don’t just sit there, guys, get moving.” He opened the door, was gone.
Fred climbed wearily to his feet and thought, it’ll be better when we get to sea, I’m sure it will. He found his yellow Mae West and pulled it on. It has to be better, he thought.
The United States Navy’s dramatic increase in carrier strength during 1943 is best illustrated by some simple figures: At the end of 1942 and one year of war, only two of the Navy’s six original fleet carriers, the Enterprise and the Saratoga, were still on the surface of the Pacific Ocean. Both had suffered severe battle damage, were manned by exhausted crews, and had depleted, weary air groups.
On the first day of July, 1943, the Pacific Fleet’s carrier strength included four Essex-class and five Independence-class ships in commission, of which three and four respectively were approaching combat readiness. By the end of the same year, Admiral Nimitz had assembled at Pearl Harbor six Essex- and six Independence-class ships, plus Enterprise and Saratoga, all combat ready and fully manned with highly-trained, competent crewmen and pilots. This veritable explosion in naval strength is an economic achievement unparalleled in modern or ancient history.
J.E. Hardigan,
Commander. USN (ret.),
A Setting of Many
Suns:
The Destruction of the Imperial Navy
[The Naval
Institute Press, 1962], p. 280.
Jack Hardigan was filled with a gut-level gratification. On either side of him the other three Corsairs buzzed along contentedly, holding a precise and unmoving formation. Behind him and to the right stretched the thirty-four Hellcats in four-plane, lopsided Vs. By leaning as far over as he could and looking down, he could catch a glimpse of the leading Dauntless divisions. The sight of so many aircraft on a coordinated mission never failed to fill him with chilly feelings of evenly mixed awe and wonder. As a squadron commander, the feeling was stronger than ever: He knew about the organization that had brought all these machines together at this point in time, made sure they could all fly, trained the pilots to fly them, and assembled them into such clean formations at this altitude. But the gratification was for another reason.
“Banger Leader to Banger One Seven.”
“Roger, Banger Leader.”
“Any stragglers, One Seven?”
“Nary a one, Banger Leader.”
“Roger, One Seven.” Jack was inwardly thankful for a good executive officer. Only an hour ago, Higgins had reorganized nearly every division for the flight to the Constitution when the ship’s air officer had radioed that the four Corsairs would be brought aboard all at one time and after all other aircraft had landed. This made it necessary for those four to form their own division. Duane shuffled the pilots around and filled the resulting gaps. The hour they had had before it was necessary to begin the forty-five minute journey to the carrier had been well spent and the launching was begun on time.
What satisfied Jack the most was the incredible flapping around the dive bomber and torpedo squadrons had gone through to get ready—if indeed they were ready. He had seen one busload of harried pilots heading for the BOQ to pack their personal belongings, just as the one truck he had sent arrived with his pilots’ gear all packed and ready. They had even had time to round up four volunteer pilots from another air group to fly the four extra Hellcats to the Constitution. An Avenger would fly them back to the island later in the afternoon and return before dark. Everyone benefited from this arrangement: The ship and the air group had the extra aircraft and the other pilots got in some flight time in the new fighters and valuable carrier landing experience. Jack smiled to himself, thinking how nice it was to be well organized.
It was, as usual, a beautiful day for flying. He had concluded long ago that the clear skies and deep blue waters of the Pacific were capable of lulling the most experienced pilot into a sense of false security; the ocean’s vastness could overwhelm the negligent or inattentive. A malfunctioning homing device and an unnoticed crosswind could cause a single plane or a flight of aircraft to miss their tiny carrier by ten miles—a miniscule error by navigation standards—and send them off into wastes of sky and water. They would eventually realize their mistake but would be unable to fight the inexorable mathematics of fuel consumption or the approach of darkness. And wartime necessities may dictate that the carrier remain in silence to protect her location, or even forbid the detachment of ships or additional aircraft to search for the lost pilots. The most you can hope for, Jack thought, is that it doesn’t happen to you.
“Red Rocket Leader, this is Rocket Two Four.” One of the Dauntlesses.
“Roger, Two Four.”
“I’m running rough and hot. Oil pressure fluctuating.”
“We’re closer to the roost than from where we came from, Two Four. Think you can make it?”
“Negative, Rocket Leader.” It was a kid’s voice. Young. Very scared. “She’s getting worse every second.”
“Stay in formation as long as you can, Two Four. If you have to put her down, I’ll leave someone here to keep you company until we can pick you up.”
“Roger, Rocket Leader.” It had to happen, thought Jack. Out of the almost one hundred aircraft in the group, at least one had to develop trouble. Why couldn’t it have been while they were still over the strip?
“Oh, Jesus, she’s gone. Just like that. I’m putting her down, Rocket Leader.”
“Roger, Two Four. Three Two, follow him down and get a good fix. Drop your raft if necessary. We’ll get you out of there, Two Four.” Maybe, thought Jack. If your wingman gets a good fix on your location. If you make it out of the plane before it sinks. If the ship can contact Pearl in time to get a plane out before dark. If a squall doesn’t swamp your raft.
“Banger One Seven, this is Banger Leader. Everything all right?”
“Couldn’t be better, Banger Leader. Quit your worrying.”
Some minor but unexpected turbulence buffeted the Corsairs, bouncing them around briefly before the pilots could compensate. They were so different, these new birds, from the Grummans he was used to flying. Maybe that contributed to his uneasiness. Jack looked across the intervening distance into Lieutenant Bradley’s cockpit; the pilot, who had his goggles pushed up and oxygen mask dangling, smiled confidently and gave a thumbs-up.
The engineer who designed these planes, Brogan had said, must have had a wild hair up his ass, and Jack could understand what he meant. Most aircraft critics said the Corsair was graceful in appearance, but Jack had to disagree. The wide, thin wings dipped sharply away from the fuselage. It was called an inverted gull wing configuration, but from head on it was more reminiscent of a bat than a gull. Jack had no idea what aerodynamic advantages were gained by this setup, although it did allow for a larger propeller. This was because the landing gear kept the nose of the plane higher than normal when on the deck. But the higher nose position made taxiing more difficult because forward visibility was cut—a condition compounded by the fact that the cockpit was located near the center of the fuselage, almost aft of the wing. Jack also found the position of the horizontal stabilizer curious; it extended well aft of the vertical. He was intrigued by aircraft design and sometimes wished he had been an engineer. But basically he would rather fly the damn things than design them. Despite its unusual appearance, the Corsair had amazing power and speed. It handled like a dream throughout the range of power settings and attitudes. We’ve come a long way, he thought, since the Buffalo.
Far below him, an irregularity on the surface of the ocean caught his eye. Jack tipped the fighter to get a better look. A tiny toy ship was there, a destroyer by the look of it; it was making a foaming bow wave and leaving a broad wake fanning out behind it. The disturbed water gradually reassumed its slatelike surface. The destroyer was headed in their direction, almost precisely, and Jack figured it was making speed to join the Constitution’s group. As he watched, the speeding ship abruptly changed course, turning to starboard, its feathery wake sweeping into a giant question mark of white foam. Odd, he thought. Then he remembered the pilot who had just gone down and wished he could be that lucky when the time came. The carrier could only be minutes ahead now.
Ten minutes after the destroyer was sighted the Constitution’s escorting ships hove into view, then the carrier herself, a tiny rectangle of gray surrounded by the parallel wakes of destroyers and cruisers. It was a good sight, and for a moment, in his mind, Jack was back with the Hornet, among friends, on the way to Tokyo, surrounded and absorbed by the strength and security of throbbing steel, pulsating power. It’s great, he thought, just great to be home.
Fred watched Higgins’ Hellcat bank sharply to the left and head down. He counted aloud to fifteen and followed him, using stick and rudder to swing ninety degrees exactly and cut his altitude in half. Glancing over his right shoulder, he saw Fitzsimmons make his turn and settle into the new course. Looking to his left, he saw task group ships heading directly for him. He felt somehow lucky: He would be the second pilot aboard Ironsides, preceded only by the exec, who was flying in the place of the skipper. The skipper, he thought; too bad. It must be some honor to be the first aboard a ship on her first operational cruise. Now Higgins would have the privilege.
Ahead and to the left of him, Higgins made his second left turn to take him on a course down the port side of the carrier. Hoping he wasn’t too close to the leading plane, Fred made his turn and leveled off behind the exec’s aircraft. The exec dropped his landing gear and tail hook. Fred dropped his. Behind him, he knew, in an aerial game of follow-the-leader, the remaining Hellcats of VF-20 were engaging in the same ritual, and behind them, the thirty-five Dauntlesses of VB-20 were doing the same. After the dive bombers would come the Avengers of VT-20, now circling high overhead. Finally, ignominiously bringing up the rear, were the four Corsairs, led by Jack Hardigan, and the four Curtiss Helldivers.
Ahead of Fred, the exec’s Hellcat passed over a slender light cruiser bristling with gun mounts. As Fred approached it, he noticed groups of sailors lining the rails, watching. He released the latch on his canopy and slid it back, surprised at the rush of cool air and the roar of engine noise. He pulled his goggles down over his eyes, then waved to the sailors on the cruiser. A few waved back, probably thinking what a lucky stiff he was to be having such a good time up there in the air. In reality, Fred was beginning to sweat his first landing on the Constitution.
During the last part of his formal flight training, Fred had made his first landing on a ship underway. At the end of that phase, the officer in charge of the flight school had addressed the assembled students and said, among a host of patriotic platitudes and we’re-depending-on-you’s, that there were tens of thousands of pilots in the world but only a few who had been trained to make a landing on a carrier deck. He said that the average Army pilot wouldn’t even know how to go about doing it and would be scared out of his pants if he had to try. What he neglected to say was that most Navy pilots had no idea how to go about it the first time either and were also scared out of their pants when the time came to try it.
Much later, sitting in the Officer’s Club bar in San Diego, Fred had overheard a group of pilots trading sea stories about their bad landings. One had said that he had been making landings, hundreds of them, for over a year, when one day he just got rattled and was waved off six times before producing a satisfactory approach. When he got the cut and caught a wire, his right tire blew out, the landing gear collapsed, and he ended in the starboard catwalk hanging straight down, looking at the blue water a hundred feet below him. Another complained about the turbulence caused by the Saratoga’s massive island structure, saying that once he got a wave-off from the landing signals officer while landing and had poured on the coal, but a downdraft caused him to catch a wire anyway, with full power on. He, too, had ended up in the catwalk with a five-inch gun barrel in the cockpit with him. He could laugh about it only in retrospect. Then the group had solemnly drunk a toast to a good old boy who had pancaked—whatever that was—right in front of the plane guard destroyer and had been run over by the ship that was supposed to save his life. Fred had noticed that pilots always seemed to be drunk when they told such stories.
Ahead of him, the exec lowered his flaps and began circling left on his final approach. Fred was just off the port bow of the Constitution, passing down her port side. From this close, she looked much bigger. Crowds of people jammed the narrow catwalks ringing the flight deck. Fred wondered how many of them were spectators and how many were supposed to be there. He would find out in about a minute. The great vessel, with its five-inch gun mounts, its hulking island topped by a jumble of rotating radar antennae, its flat expanse of flight deck, passed quickly by him. Then it was time for his own final approach.
As he circled in, Fred found the LSO’s windscreen and the landing cables, then the tiny figure of the landing officer himself, with his two brightly colored paddles. They called this imaginary, three-dimensional highway, which terminated on the after end of the flight deck, the groove. The LSO was in sight throughout the short trip. Fred just had time to see that the deck was still empty; that Higgins had taken a wave-off. Fred would be the first to report aboard.
You’re high and to the left, said the paddles. Now you’re good. A little fast. Your right wing is high. You’re good. You’re good. Cut.
Fred pulled the throttle all the way out, saw the deck rush up to meet him, felt the first rough contact of aircraft and ship. Then the arresting gear grabbed him and slammed the Hellcat to a stop, throwing Fred forward against the restraining straps. Fred looked up now, astonished at being where he was with so little difficulty. He slipped his goggles up on his head. The sweat poured down his face, and he knew instinctively that he would enjoy doing this for a living.
The ready room was in the island. Fred remembered as much from the briefing given by the skipper. He was thankful for this much information, even if it wasn’t very specific, because he would otherwise have had to search literally hundreds of steel-gray compartments, anyone of which could have been the ready room for VF-20. Fred was about to find out the hard way, just how big an aircraft carrier was.
He climbed from the Hellcat carrying his plotting board and the miscellaneous accouterments of his flight gear. Behind him a multitude of figures in colored jerseys descended on his aircraft and began to push it down the deck toward the bow of the ship. Fred was suddenly out of the familiar surroundings of his aircraft and smack in the middle of uncertain, almost alien, territory. Not wishing to appear stupid even though he knew that most sailors considered ensigns to be quite stupid, he headed for the only man who didn’t appear occupied and asked him where the ready room was.
“Huh?” said the man, almost shouting to overcome the sound of the twenty-five knots of wind that threatened to carry away everything Fred was holding on to.
“Where are the ready rooms?” Fred shouted. Overhead another Hellcat took a wave-off and snarled down the length of the flight deck, tail hook dangling.
“Beats me,” said the sailor. He wore a close-fitting cowl the same color as his jersey, and it covered his entire head except for the face.
Fred decided that further talk was futile and left the man standing there. He headed for the only open hatch he could see, stepped inside, and was instantly gratified to be out of the wind. He looked around, saw nothing that he could recognize, then bravely went forward. It was, he decided, better than standing there helplessly until someone wandered by. When he turned the first corner he came to, he collided with an admiral.
“Pardon me, sir,” said Fred, noticing the single gold star on each collar tab.
“That’s all right, son,” said the admiral. He was a fiftyish man with a friendly face and an emaciatedly thin body, on which his uniform hung like a well-pressed rag.
“I was just heading for the ready room,” said Fred. He picked up a black grease pencil dropped in the collision. “You wouldn’t know where to find it, would you, sir?”
“As a matter of fact,” said the admiral, “I don’t have the foggiest idea. Here, let me help you.” The wizened little man took the grease pencil and tucked it into a pocket on Fred’s left arm.
“Thank you, sir.”
“I was just heading topside to watch the air group come aboard. Would you care to join me?”
“Why, uh, yes, sir, I guess I would.” Fred turned aside in the narrow passageway, to let the admiral by, still slightly awed by the man’s rank and his obvious friendliness.
“You must have been the first one aboard,” said the admiral over his shoulder. The two hurried down the corridor Fred had just traversed, turned into a narrow flight of steel steps with a single handrail, and headed up.
“Yes, sir, I was. The first one was actually the exec but he took a wave-off, and then I came in.” They reached the first level above the flight deck, circled around, and headed up again.
“Well, let me be the first to welcome you aboard the Ironsides. She’s a fine ship, don’t you think?”
“Yes, sir, I think she is.”
“How many ships have you been aboard, son?”
Another deck, another ladder.
Fred was getting tired of climbing. “I never kept track, sir, but I think about two.”
The admiral laughed. When they reached a final level, he pulled open a watertight door that led outside. The two men stepped through and onto a narrow steel ledge with a chest-high wall. Fred looked down on the flight deck in time to see a Hellcat (it looked like Hughes) catch the last wire and plunge to a halt. “Nice view from up here, sir,” he said.
“It certainly is, son. It’s so good we discourage spectators from coming up and getting in the way.” The admiral leaned against the retaining wall and looked out over the flight deck, which was three decks down. His loose uniform flapped in the wind. Fred put his plotting board down on the deck and moved up next to the admiral.
“I guess I haven’t been very polite, sir. My name’s Ensign Trusteau.”
A Hellcat came down the groove, plopped onto the deck, and screeched to a halt. Blue-jerseyed sailors scrambled across the deck to release the tail hook.
“Ensign Trusteau. What the hell’s your first name?”
“Fred, sir. Frederick.”
“Well, Fred, I’m Clarence Berkey. You can call me Admiral.” Below them the deck crew manhandled the Hellcat’s wings into the folded position and began to roll it down the deck. “Jesus H. Christ, that’s a slow bunch of plane pushers,” said the admiral. “I’ve seen faster crews on a Chinese junk.”
“Maybe they’re just inexperienced,” replied Fred. He’d thought the plane pushers were pretty fast; the organized confusion that reigned on the deck below would look impressive to any but the most experienced.
“You take that situation over there,” said the admiral, pointing to the port corner of the flight deck forward, where Fred’s aircraft and two others were sitting, wings folded and wheels chocked. “They should have put the first one on the elevator and sent it down. When the rest of the group gets aboard and they have to put up a CAP, they’ll have to shuffle all these goddamn air planes like Chinese checkers.” Fred looked for and found the forward elevator, in the center of the flight deck.
“But that would leave a hole in the deck,” he said, “and they’d have to work around it.”
“Not that elevator, Fred. There’s another one over there on the edge of the flight deck, right about in the middle. It’s a new invention. They call it the deck edge elevator. It’s revolutionizing plane pushing.”
“That’s very interesting,” said Fred, hoping he didn’t sound stupid. It was very interesting. Another fighter landed, snagging the wire while still airborne, and crashing to the deck like a falling stone.
“That LSO’s bringing them in too high. What was his name?” The admiral pulled a battered little leather notebook from a back pocket, thumbed through its handwritten pages and came to a name. “Lieutenant Harden. Got to talk to him.”
“Pardon me, sir, but are you the force commander?”
The admiral laughed. “Not me, son. I’m on vacation.”
“You must be the—” What was it the skipper called him?
“The makee-learn admiral. I don’t have a care in the world right now, Fred. I just observe and make notes and once in a long while I get up the energy to make a suggestion that everyone oohs and ahhs over but never accepts. Some day before long, though, you watch, I’ll be making the decisions and they’ll be the same as the suggestions and everyone’ll say, ‘Gee, Admiral, that sure is a smart decision.’” He laughed again, sounding very pleased with himself.
Another fighter landed. There were six Hellcats on deck now, including one sitting on the deck edge elevator. Fred saw Higgins climb from the nearest one and head for the island. “I think I better be getting down to the ready room, sir. They might want me for the first CAP.”
“Well, I hope you find it all right. You know, I heard a story once about a pilot who tried to find the head on a carrier. They didn’t see him for three months.” Admiral Berkey laughed. The creases in his forehead and around his eyes smoothed out briefly. For the first time Fred noticed the gold wings pinned over his left pocket and understood how the admiral could look sad, worried, and happy all at the same time. The admiral was a pilot and felt things like a pilot. He was worried when young men did dangerous things, such as landing a bucking fighter on a moving carrier deck. The admiral liked Fred because he liked pilots.
“It’s been a privilege to talk to you, sir,” said Fred. Admiral Berkey smiled, grunted, and turned back to watch another Hellcat land. Fred left and wandered around the island with his plotting board and flight gear until he found the ready room.
“Sloppy, gentlemen,” said Commander Buster Jennings, commanding officer of Air Group Twenty. “It was goddamn sloppy.” CAG was referring to the air group landing ten hours earlier. He was speaking with the squadron commanders. The four men were crowded into CAG’s none-too-spacious stateroom with its single bunk, tiny fold-down desk, and chair. Two of the squadron leaders sat on the bed. Jennings had the chair. Jack Hardigan stood uncomfortably against the outer bulkhead and wished CAG would wind it up so he could go to bed and get some sleep. “Hardigan, your boys got more wave-offs than either of the other squadrons. Didn’t you train those clowns?”
“Come on, Skipper,” said Bloomington, the C.O. of VB-20, whose popular name was “Boom.” “You know it was that LSO. This is his first cruise. He was waving everyone off.”
“If I want excuses,” said Jennings, “I’ll ask for them. On the whole, our appearance this morning was deplorable. There’d better be a lot of goddamn improvement, or someone will pay with his ass.” He shuffled through an amazingly thick pile of papers and thought of another attack. “I hear from the crew chiefs that some maintenance gear and a whole cartload of wing tanks got left behind. Who’s responsible for that screw up?”
The three squadron commanders looked at each other and shrugged. “You know, Skipper,” said Woody Heywood, the torpedo skipper, “the only guys really prepared were Jack’s boys. The rest of us did the Chinese fire drill number.” He shrugged again, nonchalantly. “But we’re all here.”
“Like hell we are,” said Jennings.
“If you mean Ensign Prebble,” said Boom, “he got picked up by a can this morning. They’ll highline him and his crewman tomorrow morning.”
“No, sir, I wasn’t referring to that foul-up. I meant that our prepared skipper of the fighters lost three of his pilots over a month ago and hasn’t found them yet.” Jack shifted his weight to relieve the tingling in his right leg.
“Geez, Jack,” said Woody, “I’m sorry to hear that. They die of the clap?”
“They’re really lost,” said Jack. “Missing in inaction.”
“I don’t think humor at this time is very appropriate,” said Jennings. “Mister Hardigan, I want a written report regarding the final disposition of those pilots on my desk by tomorrow afternoon. Is that understood?”
“Aye, aye, sir.”
“Mister Bloomington, I want to see that Ensign what’s-his-name in my office as soon as he gets aboard tomorrow.”
“Mister Prebble?”
“Yes, as soon as he gets aboard.” A blue-covered flight manual dislodged itself from the sliding pile of papers and fell to the deck with a thud. “Oh, yes, while I think of it. Tomorrow evening at this time I want to see Mister Hardigan and Mister Bloomington regarding the training programs for the new aircraft. Come fully prepared. I won’t have you wasting my time.” He looked directly at Jack as he said that. “And the first battle problem briefing will be Sunday night.” Jack wanted to say something to CAG about the times when he was scheduling all these meetings, since they would conflict with the show time of the evening movie in the wardroom. He wasn’t that fond of movies but it just wasn’t fair. He was about to speak up, but Boom beat him to it.
“Geez, Skipper,” he said, “couldn’t we find another time for these briefings? I mean the wardroom movie starts at eight.”
“What’s more important, Mister Bloomington, the goddamn movie or this training cruise? And use military time if you don’t mind.”
“Aye, aye, sir.” Boom sighed audibly and rolled his eyes.
“Well, sir,” said Woody, yawning and stretching, “it’s been a long day.”
“Good,” said Jennings, “then I’ll start with you. Bring in your training charts and we’ll go over them tonight.”
Silence hung awkwardly for a long moment before Woody spoke. “Whatever you say, sir.”
“You two can go.” Jennings nodded to Jack and Boom.
Boom stood up. “Good night, sir,” he said, stepping over CAG’s legs and following Jack through the door. The two men found their way down the red-lighted passageway toward their own staterooms, dodging the unfamiliar obstacles that cluttered their path. The ship’s movement through the waters of the Pacific was only slightly perceptible.
“What a son of a bitch,” said Boom. “He’s really got your number, hasn’t he?”
“Hell,” said Jack, “he just likes to hear himself talk. He doesn’t really bother me.” He does bother me, he thought; I can’t stand the bastard.
They reached the door to Boom’s stateroom and stopped. Boom stretched. “You interested in a cup of coffee?”
“No, thanks,” said Jack.
“I don’t mean the wardroom variety of coffee,” said Boom. “I mean my own special blend.” Jack knew he meant liquor, but he didn’t feel like it. “No, really. A little fresh air and then I’ll hit the hay.”
“How’re those Corsairs turning out?”
“Little early to tell right now. They say the tail hooks are giving trouble, and the chiefs are bitching about inaccurate manuals. And they land funny.” He understated the problem; the Corsair he had flown aboard that day had the tightest, bounciest landing gear oleo he had ever encountered.
“That’s about the same with those Curtiss jobs. The controls are all wacky, especially near the red line.”
“You’ll get the bugs worked out.”
“Yeah, I suppose so.” Boom gave Jack a mock punch in the gut. “Well, tiger, I’ll see you in the morning.”
“Sure. Good night.”
“Night.” Boom Bloomington disappeared into his stateroom and the door closed.
Alone in the dark passageway, Jack stood for a moment, savoring the sounds and smells of the carrier at night, trying to feel at home the way he should. The air was not hot, but it was stuffy and warm, helped little by the continuous circulation of fresh air through blowers topside. Jack walked down the close corridor, passing several doors opening on unlighted rooms. He could hear an occasional heavy snorer or muted voices discussing the ship or the war or girls. Almost everyone was sleeping.
Blundering somewhat, he managed to find a ladder leading topside (they’d built this ship so differently from the Hornet or the Enterprise or the Lex) and climbed two decks to the echoing, plane-jammed hangar deck. Fresh night air poured through the huge, unlighted enclosure and eddied around the silent aircraft. Jack headed aft toward the deck edge elevator, which he found so intriguing in its simple elegance. He passed a carefully shielded group of mechanics, working on and cursing a Dauntless engine. The elevator was in the down position, with fold-up life nets bordering the edges. Jack let his eyes adjust to the dim light of the stars before he stepped over the loose chain that hung across the opening in the ship’s side and walked out onto the elevator. He was there in the wind and sea smell for almost a minute before he realized that he wasn’t alone.
It was Fred Trusteau. “Fred,” Jack said.
“Skipper.”
“How come you’re not in the rack?”
“I guess I’m just too charged up, Skipper. It was a pretty exciting day.”
“Sure was.” They moved closer together so their words wouldn’t be carried away by the pressure of the wind and stood looking out into the blackness of the tropical night. A large, irregular shape which Jack knew to be a heavy cruiser lurked an indefinite distance away. It blotted out the stars that blazed all the way to the horizon.
“Nice out tonight,” said Fred. He shoved his hands in his pockets. He looked cold.
“It’s always nice out here,” said Jack. The wind pressed against their bodies like a living force. Jack pulled off his garrison cap and shoved it into his hip pocket. “Well,” he said, trying to think of something to say.
“I talked with Admiral Berkey today,” said Fred.
“Is that right? And what did the admiral have to say?”
Fred laughed. “He told me all about deck edge elevators.”
“Admiral Berkey was the C.O. of the Langley back before the war. He knows all the old-timers. Nice guy.”
“You’ve met him before?”
“I’m one of the old-timers.” They huddled in silence for several seconds. “You just made me realize how long I’ve been in the Navy.”
“How long would that be, sir?”
“Too long.” He thought for a second, realizing that Fred deserved a better answer than that. “Almost nine years. The last year and a half seems like a hundred all by itself.”
“Do you plan on staying in when the war’s over?”
How can he ask a question like that, thought Jack. How did he know I was just thinking about—
“The end of the war’s too far away to consider that right now,” Jack said.
That was the truth. But having a boss like Buster Jennings made the prospect of civilian life seem more and more desirable.
Fred rolled his head, looking up at the incredible splendor of the stars. “I’ve never seen so many stars before. I had no idea it would be this way.”
“You’ve never been to sea before?”
“Does the ferry to Santa Catalina count?”
“Only if you make the trip during a typhoon.”
“Well, just seeing this almost makes it all worth it,” said Fred.
How many of my pilots ever stopped to consider the stars? thought Jack. Some of these guys are going to die without ever realizing how magnificent the stars are.
Fred fumbled in his pocket and came up with a nearly empty cigarette pack. He offered one to Jack.
“We shouldn’t. Not here. Might show a light.”
Fred replaced the pack and buttoned the flap on his pocket. “Live and learn,” he said.
“That’s what I’m here for.” Jack smiled, knowing it couldn’t be seen in the dark.
“Speaking of learning,” said Fred.
“Yes?”
“Well, Skipper, I’m your wingman and we haven’t flown together even once.”
“That’s right, I guess we haven’t.” Jack was thinking, Damn you, Buster Jennings and damn you, Art Blasshill for not giving me the time for what’s most important: training these men to survive the enemy.
“I really think—I mean I really would like to, the first chance you get.”
Jack was silent for a moment. “Don’t worry. We’ll have plenty of time later.” I hope, he thought.
“That’d be great, Skipper.”
“Mister Higgins says you’re pretty sure of yourself in the air.”
“He’s being very generous.”
“Perhaps.” Jack took a deep breath, a last look around. “I guess it’s about that time.” He turned to go.
“Can I go with you?” Fred almost blurted it, then added quickly, “I haven’t learned to find officer’s country by myself yet.”
Jack laughed. “Neither have I. But I think between the two of us we’ll manage.”
They stepped over the safety chain and crossed the hangar, picking their way through the parked aircraft. On the second level down, Jack asked Fred for the cigarette he’d offered before, and Fred gave it to him. They said good night outside of Jack’s stateroom. Then Fred was alone.
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.
“I tried to hold her hand, and the next thing I knew she had me in a full nelson. Couldn’t walk for a week afterward.”
“That’s bullshit. There aren’t any female pilots.”
“Like hell there aren’t. They ferry planes from the factories to the west coast.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“Hey, Trusty, aren’t there lady pilots?”
“Yes,” said Fred, “there are.”
“See, dumbo, I told you so.”
“Knock it off, you guys.” Hughes stood up in the middle of the compartment. “The voting for Miss Fighting Twenty has reached a deadlock. No one can decide who has the best ass.” He held up two fold-out pages with pictures of women in bathing suits. The first was lying on her stomach with one leg bent playfully. The other was standing and coyly looking over her left shoulder into the camera. Big deal, thought Fred.
“This one was submitted by the men of Division Three and this one by Division Five,” Hughes continued. “After a careful vote the decision is all tied up, so we decided to let an impartial outsider with considerable experience in the field pick the one with the best ass.” He held the two pinups out so Fred could see them clearly. “Trusty, the decision is yours.”
You gotta be kidding, Fred thought.
“Come on,” said Duggin, “the blonde’s a knockout. The other’s a bag. What do you say, Trusty?”
“Why don’t you let the skipper pick?” Fred asked.
“Naw, we want you, Trusty.”
Goddamn, I hate that name, he thought.
A man’s head appeared in the doorway and peered through the smoke. Fred noticed him and thought he recognized the face.
“Is Fred Trusteau in here somewhere?” the man asked. It was Admiral Berkey.
“Attention on deck,” someone said. The pilots struggled to their feet and silence fell with choking suddenness.
“Don’t get up on account of me, fellas,” said the Admiral, standing just inside the door—it was impossible to get any further in. “Just take it easy.” He began to inspect the faces of the pilots as they self-consciously took their seats again. “There you are, Fred,” he said at last. The other men raised their eyebrows in surprise or nudged their neighbors. Fred Trusteau was on a first-name basis with the admiral.
“Good to see you again, sir,” said Fred, still standing.
“I just wanted to congratulate you on the way you handled yourself in the air this morning, Fred. It was right commendable.”
“Thank you, sir,” said Fred. He was very embarrassed.
“And we found out what airplane that was, too.”
“Sir?”
“It was an army trainer. Not yet marked. Some hotshot Army pilot thought he could navigate to Hawaii with a general aboard. Got lost along the way and ran into us. Scared the pants off him, you did, Fred.”
“I wasn’t trying to, sir.”
“I was in radio listening to that pilot. He was almost in tears.”
“That’s nice, sir.”
“And someone’s going to catch hell for allowing an improperly marked airplane into a combat zone.” A few of the pilots laughed discreetly. “Well, I just thought you’d like to know how it all worked out.” The admiral turned to go.
“I did, sir, and thanks again.”
“Good night, son, and keep up the good work.” The admiral left.
“Yes, sir,” said Fred.
There was a moment of silence.
“I don’t believe it,” someone said.
“He’s chummy with the goddamn brass.”
“An Army general. I bet he shit in his pants.”
“You’re something else, Trusty.”
“Sure,” said Fred. He sat down heavily.
“Come on, Trusty, now you gotta pick the best ass.”
The two pinups appeared before him again. Fred thought for a moment, trying not to look at the girls. “Put that one up first. For a week. Then put the other one up for a week. Okay?”
“That’s all right with me,” said Hughes.
“Why didn’t we think of that?” asked Duggin.
“You have to have a brain to think of something like that, that’s why.”
“Did I ever tell you guys about this broad I went out with?” said Hughes. “She had one big tit and one small one.”
“You’re full of shit.”
“I’m not kidding. She had half a falsie on.”
Fred looked at his watch and climbed to his feet.
“Where you going, Trusty?” Duggin asked.
“To take a leak. You want to come along?”
Duggin laughed. “No thanks. Maybe next time.”
Fred forced his way through the crowd and into the darkened passageway. It took him five minutes to reach the deck edge elevator.
“You’ve got it pretty well planned out,” said CAG, “but there’s going to have to be a few changes.”
“Changes?” asked Jack. I knew it, he thought, the son of a bitch couldn’t leave well enough alone. “What kind of changes?”
“I need two aircraft a day to tow antiaircraft sleeves for the ships’ guns.”
“Isn’t that usually handled by the Avengers?”
“Generally, yes, but they’ve got their hands full with the ASW patrols, and they haven’t had the opportunity to train with ship targets before this. So I want to use the Hellcats.”
“My men need the training, too.”
“Put your experienced pilots on the duty. Let the new ones work out by themselves.”
“Most of my division leaders are working with the Corsairs.”
“I believe you’re arguing with me, Mister Hardigan.”
“No, sir, I’m not. I’m just trying to stick up for my men, that’s all.”
Jennings looked intently at Jack for several seconds, then turned his attention back to the overladen desk. “The flight schedule for the Corsairs isn’t heavy enough. I want them in the air every day, without fail,” he said.
“The crew chiefs say the main problems with the Corsairs are in maintenance and repair. They’re having trouble with the tail hook assembly. They may not be able to get them into the air every day.”
“Mister Hardigan, those chiefs need motivation, something you are supposed to supply. Why don’t you get busy motivating people instead of finding excuses for not flying?”
“Sir, are you saying that I’m not making an effort to fly every day?”
“Mister Hardigan, I’m saying that you’re fighting me tooth and nail on every major operational policy for your squadron. I’m starting to think that your attitude could use some improvement.”
Jack leaned back and tried to calm down. Rage was boiling up inside him, and he was having a hard time controlling it.
“Very well, sir,” he said. “I’ll rework the training schedules as you suggest. I’ll have them ready tomorrow morning.”
“No, you won’t.”
“Sir?”
“You’ll have them ready for me tonight.”
“Tonight?”
“You heard me, Mister Hardigan. This training cruise isn’t going to last forever.”
Eight years of training is preventing me from punching you in the mouth, thought Jack. He reached across the desk and picked up the papers. “Aye, aye, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“I asked for a report on the outcome of the search for those three pilots. Where is it?”
Please, God, thought Jack, help me make it through this day. “Sir, we’ve sent the dispatches and we’re awaiting the replies. That’s all I can say.”
“Find out more, Mister. And find out fast. I’m tired of waiting. Is that clear enough for you?”
“Yes, sir.” Jack stood and walked from the Air Group Commander’s stateroom without looking back. He closed the door quietly. When he reached the squadron office, he let himself in with the key, then slammed the door as hard as he could; some papers were dislodged from the desk that occupied most of the little compartment. He bent to pick them up. One was a note to him from Sweeney, the yeoman.
TO: Lt. Comdr. Hardigan
FROM: YN2 Sweeney
SUBJ: Radio Traffic / replacement pilots
Sir: Message arrived yesterday evening saying that two (2) replacement pilots for those lost in paperwork mess will arrive the day after tomorrow via highline during normal refueling by oiler.
Very Respectfully,
Sweeney.
Jack checked the date and saw that it read yesterday. He knew, though, that Sweeney had put it there less than an hour ago. He had been in the office earlier and had not seen it. If only he’d had it five minutes ago. Goddamn you, Sweeney. Jack folded the note and stuffed it into his pocket, then turned to the training schedules.
He needed Duane. Duane would have to know about the changes since he had helped work up the original schedules. He would also have to notify the affected pilots. Jack checked his watch. He hated to pull Duane out of the rack at this time of night, but the work had to be done. Jack straightened the desk top and left, carefully locking the door behind him.
He found Higgins’ stateroom on the deck below and went in without knocking. Duane’s roommate, a lieutenant who flew with the torpedo squadron, looked up from the lower bunk where he was reading a letter under a small bunk light. Duane’s bunk was empty.
“Sorry to bother you,” said Jack.
“It’s all right,” said the lieutenant. “I wasn’t asleep.”
“I’m looking for Mister Higgins.”
“He’s not here.”
Brilliant, thought Jack, I figured he was in the bottom drawer. “Any idea where he is?”
“I heard he was getting into a big poker game somewhere below. I haven’t seen him for a couple of hours.”
“Thanks,” said Jack, and left. That tears it, he thought. When you need the guy, you can’t find him. He was undoubtedly somewhere in the bowels of the ship, out of sight and out of touch with the rest of humanity. Jack could look all night and not find him. He sighed and dug in his pocket for a cigarette. The pack was empty. Beyond anger now, Jack trudged back up the ladders. Without thinking, he headed topside. It took him five minutes to reach the deck edge elevator. Fred Trusteau was there.
“Well,” said Jack, speaking to a dark form whose face he couldn’t see. “You’re getting to be a regular up here.”
“I like the price of admission,” said Fred. God, but it was good to have the skipper alone here in the dark.
“The lowest in town.” Jack looked up and scanned the heavens. He pointed. “That’s the planet Jupiter.”
“Really?” said Fred, craning his neck to see where the Skipper was pointing. “How can you tell?”
“Magical powers,” said Jack, “and a course in celestial navigation.”
“That must have been pretty interesting.”
“It was boring as hell.”
The conversation spiraled down to nothing. Fred looked toward the Skipper but could barely see him.
Finally Jack spoke. “You did well today.”
“That’s what everyone says.”
“Well?”
“Everyone can’t be wrong. But it was nothing special, really.”
“I get the feeling that you’re not overjoyed about being in the limelight.”
Fred was stopped for a second, and his hand went automatically to his pocket for a cigarette. He remembered about smoking in the open and returned the pack. “It isn’t that, sir. It just seems that all these guys think about is girls and how they’re going to win the war single-handedly. They’re nice guys, really. I mean I like them as people and all. But you have to get away from them once in a while.”
“It’s pretty tough to get away by yourself on a ship,” said Jack, “especially a carrier.” He laughed. “Look at us. We both come up here to be alone and we keep running into each other. Before you know it, the whole squadron’ll be up here with us.”
“God, I hope not,” said Fred.
“Me, too.” Again, nothing. “How’s the Diary coming along?”
“It’s no problem. Half an hour a day, at the most.”
“You’re the only man I know who ever volunteered to write the War Diary.”
“Does that make me someone special?”
“I don’t know. Maybe the others just never got up the nerve to ask.” Somehow, he thought, I can’t picture that.
“Pardon me, sir, but somehow I just can’t picture that.”
He reads my thoughts, thought Jack.
They stood in silence, no longer awkward.
“Well,” said Jack finally, “I’ve got work to do.”
“I should be turning in, but it’s kind of hard to sleep with twelve horny pilots shooting the breeze in your room,” said Fred. Then they turned together and crossed the expanse of the elevator.
“You flying tomorrow morning?”
“First CAP.”
“Okay,” said Jack, as they stepped over the chain and entered the hangar, “tell you what I’m going to do.” He put his arm around Fred’s shoulders and pulled him closer. “I’ll do a lights-out on the whole squadron.”
“That’d be nice, Skipper, but—”
“Don’t worry. You go in first. I’ll come through in five minutes and you’ll have your stateroom back.”
“You’re something else, Skipper,” said Fred as they descended into the warm bosom of the ship.
Jack went around to all the pilots’ staterooms and ordered them all to bed, breaking up the raucous games of sex and manhood that only men at war can play. He felt better when he was finished, and stayed up most of the rest of the night to finish the training schedules.
“Goddamn, but you wouldn’t catch me flying one of those crates.” Brogan leaned against the edge of the flight deck and watched as a heavy Helldiver turned ponderously into its final approach and lumbered toward the carrier. Fred leaned against the flight deck as well, to the right of Brogan, and watched the dancer-like motions of the LSO who stood several feet to his right on the very corner of the wooden deck.
“They say the tail hook doesn’t hold up after a dozen or so landings,” said Fred, talking loudly to overcome the rush of the wind.
“That makes every landing a thrilling adventure,” said Brogan. All around them clustered the flight deck crew in their colored jerseys, waiting for the aircraft to land so they could ply their trade. The Helldiver roared into the groove, cut his engine, and sank toward the deck. The deck crew ducked as one, as the bomber struck the deck, leaving Brogan and Fred the only ones still standing.
“Why do you suppose they do that?” asked Fred, as the Helldiver caught an arresting cable and plowed to a shuddering halt.
“Beats the shit out of me,” said Brogan. He turned to talk to one of the enlisted men, but they all scrambled out of the catwalk, loped across the expanse of flight deck, and dove under the tail of the Helldiver to release the hook. Brogan laughed. “They look like termites,” he said. The two men watched for several more minutes as the plane pushers took over, and the tail hook team came back to the catwalk. Brogan caught one of them by the arm and pulled him aside. Fred turned to look and saw that he was a young boy, all of maybe seventeen years.
“Hey, sailor,” asked Brogan, “how come you guys don’t watch the planes come in?”
“We just want to keep our haids,” said the sailor, speaking with a Midwest twang that brought to mind a place hundreds of miles away from the nearest ocean. “Don’t wanta end up like Randy Gillous did.”
“What the hell happened to Randy Gillous?” asked Brogan.
“One of these here wires busted right outta the hole when one of you aviators came in, and I tell you, sir, it went switching round this here deck just like a great big bullwhip, and it hit Randy and broke every one of his ribs and one of his arms and almost took out his eye, too, only they won’t know about that until he comes to.”
“I guess that explains it,” said Fred. He saw that the next Helldiver was beginning its final approach. The sailor left Brogan to rejoin the tail hook team. All watched apprehensively as the plane came in.
“You going to duck?” asked Fred.
“And make the crewmen think we’re chicken?” Brogan eyed the incoming plane and thought for a second. “Few broken ribs isn’t too much to pay for being off flight duty for a few weeks.”
“Speak for yourself,” said Fred, and he ducked. The Helldiver roared in, the giant propeller wind milling, the pilot waggling his wings to correct his flight path. As he hit the deck and caught a wire, there was a sound above the clamor of the engine of rending metal and popping rivets, and the slender, dangling tail hook was torn out of the tail of the plane. Small, heavy chunks of metal scattered and bounded down the flight deck. The bomber raced along, weaving and skidding as the pilot tried to brake to a stop. He zoomed past the island, through desperately scattering flight deck personnel, bumped over the flattened and useless crash barrier, and plowed into the tail of the Helldiver that had just landed. The two aircraft careened around like toys. The right landing gear of the first plane collapsed, and the engine of the second ground to a smoking halt. The pilot and crewman of the second bomber scrambled from the wreck and dove for the safety of the catwalk.
“Jesus H. Christ,” said Brogan.
“A thrilling adventure,” said Fred. Alarm horns were sounding now, and fire-fighting teams converged on the wrecks, dragging hoses and long, metal nozzles. White foam began to smother the two smoldering aircraft.
“Remind me to check out my tail hook the next time we fly,” said Brogan.
“You bet,” said Fred.
The two planes were covered with foam now. The plane pushers arrived and began to poke around cautiously between them. A blue-shirted mechanic clambered into the cockpit of the second Helldiver and exited just as quickly. The tail hook team formed a wide-spaced line across the flight deck and started gathering up the remains of the defective tail hook.
Brogan heaved an audible sigh. “Doesn’t look like they’re going to burn.”
“Let’s get out of here,” said Fred. “I’ve seen enough for one day.”
“And the nearest bar is a thousand miles thataway.”
The two pilots climbed down the ladder into the hangar deck and twisted their way through the tangle of wings and tails, wheels and fuselages. On their way down the ladders to officer’s country, they passed a pair of grease-covered engine room sailors and caught part of their conversation.
“Some ships have it,” said one of the sailors, “and some don’t.”
“All this tub has,” said the other, “is the fleet’s share of hard fucking luck.”
“Hard fucking luck?” queried Fred, when the two had disappeared above them.
“That doesn’t mean a bad time with the girls,” said Brogan.
“What exactly does it mean?”
“It means, my son, that the next time you get all soaped up in the shower, they cut off the water for twenty-four hours.”
They reached the third deck and turned toward Brogan’s stateroom. When they arrived there, they found it full of argumentative pilots.
“What the hell’s a high-water casualty, anyway?” asked a young pilot from the bomber squadron.
“That’s when the crapper overflows.”
“You don’t know shit, Charley.”
“Hey, Brogan, you been on one of these boats before. What the hell’s a high-water casualty?”
“It’s the opposite of a low-water casualty.” Brogan forced his way to the bunks opposite the door, with casual disregard for those he stepped on in the process.
“Hell, he doesn’t know.”
“Who’s got one?” Brogan reached the bunks, grabbed an ensign by the leg and pulled him off the upper bunk, making room for himself and Fred.
“We do. Who else?”
“Who says we got a high-water casualty?” Brogan hauled Fred up beside him.
“Some engine room flunky just came by.”
“Looked like he was looking for his mama.”
“‘Oh, dear, we have a high-water casualty.’”
Laughter filled the room.
“Will someone please tell me what a high-water casualty is?” asked Fred.
“You know what a turbine is?” said Brogan. The compartment fell into silence to hear him. “That’s one of the engines. And they heat the water in the boiler and turn it into steam and shoot it into the turbine blades, and that’s what turns the propeller shaft. Well, a high-water casualty is when they get too much water in the boiler and some of it goes with the steam into the turbine and tears the guts out of the turbine blades. Makes the engineers shit in their pants.” Some of the pilots laughed.
“Does that mean we’ve lost one of the main engines?” asked Fred.
Brogan waited for silence before continuing. “That depends on how soon they catch it and shut down the boiler. If they get it before any damage is done, all they have to do is wait a couple of hours to get the boiler back on line. If they don’t catch it in time, some engineering officer gets promoted to fireman recruit and the ship gets a yard period.”
“Whooee doggies,” said a torpedo pilot. “I could go in for a yard period stateside.”
“Not a chance. If the ship has to go in for a yard period, they’ll leave us in Pearl and use us for replacement pilots.” Fred nearly stopped breathing as the unpleasant prospect of going back to Deal’s Deadly Dealers surfaced in his mind—and the thought of losing the Skipper.
“Wouldn’t bother me,” said the torpedo pilot. “I’ve been on better ships before.”
“Seems like every time you turn around, something’s getting screwed over on this ship.”
“You think things are bad now, wait till the day after tomorrow. We’re going to launch a full deck load before sunup.”
“Who says?”
“It’s in the Op Plan. Called a battle problem.”
Fred leaned back into the bunk, listening to the bickering pilots, and wondering what it would be like in a squadron without the skipper. The afternoon wore on; just before the evening meal, word went around that the high-water casualty had been caught in time and there was no damage to the main engines. Fred breathed a very private sigh of relief.
1 August 1943: F4U Corsair piloted by Lt. C. T. Schuster lost power on takeoff and crashed into the sea off the port bow. Lt. Schuster was uninjured and escaped from the craft in time to be picked up by destroyer U.S.S. Hardy. Time of the crash was 0900 hours. Mr. Schuster was returned by highline at 1600 hours.
2 August 1943: At 0530 hours Ordnanceman 3rd Class Antony D’Aquilo walked under the propeller of aircraft number 20-F-12 as engine was in the process of being started by Chief Mechanic Rickles and was killed instantly by decapitation. Petty Officer D’Aquilo had not been wearing red goggles prior to entering the unlighted hangar deck. Chief Rickles has been reprimanded for not adhering to established safety principles for starting aircraft engines.
3 August 1943: Air Group Twenty today participated in Operation Scavenger, a full-scale battle problem involving a predawn rendezvous, an attack on a simulated enemy task force, and a return to the ship. Original launch time of 0500 hours was delayed for fifteen minutes due to inclement weather. The strike force consisted of twenty (20) Hellcats of this squadron led by Lt. Comdr. Hardigan, twelve (12) SBD Dauntlesses of VB-20, and eighteen (18) TBF Avengers of VT-20.
Strike Force launch was interrupted by inclement weather after approximately one-half of the participating aircraft were launched but was resumed after twenty minutes had passed. This interruption caused a delay in rendezvous, and a number of aircraft became lost in weather and darkness. Approximately one-half of participating aircraft located the target and carried out simulated attacks. As the return route was followed, it was discovered by members of this squadron that ship course and speed had been given incorrectly prior to launch. After unsuccessfully searching for the task force, most aircraft had to resort to the use of YE homing gear. All aircraft were aboard by 1300 hours. There were no losses. Flight deck crew and air group performance in this exercise have been rated unsatisfactory by the force commander.
“Gentlemen, I think you know the reason why I’ve called all of you together. I am the captain of this ship and I alone am responsible for its safe and effective operation. You, as department heads and squadron commanders, are responsible to me for the compliance of your units with orders and safety regulations. I don’t think I need to remind you that this training cruise will be over in a few weeks at the latest, and that this ship then will become involved in combat operations somewhere to the west of here. This worries me for one reason.
“I have here a piece of paper found on a bulletin board in the deck division’s living spaces. I don’t mean to imply, First Lieutenant, that your men are in any way responsible for the posting of this paper, but I think that it is indicative of the prevailing attitude aboard these days. I won’t read it to you, even though the wording and construction is quite well done; the gist of this announcement is that the War Department will be issuing a campaign ribbon for members of the crew who survive this training cruise. Under different circumstances this little production might be considered humorous.
“Gentlemen, scuttlebutt has it—and I do hear the scuttlebutt even though I am the captain—scuttlebutt has it that the Ironsides has become a hard-luck ship. Now I don’t know if any of you have ever been on a hard-luck ship before. It’s even doubtful that such an animal exists. But there is one thing I want to make perfectly clear. This is my ship and while I am in command, my ship will not be a hard-luck ship. I will remind you of several important facts. One: Seventy percent of the officers aboard the Ironsides are reserves who have been away from sea duty for anywhere from one to ten years. Two: Sixty percent of our ensigns were civilians six months ago. Three: Seventy percent of our enlisted nonrateds have never even been to sea before. In case all this doesn’t suggest something to you, gentlemen, I will explain it to you. What I am trying to say is that what we have here is an accident-producing situation like I’ve never seen before, and the root cause of it is inexperience. Inexperience can be remedied, gentlemen, by time, but a bad attitude is much more difficult to fight.
“Not all of our people have this bad attitude. I will call to your attention that instead of throwing up their hands and bowing to fate, some of our inexperienced crew members and officers have been instrumental in heading off what could have developed into major catastrophes. The high-water casualty last week was discovered by a nonrated fireman by the name of O’Dell. A plane pusher named Rumbago discovered the five-hundred-pound bomb with the defective detonator and jettisoned it without waiting for orders. Our own Ensign Trusteau discovered the error in the ship’s posit data while his squadron was two hundred miles away in the middle of the ocean and recomputed the ship’s actual position to enable the fighters to come back without the use of homing gear. These men, gentlemen, can teach us all a lesson. That lesson is that we have here the makings of a topnotch crew and air group; and all they need is the motivation to perform in a responsible fashion. That motivation is your job, gentlemen. Now get out there and do it.”
“Would you say the captain is pissed?” asked Boom Bloomington as they left the wardroom and headed up the darkened passageways for their staterooms.
“Quite possibly, yes,” Jack replied.
They passed a water cooler and both stopped for a drink. Woody Heywood found them there seconds later. “Well, fellow skippers, the air group commander will see us in his stateroom in fifteen minutes. Three guesses as to what he wants to discuss.”
“The state of the art,” said Boom. They began walking slowly toward officer’s country.
“Why don’t you suggest to the air group commander that he take over the flight testing of the Helldivers?” said Jack.
“Are you kidding? Since the crackup last week he hasn’t even mentioned the new birds. He wouldn’t fly one for a million dollars.”
“Are you suggesting, sir, that CAG is a coward?” said Woody.
“I was merely trying to prove the existence of a bad attitude in the air group commander.”
“I don’t like your attitude, Mister. I want a written report on how to improve your attitude in five minutes. You’re restricted to the ship until that report is in my hands.”
“I can’t do that, sir, my attitude is too bad.”
“Attitudes,” said Jack. “If I hear that word one more time, I’ll resign my commission and join the Merchant Marine.”
“You and me both,” said Boom. They walked in silence to Boom’s stateroom. “Can I interest you gentlemen in an after-dinner drink?” Boom began spinning the dial on his desk safe.
“Why not?” said Woody. “I could use the courage for the next hour.”
Boom opened the safe and took out a stack of paper cups and a bottle of Scotch. He handed the cups around and poured. He was just putting the bottle away when there was a knock on the door. Fred Trusteau opened it and entered. He was carrying the War Diary.
“There you are, sir,” he said. He held out the Diary. “You asked to see the Diary today.”
“Well, well, well,” said Woody, “it’s the squadron navigator, come to save us all from the wrath of the Almighty.”
“You’re the toast of the air group, Ensign,” said Boom. “Would you care to join us in some liquid courage?” Fred looked around, obviously feeling out of place. His eyes settled on Jack.
“It’s all right,” said Jack. “Go ahead, Boom.” He took the War Diary from Fred and laid it on the desk. “I’ll look at this later. We’ve got a meeting with the air group commander in a few minutes.”
Fred accepted the cup from Boom Bloomington and a shot of Scotch, held it nervously for a few seconds, raised it to the Ironsides salute offered by Woody, and downed it in a single gulp. “That was good,” he said, “thank you.”
“You’re most welcome, Ensign. Keep up the good work.”
“Well,” said Fred. He turned to go. “Good luck with the air group commander.” He nodded to Jack, went through the door, and closed it behind him.
“Nice kid,” said Woody.
“Yeah,” said Jack, gazing at a spot on the far bulkhead. “He’s a good man.” Yes, he was thinking. He is a good man, and I like him more than any of the other men in the squadron.
“Shall we go, gentlemen?” said Boom. He swept the door open to indicate the way.
“Sure,” said Jack. “Might as well get it over with.”
“What do you say, gents, another shot of courage?” The three squadron commanders let themselves into Boom Bloomington’s stateroom and closed the door behind them.
Woody and Jack sat down silently on the edge of the bottom bunk. Woody held out his hand and said, “It might help stop the shaking.”
Boom began to open the safe.
“I don’t believe that man,” said Jack. “He can’t really mean the things he says.”
“Don’t worry about it, Jack. He’s just a commander bucking for admiral. He honestly believes that if he shouts loud and long enough, they’ll give him a carrier or a staff in Washington.”
“I can’t help it,” said Jack. “I’ve never had a skipper like this one before.”
“Makes you wonder how he’ll do in combat.” Boom passed the cups around again and quickly poured the Scotch, replaced the bottle in the safe, and locked it up.
“Prick made us miss the movie again,” said Woody, checking his watch.
“The only sensible thing he did was to cancel the flight ops with the Corsairs and Helldivers.”
“All I can say,” said Woody, “is if he cancels my liberty when we get back to Pearl, I’m going to have a little talk with Admiral Berkey.”
“I’ll drink to that,” said Boom, and the three tipped their cups. Jack stared into space, his brow furrowed. “You ought to get some sleep, Jack,” said Boom. “I don’t think you look too good.”
“Hell,” said Jack, “I’m all right.” He finished his Scotch and crumpled the cup into his palm. The air group commander bothered him somewhat, but Fred Trusteau kept slipping into his mind and he couldn’t quite shake it. The young man was like an oasis of sanity in a desert of punishing responsibility. This was a world he had looked forward to returning to, only to find out that it wasn’t the same anymore. The things Fred Trusteau said made sense: the things he did made him easy to work with. Why didn’t someone else volunteer to write the War Diary? Why did it happen to be he who had discovered the navigation snafu? Why couldn’t a few more of his pilots be that observant?
“Mooning over your chances with Eleanor Hawkins?” asked Wood.
Jack snapped back to the present. “Eleanor Hawkins?” His voice was very serious. “The only chances with her end up in a wedding. I’m not ready for that right yet.”
“That’s what I say,” said Boom. “When you add up what it costs to have a wife, not to mention the kids, you could save enough for a different lay every night for the rest of your life.”
As he said it, Jack realized that it had been over a year since he had been to bed with a woman. Why did I think of that? he thought. How can that be important?
“I don’t know about you guys,” said Boom, “but I’m going to get a little shuteye.” He gathered up the three empty paper cups and dropped them into the wastebasket.
“Not a bad idea,” said Woody, stretching.
Jack stood and headed for the door. “I’ll see you guys in the morning,” he said. But he had no intention of going to bed; his body was tired, but his mind was far too active to sleep.
After leaving Boom’s stateroom, Jack went up three decks to the hangar deck and checked out the deck edge elevator. No one was there, so he climbed another level to the flight deck and began to tramp the length of the ship, leaning into the wind as he went forward and letting it push him along on the trip aft. Jack walked for over an hour, about two miles, meeting and nodding to Admiral Berkey and the force commander, but not stopping to talk because he was absorbed in his own thoughts: There was Eleanor Hawkins and the fact that he had slept alone since Midway; there was Fred Trusteau and the War Diary; and then there was the uncomfortable way the Navy had changed since he was just a do-as-I’m-told division leader on the Hornet. When he was exhausted and the flight deck was empty, he looked at the rising moon and decided that when they got into combat, CAG would be too busy with his own job to harass him unduly. Things will be better then, he decided, and went to bed.
Duane Higgins pulled his Hellcat into a wide, leisurely circle and watched the panorama of naval conflict spread out below him. In the mock engagement, the strike aircraft of the Ironsides main battery were closing in on a circling jeep carrier and her three escorts. The Avengers had split into three groups and were attacking from both sides and ahead. The bombers were coming down on all four ships. High overhead, Duane and the more experienced pilots had pulled away to allow the greener fighter pilots to engage the Wildcat CAP in a tumbling, sliding free-for-all. All concerned seemed to be enjoying it. It was, Duane decided, quite a good battle problem. Compared to their first attempt at a coordinated strike, this one was developing into a model of well-oiled perfection.
“Take the can on the right, Jake, we’ll get the flat—”
“Rocket Two Seven to Rocket Leader.”
“—pull out too high—”
“—lead angle’s all wrong, Two Four—”
“—on your tail, Jimbo—”
The pilots’ voices were a scrambled mishmash saying nothing of importance and depriving home base of an accurate picture of what was happening over the target. They’ll get their asses chewed for this breakdown, Duane thought. But what the hell. Battle problems were flown for this reason, to let everyone see how badly things could get screwed up when fifty-odd aircraft tried to fly through the same square mile of air space. If they thought this was difficult, they should see it when the ships belong to the Japanese and are throwing up enough flak to walk on, and the Zeros are competing for the same square mile. He remembered how a similar scene had been enacted over the Hornet at Santa Cruz: The attacking planes had rising suns on their wings and the bombs were real, and they were falling on the ship he had to land on when his fuel ran low. He and Jack had circled nervously outside the range of the flak, watching Hornet disgorge a huge pall of black smoke, and then he had shot down the damaged Zero who had the guts to attack with a smoking engine. During these moments, his future had seemed chancy, very chancy indeed. Yet here he was today.
“All Banger aircraft rendezvous.” It was the skipper slipping a message into a moment of relative quiet. Duane waved at Bracker, who was flying the loose wing position on him, then patted his head in the “follow me” signal. The two fighters crossed over the circling ships and headed south, looking for the main body of the squadron. Below them a flight of Avengers struggled for altitude, one by itself hovering high over the rest, circling and obviously observing. Duane knew it was the air group commander, damn his soul—a petty, disagreeable man with an undisguised dislike for any pilot who flew a Hellcat. Then he caught sight of the gnatlike, black specks of circling aircraft. He increased power to catch up. Now the short trip back to the carrier, and once again the permanent poker game could be picked up where it had been left off in its trail of broken straights and endless pots.
The poker game had begun about a day after the Constitution sailed from Pearl and hadn’t stopped since, except for the frequent general quarters alarms and other shipboard developments that required most of the participants to leave temporarily. The players changed constantly—even Duane Higgins had to eat and sleep occasionally—but on the whole it was limited to about a dozen top-ranking chief petty officers and lieutenants, and a single lieutenant commander. Duane had recognized one of the chiefs as an enlisted cook, another as the head steward. Most of the rest were from the aircraft maintenance departments, although a wrinkled boatswainsmate was also a regular. The officers were drawn in equal numbers from the air group and the force commander’s staff, except for the lieutenant commander. Conveniently enough, he worked in the disbursing office and could help out when a big winner needed to change a stack of bills into larger denominations. None of the officers held a direct supervisory role over any of the chiefs, so the mixture of officers and enlisted men had never struck Duane as unusual. The common denominator was simply professional competence: An ensign, even if he had lots of money, would never have fit in. The location of the game, of course, varied greatly for the sake of security, although it was fast becoming universally known and achieving an almost legendary quality.
Duane recognized the circling, disorganized gaggle up ahead as Hellcats. As he and Bracker approached, it was easy to spot the Skipper and his wingman Trusteau. They were the only pair flying with any sense of direction. He tried to count the number of fighters there, but the milling about prevented it, so he settled back and waited for the skipper to head for home so they could join up. It was a simple matter. So long as they circled, forming into a squadron echelon was relatively difficult. As soon as the leading division, the skipper’s, was complete and they set course for the carrier, the rest of the divisions could fall into place as necessary.
Duane relaxed but tried to stay alert. Situations like this, he knew from experience, were potentially dangerous. A sort of post-strike letdown would be gripping the newer pilots, making them careless, forgetful. Duane checked his instruments and tried to keep out of the way. His fuel indicator showed a little more than half a load remaining, plenty for the trip back. They had spent an interminable length of time over the target as the bombers set up their attacks and went in. Had it been the real thing, the attack would have been made so that the pullout would be on the course back to the carrier. There would be damaged planes that couldn’t take the time to get into perfect formations, and there would be downed pilots who would be easier to find by rescue craft if they were somewhere along the return route…. I’m starting to think like a squadron commander, thought Higgins, or heaven help me, a group skipper.
The swamped radio circuit was beginning to clear now, as the excitement of the attack receded and the missing pilots found the rendezvous point. The skipper finally decided that everyone was present, and he and Trusteau straightened out and settled onto the course that would take them to Point Option, the location of the carrier. Immediately, the other divisions began to fall into place. Duane increased throttle and climbed slightly so that he and Bracker could catch up. He spotted their place in line and headed for it.
“Leader to One Three. That was pretty fancy flying back there.” It was the skipper talking to Fred Trusteau.
“Thanks, Skipper. Just doing what comes naturally.”
Duane felt a twinge of animosity for Trusteau. He had flown wing on Jack Hardigan for a lot longer than the ensign, and in situations of danger the younger man couldn’t possibly comprehend. He hoped Trusteau appreciated the privilege of flying wing on a veteran like the skipper. Then he realized he was yearning for the good old days of the Wildcats and the Hornet, when he and Jack had shared a stateroom and hit the beach together in Pearl and San Diego, Auckland and Noumea.
“Banger Leader to One Seven. Any stragglers you know about, One Seven?”
“One Seven. Hard to tell Skipper, but I didn’t hear anyone in trouble.”
“Roger, One Seven. Division leaders report any latecomers.”
There was silence on the circuit for perhaps a minute, then Duane spoke. “See there, Banger Leader? Nary a casualty. We got this strike business down pat.”
“Roger, One Seven. Keep up the good work.”
Duane smiled to himself and instinctively patted the fat bulge under his flight suit, a roll of bills amounting to almost a thousand dollars. He had trimmed eight hundred of it from the chiefs in a single evening of play; that was the night he couldn’t go wrong and every hand was a winner. He hoped this cruise would wind up sometime soon now, because he was anxious to get back to Pearl and deposit the money in the bank. Courtesy dictated that he stay in the game and give the losers another crack at their money, but if he had anything to say about it, he was going to bring most of it back to Pearl with him, and put it into the savings account which already had over two thousand dollars in it. He knew it would surprise most people if they knew he had saved so much dough. He had always carried on like a carefree, big-spending bachelor. But he had learned long ago that images could be carefully and adequately constructed.
He wasn’t quite sure what to do with the money. His upbringing in a houseful of brothers and sisters in financially tough times made him want to save every penny. The urgency of the war, the danger of being killed, and the raise-hell attitudes of the men he ran with made him want to blow it all on a good time. But upbringing won out and some got saved, although the fire in the cockpit he had had while on CAP had reminded him that his life was temporary and could end on very short notice.
Below them, the Pacific Ocean was its most beautiful white-flecked royal blue, occasionally spotted by the shadows of clouds drifting above like cotton puffs through the bright sunshine. Duane glanced around and saw that the squadron was pulling into place quite nicely. They weren’t the flawless, all-or-nothing men who had held the line from Pearl Harbor to Guadalcanal, but they were damn good, he thought. Good enough to carry this war on to a successful if distant conclusion. Duane fought back the feeling that he was just a small, insignificant part of a much bigger process, then reluctantly gave in to it. It was true. The war was picking up now. Dozens of new ships crowded Pearl. Hundreds of new pilots with new aircraft were forming into competent air groups to man those ships. Soon, he was absolutely positive, the Constitution would join those new carriers and battlewagons and sail for the enemy somewhere in the reaches of the vast Pacific. Where will I be a year from now? he wondered.
“Banger Leader to One Three. Any navigation snafus this time?”
“Everything looks all right to me, Banger Leader.” It was Trusteau.
“Let’s take ’em home then.”
“Roger, Banger Leader.”
Duane snorted to himself, annoyed that the skipper could be so chummy with a boot ensign. Trusteau was a hotshot, never-wrong-always-right sort of guy. He wasn’t exactly the John Wayne of the skies, but he always managed to be in the right place at the right time and volunteered for things and got close to the skipper in a way that was just this side of brown-nosing.
Duane was aware that he didn’t really like Fred Trusteau, but he couldn’t put his finger on the exact reason why. After all, the Skipper had to have a wingman, and if it couldn’t be Duane Higgins, it might as well be Trusteau. Still, there was something there that ruffled the surface of Duane’s otherwise calm temperament. He put it down to the war, and tried to forget about it.
The flight back to Ironsides was uneventful, even boring. The recovery was flawless, but the quiet feelings of accomplishment that should have followed the completion of a near-perfect battle problem were lost in the symphony of rumors that swept the ship that afternoon. Scuttlebutt said that for sure the task group was heading for Pearl, and that a combat cruise was forthcoming. The fact that the Pacific was such a big place and most of it was still in Japanese hands provided for a stimulating diversity of speculation, but still it made Duane secretly glad. He had now only to last in the poker game for several more days at the most and thus would retain most of his winnings. Also, he was tired of training. Like warriors through the ages, Duane felt that his training should not be wasted. The war should be prosecuted with dispatch, if only to allow him to go home when it was over and find something to do with his savings.
“Ah,” said Fred Trusteau, stepping into the squadron office, “there you are, Skipper.” Jack stopped writing and looked up.
“Come in,” he said, genuine warmth in his voice.
“I’m not disturbing you or anything, am I, sir?”
“Just writing a letter home. What’s on your mind?”
“The War Diary. I was wondering if you had finished looking it over so I could get today’s entry in.” Fred closed the door to the small office and sat in the only other chair, a folding steel-tube type in front of the desk. Jack put the cap on his fountain pen and reached under the desk. He came up with the Diary.
“Finished up a little while ago. It’s excellent.” He handed it across to Fred. “I want to compliment you on the effort you’ve put into it.”
“Thank you,” said Fred. He stood up. “Guess I’ll get to it.”
“Why don’t you stay awhile?” asked Jack. He leaned back and stretched. “There’s no big hurry on today’s entry, is there?” Fred dropped back into the folding chair and lay the Diary across his lap.
“Not a bit,” he said. A tiny chill ran through him. The skipper wanted to pass the time with him.
“I suppose by now you’ve heard the news,” said Jack.
“Yes, sir, I sure have. How long do you think we’ll be in Pearl?”
“I’m willing to bet it won’t be very long. They’ve cut short the training cruise, and I know they don’t like to keep a lot of ships sitting around Pearl for months doing nothing. I’d say we sail in two, maybe three weeks from the day we get there.”
“I guess this is it, then,” said Fred. “I sure hope we’re ready.”
“We’re as ready as we’ll ever be.” Jack thought for a moment. “Being ready, I think, is more a matter of proper attitude at this point in the game.” CAG would love to hear me say that, he thought. But what does CAG know about proper attitudes? “We’ve got the equipment. The training. It’ll all come together when we need it.”
“I hope you’re right, sir,” said Fred. Why do we have to talk about the war? he was thinking. We’ll find out how we’ll do when the time comes.
“I know I’m right,” said Jack, seriously. “I’ve been there.” He pushed his chair all the way back against the bulkhead and propped his feet up on the desk. “What’s your hometown?” he asked.
The question caught Fred by surprise. “I was brought up in San Jose,” he said, after a pause.
“You sound like you’re not sure.”
“As a matter of fact, I’m not. I was adopted when I was six and went to live in San Jose. I was there the rest of my life. Until now.”
“I didn’t know. Your real parents, they passed away?”
Fred shrugged. “I don’t know that, either. My adopted mother never wanted to talk about it. I can’t even tell you where I was born. It could have been anywhere, I guess.”
“I didn’t mean to pry,” said Jack, catching Fred’s eye for a moment.
“It doesn’t bother me to talk about it. It’s just something you learn to live with.”
“What’d your father do?” asked Jack.
Before Fred could answer, they were interrupted by the ship’s address system booming into the small compartment: “The evening movie is now being shown in the wardroom,”
“You want to go?” he asked.
“I’ve seen it,” said Fred. “Sergeant York. Once was enough.”
“I’ve got better things to do, too. But you were talking about your father.”
“He runs a hardware store in San Jose. Wants me to take over someday.”
“You were going to college, weren’t you?”
He’s read my jacket, thought Fred. “I was going to start at San Francisco State, but the war came along.”
“You made the right choice, coming into the Navy.”
“I always admired the flyboys. Landing on a carrier seemed like a fantastic thing to do. Now I’m not so sure.”
The skipper laughed. He was enjoying talking to Fred. He was easy to talk with.
“Now you know my life story,” Fred said. “It isn’t what you’d call exciting.”
“Then I won’t bore you with mine.”
“I’m sure it wouldn’t be boring,” said Fred quickly.
Jack put his hands behind his neck and looked at the overhead. “My father’s a banker in Portland, Maine. My older brother is married and working at my father’s bank. My older sister is married and having babies in Leeds, Ohio. And my younger brother is with the Seventh Army in Sicily.”
Fred was counting up on his fingers. “Four children. A large family.”
“Five,” said Jack. “One died as a baby.”
“To someone who grew up in a family of three, it’s still quite a number.”
“My mother used to whale the stuffings out of me with a birch rod. It was a right typical upbringing, I would say.”
“I wonder what our mothers would have thought if they’d known that their sons would be flying airplanes around in the middle of the Pacific Ocean in 1943.”
“Disappointed, no doubt. I’m sure both of them would have preferred a doctor or a lawyer.”
“Or even a banker,” said Fred.
“The crew’s movie is now being shown on the hangar deck,” said the loudspeaker.
“Foreign Correspondent.” said Fred. “I’ve seen that one, too.” On an impulse he pulled out a pack of cigarettes and offered one to Jack. He shook one out for himself and searched for a match. He had none.
“Wait a sec,” said Jack. He opened the drawer of the desk, rummaged briefly, and came up with a chrome Zippo lighter. He lighted his cigarette, then handed the lighter to Fred. “Keep it,” he said. “I’ve got another one just like it.”
“Thank you,” Fred managed to say. He looked at the lighter with a mixture of awe and wonder, thrilled that the skipper would give him something personal. On one side was the enameled insignia of an aircraft carrier and the words, “U.S.S. Hornet, CV-8.” On the other side were the initials, J.E.H. Fred thought for a moment that he should return it, that something this personal probably meant a great deal to the Skipper. But it meant even more to him. He polished the initialed surface on his shirt front.
“What does the ‘E’ stand for?” he asked.
“Guess.”
“Edward?” Jack shook his head. “Ernest?” Another shake. “Emilio?”
Jack laughed. “Do I look Italian? It stands for Errol. As in Flynn.”
“Errol,” said Fred. “That’s a good name.” As he said it he realized that he hadn’t lighted his cigarette. He did so, then tucked the lighter into his shirt pocket, and buttoned the flap.
“You’d think with a name like that, I’d be a little more dashing. Have a pencil-thin mustache, smoke cheroots.”
“Thirty Seconds Over Tokyo,” said Fred, “starring Clark Gable and Errol Hardigan.”
“Not bad. Has a ring to it. Maybe after the war….” Jack considered the overhead for several seconds, then suddenly dropped his feet to the floor and scooted his chair up to the desk. “If I don’t finish this letter soon,” he said, “I never will. There’s a mail plane leaving in the morning, you know.”
“Yes, sir,” said Fred. “I’ve already got a couple of letters finished.” He moved to the door, reluctant to leave. Jack was already writing, head bent over his desk, fountain pen scratching away. “Thanks for the lighter, Skipper, and have a nice evening.” Fred opened the door.
“Sure,” said Jack. He didn’t look up. “See you in the morning.”
Fred closed the door quietly and was gone. Jack looked now at the shadow on the deck under the bottom of the door. The soles of Fred Trusteau’s shoes stood there for almost a minute before moving away.
He looked back at the letter to his mother and continued writing.
…Incidentally, I’ve been thinking that you’ll probably see a lot more of me when all this is over. What I mean is that the Navy has been good to me up until now, but maybe it isn’t completely right for me after all. It’s changed a lot since 1935.
I was just talking to a young man named Fred Trusteau who grew up in San Jose, California. That’s about as far from Portland, Maine, as you can get and still be in the USA. He was in college when the war came and left it all to join up. More than once now I’ve been glad he did. Last week on a training exercise he discovered an error in our navigational data and quite possibly saved a number of lives by preventing us from being lost. Unfortunately he isn’t completely typical of the kind of man I have working for me—I could use about ten more of him. That’s just another way the Navy’s changed.
Write soon and keep me up to date on what Robert is doing. He never writes, probably he’s too taken up by those Sicilian women. I miss you all.
Love, Jack
When he left the skipper, Fred wasn’t sure where he wanted to go; he just knew he had to be alone. He had thought before going into the office that if he got to know the skipper better; if he talked to him more that maybe, just maybe the feelings would go away and be replaced by something simpler, like friendship. But it wasn’t working that way.
He loved the skipper. He would do anything for him without a second thought. But the skipper would hate him if he knew what he was thinking. Fred could never be to Jack Hardigan what Jack Hardigan was to Fred. It just couldn’t happen. Fred touched the lighter through the pocket and wondered for the thousandth time how this painful, dangerous situation would work out.
12 August 1943: Made preparations for entering Pearl Harbor. All aircraft of this squadron and the air group will be brought aboard prior to arrival at Pearl Harbor, scheduled for tomorrow morning at approximately 1000 hours. They will remain aboard for the duration of the stay in port, an unspecified length of time.
At 1800 hours this date, aircraft flown by Lt. (j.g.) Heckman and Ensign Peckerly participated in an attack on a suspected enemy submarine discovered ten miles southwest of the task force. Other engaged aircraft included on SBD bomber of VB-20. Results of the attack are unknown.
Fred knocked loudly and clearly three times just below the brass plate which read “C. T. Berkey, U.S.N.” From inside a muffled voice bade him enter. He opened the door and stepped through, surprised at the spaciousness of the suite. Admiral Berkey was packing folded shirts into a battered valise which lay open on a vinyl-covered couch that stretched the length of one side of the compartment.
“Admiral Berkey, sir,” Fred said. He swung the door shut and waited while the Admiral pushed some shirts into the valise and turned to see who had entered.
“Ensign Frederick Trusteau,” the Admiral said, turning back and continuing the packing. “Good to see you again. What’s on your mind?”
“I just wanted to see you again before we anchored, sir.” Fred looked through the uncovered porthole on the outside bulkhead. The green mass of land was passing by the side of ship. “I wanted to say it’s been a pleasure sailing with you this cruise and I hope we do it again sometime.”
“Well, son,” said the admiral, stuffing one last item into the valise and slamming it closed. “I think that’s right thoughtful of you. Seeing as how you’re the only one who’s seen fit to say good-by, come on in and sit down.” He shoved the suitcase aside and indicated the couch. Fred sat down and the admiral sat beside him, putting an arm up behind Fred on the back of the couch.
“Yes, sir, that was very nice of you to come up here. Tell me what you think of this training cruise, now that it’s over.”
“I think it was very instructive, but I wish we could have looked better.”
“I’ll tell you, son, you pilots looked as good as any I’ve worked with, so don’t you let that bother you.” The admiral ran a hand over the stubble on his chin, and Fred noticed that the worried look was still in his eyes.
“What’s really going to matter is how we all look in this next operation.”
“The next operation,” said Fred. “Everyone has his own ideas, but the truth is, no one knows anything about it.”
“Well, Fred,” said the admiral, looking across the room but leaning close to Fred’s ear. “Can you keep a secret?”
“Yes, sir, I can.”
“When we left for this training cruise, I bet you didn’t even have time to say good-by to your girl friend, now did you?”
Fred smiled. “No, sir, I didn’t.”
“Well, I’ll give you a little head start this time. You better get all the kissing and loving out of your system in about a week, ’cause after that I can’t promise we won’t be leaving on very short notice.”
“A week, sir?” I can’t believe, Fred thought, that he’s actually given me the sailing date.
“And as for where we’ll be going, I’m afraid I can’t tell you that, but I can tell you something else.”
“What would that be, sir?”
“Well, son, it seems we’ve got all these new ships and airplanes, and we don’t really know the best way to use them. I mean, we used to operate each carrier in a task group of its own, and that was fine back when all we had was two or three. Now, Fred, now we’ve got so many flattops that if we did that, we’d plumb run out of destroyers and cruisers after task group number six or seven. We’ve got to find a way to put two or three, maybe even four carriers in each group and not have them get in each other’s way when we operate. Do you follow me so far?”
“Yes, sir,” said Fred seriously.
“So what we’re going to do, Fred, is pick out some nice fat Jap target—not too big a target but not a small one, either—and we’re going to sail out there and blast it to hell and back, and then come on home, and meanwhile we’ll be fiddling around with ship formations and group strikes and all that. Should be a right interesting cruise, all things considered.”
“Then, sir, the basic mission of this operation will be training.”
“You’re right on the ball, there, son.” The admiral dropped his arm and squeezed Fred’s shoulder tightly with one hand. “You know, Fred, we’ve got to hurry up and get this war over. I don’t want to croak of old age before it’s over.” He laughed.
“I don’t think there’s much chance of that, sir,” said Fred.
“I wouldn’t bet on that, Fred.” The admiral stood up and walked to the porthole. He looked out and said, “I guess I better be getting up to the bridge. Be setting the special sea detail in a few minutes.” He turned and offered his hand to Fred and they shook.
“Thanks again, sir, and good luck.”
“Good luck to you, son. You’re the one who’s going to need it.”
Fred smiled at the friendly, worried old man. Then he went topside and watched the Hawaiian Islands—the gems of the Pacific—pass by.
Duane picked up his two hole cards and cupped them carefully in his hands. Holding them up to his face, he took in the bottom card, the Jack of hearts, then slowly slid the top card until an edge of it was visible. It was the Queen of hearts. He quickly closed the cards and slipped them under his first up card, the eight of hearts, which lay on the playing surface. His mind was racing, but his eyes and face told nothing. He had the makings of a flush at least, and a million-to-one shot on a Queen-high straight flush. He glanced around the table at the other four players and saw that they were all pushing in their one-dollar ante. He selected a bill from the top of his pile and dropped it into the pot, then pulled another and placed it there, too.
“Up a buck,” he said.
The game was being played in a compartment, which someone had referred to as a workshop, several decks below the water-line. If it was a workshop, it had no tools, no workbench, and was shaped very oddly. The table was a piece of sheet aluminum balanced precariously on a bale of rags. The players sat on an assortment of small crates and stacks of life jackets. Improvisation had kept the game alive this long.
Duane watched each of the four players meet the raise. In particular, he watched the grizzled boatswainsmate chief with a “Mother” tattoo on his forearm. He was a shrewd and dangerous player. He seldom bluffed but was superb when he did. Another card slid to a stop in front of Duane. It was the eight of spades.
“Eights have it,” said the dealer, and Duane pushed out three more dollars. The chief on his left suddenly flipped his cards face down, picked up his bankroll, and left the compartment without a word. The other players met the raise.
It’s going to be a good hand, thought Duane. Another card arrived: the three of hearts. Duane felt like shouting for joy. One more heart, baby, he thought, one more heart. The chief next to Boats folded, and the three remaining players paid for the next card and a three-dollar raise by the lieutenant commander on Duane’s right. He had a pair of Kings. Boats had a Jack, a seven, and a four. The sixth card was dealt. Duane got the five of diamonds, the chief another seven.
The lieutenant commander looked at his hole cards again and folded. “Too rich for me,” he said.
“Raise ten,” said Duane, thinking that it was bad poker to bet a potential but this was most likely the last hand. Anchoring was an hour away, and already he could smell land. Besides, he wanted like hell to beat the chief.
“You’re on,” said the chief. The money rustled into the growing pot. The last cards came out face down, and Duane bent the edge of his just enough to see it. It was the seven of hearts. The chief looked quickly at his, then ignored it.
“Ten,” said Duane, counting out the bills. There were at least fifty dollars in, the pot now.
“Good,” said the chief, “and add about a hundred to that.” The older man pulled a sheaf of bills from out of his shirt and dropped two fifties. Duane breathed in heavily and blew the air out. He didn’t want to go that high. He wanted the money for his savings account. He was still ahead by about six hundred, and he wanted badly to keep it. He checked the chief’s cards again, trying to figure the best he could have. A full house was likely, with all his up cards different. A flush in clubs was possible also. Outside the compartment, a loudspeaker growled to life.
“Now go to your stations all the special sea and anchor detail.”
“Too bad this has to be the last hand,” said the chief.
For no particular reason Duane brought the six hundred dollars from his hip pocket and put a hundred of it on the pot. The chief flipped his cards and Duane nearly choked.
“Queen-high flush,” said the chief, “in clubs.” He reached for the pot.
“Queen-high flush,” said Duane, turning his hole cards over.
“Queen, Jack, seven,” said the chief.
“Queen, Jack, eight,” said Duane. He covered the stack of money and pulled it to his side of the table. The chief stood up heavily, pocketing a small pile of ones and fives in front of him.
“You play a good game,” he said. “We’ll have to get together again sometime.”
“Count on it,” said Duane. He divided the wad of money up among three of his pockets and left. When he reached the hangar deck, he blinked in the bright sunshine, then gaped at the unfamiliar sight of land slowly passing by on the starboard side. He went aft to the starboard gallery deck. Trusteau was there.
“Well, well, well,” Duane said, “it sure looks good, don’t it?”
“I was beginning to forget what it looks like.”
“Shoot,” said Higgins, “we only been gone two or three weeks.”
“It was a long time for me,” said Fred.
“Well, you ain’t seen nothing yet,” said Duane. He didn’t feel like talking to Trusteau, so he started to walk away. Before he was out of hearing, though, he heard the ensign say, as if to himself: “No, I don’t suppose I have.”
Duane left him standing there alone and went in search of another vantage point from which to view their entry into port.
Jack Hardigan sat at the squadron office desk and considered the sudden proliferation of leave requests that the early end to the training cruise had brought on. Pulling out a line calendar for the past year—a diagram of when each member of the squadron had taken leave—he compared the requests and came up with four who had not gone in the past six months. All four wanted two weeks of leave, although he couldn’t imagine what they could do for that length of time in the Hawaiian Islands. If he went, he would run out of things to do in about two days. He decided to grant them one week each—two to begin immediately and the other two in four days. On all four he wrote tersely: “Approved. Leave your address. Check in every two days. J.E.H.” The rest of the requests he denied.
In the passageway he heard the tramping of feet—a team of seamen engaged in some routine activity necessary to bring the huge ship into port. The loudspeaker outside his door called for the setting of a lessened condition of watertight integrity and specified the uniform for entering port. Already the smell of the islands—that pleasant mixture of earth and vegetation so noticeable after a period at sea—was sweeping slowly through the ship. But to Jack, it wasn’t an engaging aroma. It meant that they were back in port, and they were there for one reason only.
Jack was aware of the implications of the air group staying aboard. Normally, they would have been flown off to Ford Island so that the pilots could get in additional flight time. If they were kept aboard, it meant that they would be in port a very short time—perhaps two or three days—or that space on Ford Island was limited, or a combination of the two. Limited space on Ford Island could only mean an unprecedented number of carriers and air groups present in Pearl Harbor. This he could only surmise to mean impending action.
There was a noise in the passageway vaguely reminiscent of a drill instructor on parade. The door was snatched open and Commander Jennings threw the door open. Instead of coming into the office, he kept one hand on the doorknob and one foot in the corridor. Jack looked up in surprise.
“No one in this squadron goes on leave. No one. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I will hold a general inspection of all your men in one hour. On the hangar deck. Dress khakis. Is that clear?”
“Yes, sir.”
“No one goes ashore without my permission. Is that clear?”
“Aye, aye, sir. Will there be anything else?”
“See me in my quarters after the inspection.” The door was slammed violently and CAG was gone.
Jack inhaled slowly and completely, held it for a moment, then allowed himself to deflate slowly. This exercise usually helped when Jennings tossed thunderbolts in his direction. He repeated the exercise, not really feeling any better. It was beginning to look as if he were destined to fight on two fronts: the Japanese when the time was appropriate, and the Air Group Commander when the time was not.
He tore up the leave requests and threw them into the wastebasket, then went looking for Duane Higgins.