Late in the afternoon, a fine drizzle was sifting down from soggy skies upon the airfield at Archbury. It was glistening on the rounded roofs of the Nissen huts, on the runways, and on the many different bombs stacked under thickets of dripping green leaves used for concealment.
Keith Davenport had departed, two days previously, leaving behind a shambles of despair.
Whatever bond there had been to cement the men in unity - centered upon the symbol of the Group and the fatherly personality of its commander - was now dissol- ved.
Battered by the cumulative losses of friends killed in combat, by the shock of Zimmermann’s tragic suicide, and by the crown- ing blow of Davenport’s collapse and dismissal, the 918th lay prostrate.
And psychologically defenseless against the inroads of indifference, discouragement and resentment.
General Savage, riding up to the south gate into Archbury Field, in the staff car that had brought him from PINETREE, knew the severity of the situation, both instinctively and from combat experience. He was well aware that he was about to step out on a stage, before an audience in which every member would hate him on sight.
Every act of his, and every word, would automatically be wrong, particularly so coming from a general officer. The Group would expect sympathy from him, and it would be prepared to reject that sympathy. However, Frank Savage had a plan.
Purpose showed in the hard set of his mouth, and in the hot intensity of his eyes, as he stared straight ahead through the rain smeared windshield. But, those that knew Savage well would have noted a telltale hint that alleviated the relentless expression in his eyes. The keen anticipation of a flier who loves to fly, of a leader who was born to lead, and of a fighting man waiting for the bell and knows how to fight.
A B-17 passed low over the car - low enough so that Savage could feel the vibrations from the engines cutting through him - and skimmed toward the runway. Savage’s granite eyes glowed and his heart beat faster.
When the staff car reached the gate, a rain-coated, dispirited-
looking, M.P., standing in an upended crate that served as a sen- try shack, tossed away a cigarette and, without saluting or com- ing to attention, waved his hand to motion the car on. Savage halted the driver and jumped out.
“Do you know me, Sergeant”, he demanded of the sentry? “No, sir.”
“Then why are you admitting me onto this station?” “I seen it was a staff car, sir.”
The sentry was standing at attention now.
“Goering could have been inside it. Don’t your orders require you to check all identifications?” “Yes, sir.”
Pulling out his wallet from his uniform tunic, Savage gave the sentry his I.D. “Here’s my A.O.G. card.”
The sergeant examined it, handed it back and saluted.
“This is a military base, Sergeant”, concluded Savage, “not a public zoo. You will check all visitors’ identifications according- ly.”
“Very well, General.”
Looking badly abused, the sentry could only glare down the road after the car.
Half way to the administration site, Savage’s slow moving car came upon two G.I.s walking in the opposite direction. Both of the men stared directly at him in the rear seat, but neither one saluted.
Again Savage stopped his driver and had him back up to the walking soldiers. He sprang out and halted them.
“Are you men in the United States Army”, he asked?
“Yes, sir”, replied both men, in unison.
Coming to attention, the two belatedly rendered their salutes, which Savage returned with a whiplash motion.
“Take a good look at me”, he told them. “I’m going to be here for a while. And even if you’re a block away, heaven help you if you ever pass me up again without saluting! You might want to spread that around.”
Through the rear view mirror, as his car proceeded on, Savage could see the pair looking back at intervals, gesturing and turning their heads toward each other in vigorous conversation.
At the headquarters building, after directing the driver to drop his baggage off at the C.O.’s quarters, Savage dismissed him.
“You won’t be seeing me back at PINETREE for some time”, he said. “Good luck to you, Sergeant.”
“Good luck to you, sir”, said the sergeant, in an awed tone.
Savage walked down the hallway to the Adjutant’s office, where the only person in sight was sitting at a typewriter in long- sleeved G.I. underwear, his uniform shirt draped over the back of his chair.
“How do I address you”, asked the general?
The man stood up in confusion, groping for his shirt.
“I don’t rightly understand the general”, he responded.
“Are you a civilian? Or an Italian general? Or a rear admiral? How am I supposed to know?” “Sergeant McIllhenny, sir”, he said, flaming with embarrass- ment. “U.S. Army Air Forces.” “You’re Private McIllhenny now”, said Savage. “Where’s the Air Exec?’
“Colonel Gately’s not on the station, sir.” “How long has he been gone?”
The ex-sergeant hesitated. “Two days, sir.”
“Where can I reach him?”
“He didn’t leave any number, sir.”
“Where’s the Ground Exec?” “Still in the hospital, sir.” “And the Adjutant?”
“Over at the Officers’ Club, sir.”
“Get yourself dressed. Then go find the Adjutant and tell him to report to me in the Ops room.” “Yes, sir!”
Savage left and moved swiftly down another hallway until he found the Operations room. It also was deserted, save for a tech- sergeant who was correcting the list of combat crews on the big blackboard. Savage’s eyes scanned around the room, observing the litter of cigarette butts, crumpled candy wrappers, and miscel- laneous trash on the floor.
Ignoring the sergeant, whose back was still turned to him, he stepped back into the hall, reached for and grabbed a fire hose nozzle from its rack, twisted a water valve on the pipe above it, and re-entered the Operations room, dragging slack hose after him. In a quick moment, the hose stiffened under the water press- ure and a gushing stream shot across the concrete floor, splashing up against the ankles of the sergeant, who whirled around as if he had been stabbed.
“HEY!”, he yelled. “What the goddamn hell do you . . . .”
He stopped in mid-sentence, his jaw dropping at the sight of a brigadier general striding about the room, busily hosing down the floor. And Savage made a thorough job of it, directing the water stream under the chairs, in corners and under desks, until he had swept all of the rubbish, like driftwood, out into the hall. Then he switched off the valve and replaced the nozzle on its rack.
“Looks a little cleaner in here now, doesn’t it, Sergeant?”
Gaping at Savage as though undecided whether or not he had a madman on his hands, Sergeant Coulter gulped and nodded.
“If I’d known that the general was coming . . .”
“Never mind that, I’m here now. But I don’t suppose the Op- erations officer is.” “Major Holloman had to go to town, sir.”
“What for”, asked Savage?
“I believe he’s getting a haircut in London, sir.”
“You mean he’s shacked up with a babe in Thetford!”
The sergeant was dumbfounded both by the directness and the accuracy of the general’s shot in the dark. But was it a shot in the dark, the sergeant asked himself? Hesitating in a state of indecision, he finally decided not to take a chance. “Yes, sir”, he admitted.
“And the Squadron Commanders . . . . are any of them on the station?” “Major Cobb is here, sir. Over at the Officers’ Club, I would think.” “And where are the others?”
“If the general will pardon the expression”, said the sergeant, resignedly. “I believe they are shacked up somewhere too.”
“I think we’re getting to understand each other, Sergeant”, said Savage.
He sat down on one of the desks, dug into the musette bag hung over his shoulder and hauled out a box of crackers, a tin of Nes Cafe, and a can of Spam.
“Missed my lunch”, he continued, as he opened the can of Spam. “Do you appreciate good coffee, Sergeant?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine”, said Savage, tossing him the Nes Cafe. “Whip up some good coffee for the both of us.” The sergeant took the can over to the hot plate and set some water on to boil.
“I take it you’re the Operations chief clerk”, said Savage, as he munched on some crackers and Spam.
“Yes, sir, Sergeant Coulter.”
“Glad to meet you, Coulter. My name is Savage. I’m taking over the Group.” He went over and shook hands with the ser- geant.
While the sergeant was groping for an appropriate reply, Har- vey Stovall entered the room, stopping just inside the door in a puddle of water, with his arm raised in a rigid salute. His eyes were bloodshot and raindrops sparkled on his nose. He was out of breath, having sprinted all the way from the club as soon as McIllhenny had told him: “There’s a crazy general who wants you over in the Ops room right away.”
Savage returned the salute.
“Major Stovall reporting as ordered, sir”, he said, glancing up and down between the water and the general.
As Savage walked over to shake his hand, Sergeant Coulter came to the rescue. “This is our new commander, Major. General Savage.”
“Very glad to meet you, General”, managed Stovall, shaking Savage’s hand. “We weren’t notified that you were arriving today, sir, or . . .”
He stumbled like a schoolboy losing his place in a recitation, then recovered on a new tack. “The 918th”, he said, with forced brightness, “never hoped for a general.”
Realizing that what he just said didn’t sound quite right, he lapsed into a painful silence. “Been drinking, Major”, asked Savage, who could smell Stovall’s breath?
“Yes, sir, I . . . I never had a drink in my life, until three days ago.” Savage turned to Sergeant Coulter.
“Make another cup of coffee”, he said. “Strong.” Then he turned back to Stovall.
“I’ve got two jobs for you, Major, as soon as you’ve had your coffee”, he told him.
“Number one, cancel all leaves and passes, and make sure that the Squadron Commanders are back here tonight. Then send the M.P.s out after the Air Exec and bring him in to me under arrest. Number two, set up a meeting for all combat crews in the Brief- ing room tomorrow at 0800 hours.”
“The general wishes Colonel Gately under actual arrest?”
Savage recognized a hint of profound satisfaction in Stovall’s tone. “Exactly”, he responded.
The Adjutant saluted, executed a clumsy about-face, and was starting through the door, when Savage called him back.
“Your coffee, Major”, he said, taking a cup from Coulter and handing it to Stovall.
“Yes, sir”, said Stovall. “Of course, thank you, sir.”
While the Adjutant was sipping his steaming coffee, Savage went over to the Order of Battle blackboard and began studying the chalked names and figures, which summarized the Group’s operational status. Stovall, his eyes looking at the soaking wet floor, seized the opportunity to question Sergeant Coulter.
“What the hell is all this water doing in here, Sergeant”, he asked, in a loud whisper? “And that mess out in the hall?”
Coulter lowered his voice.
“The general did it.”
Annoyed, Stovall stared at the sergeant in complete disbelief.
“I asked you a serious question, Coulter”, he said, a bit louder than he intended. Savage turned around.
“The sergeant isn’t kidding, Major”, he said. “And neither was I.” He turned back and resumed his scrutiny of the blackboard.
Back in his new office a little over an hour later, after taking advantage of the fading afternoon light to drive around the air- base, where he familiarized himself with its layout and insured that the aircraft guards were on the job at their widely dispersed hard-stands, Savage was attending to a number of papers that required his immediate signature. His mind had already become crammed with matters that would have to be taken up with Ed Henderson, such as valuable equipment and supplies that he had just seen being stored in the open, exposed to the weather, not enough bomb trailers, and a score of other items.
He was still wearing his trench coat, which was spotted from the rain, giving the impression to Stovall, who had just stepped through the doorway, that the walls of this office would see the new commander only on the run.
“Colonel Gately is outside, sir”, said the Adjutant. “Send him in”, order Savage.
“Yes, sir”, said Stovall, as he disappeared.
Lieutenant Colonel Ben Gately’s face displayed no conscious- ness of guilt, as he approached the general’s desk, followed by two M.P.s. On the contrary, there was disdain in his eyes as he raised his hand in a salute.
He was still smarting from the indignity of having been arrest- ed in front of Pamela Mallory, at Desborough Hall, where he had stopped for a drink on his return from a spree in London. Savage noted the slight trembling in the Air Exec’s fingers, attributing it to a severe hangover.
Ignoring Gately’s salute, the general dismissed the M.P.s with a nod of his head and then pressed a buzzer, summoning Stovall.
“Major, bring me Gately’s Sixty-six dash One file”, he said. “Also those of the Squadron Commanders.”
While Stovall was getting the records, Gately lowered his right arm, unobtrusively, to his side. The disdainfulness in his eyes becoming intensified.
Continuing to disregard Gately, the general went on signing papers, until the Adjutant returned with the 66-1s. Savage lifted the top form off the pile and settled back in his chair, studying the compact personal entries. Two minutes passed.
Gately cleared his throat.
“General”, he asked, “may I inquire as to why I was brought here under arrest?” “No!”
The word went through him like it was a bullet.
Savage proceeded to examine the records before him. Finally Gately’s eyes wandered up to the clock on the wall behind the general. Five minutes had passed.
Gately began to assume a relaxed position, with his hands on his hips, and cleared his throat again. “May I sit down, sir”, he asked?
“No”, said Savage, sharply. “And stand at attention!”
The colonel snapped to and remained at attention. Another five minutes crawled by. Gately craved a cigarette. Cold sweat beaded on his forehead. Occasionally, slight shudders shook his body, in mute evidence of the scope of his previous night’s ex- cessive indulgence When, at last, Savage glanced up and nailed Gately with his eyes, the latter had the distinct feeling that he was looking into the face of a tiger. Actually there was, at times, something leo- nine about him, not in Savage’s close- cropped head, but in his eyes and facial expression.
“You’re the son of Lieutenant General Tom Gately, aren’t you”, he asked?
“Yes, sir.”
“Fine officer, none better”, said Savage. “Thank you, sir”, replied the colonel. Gately began to look somewhat relieved.
“You, too”, he continued, “are a graduate of the United States Military Academy. You have nine years of service and you were acting commander of this station as soon as Colonel Davenport left.”
“Yes, sir. And I can explain . . .”
“Don’t interrupt. Just listen. And answer my questions. You have led only two missions with this Group, is that correct?”
“Yes, sir, not including recalls and aborts.”
“And you have more four-engine time, and more bombard- ment experience, than anyone else in the 918th.”
Savage stood up, walked around and sat down on the front of his desk, never taking his eyes off Gately. When he spoke again, his voice was charged with contempt and his eyes revealed un-mistakable hatred.
“Gately”, he said, speaking slowly, “you’ve made yourself an enemy. The most bitter enemy you’ll ever have as long as you live.”
Savage hit his own chest with his forefinger.
“ME”, he said! “As far as I’m concerned, you’re a lousy yell- ow dog. You’re a traitor to your country, to West Point, to the uniform that I hate to share with vermin like you, to the 918th, and to your father.”
The Air Exec turned the color of wet ashes. Drops of sweat rolled down from his temples. His fists contracted into knots. He started to say something, but Savage cut him short.
“It would be easy for me to just transfer you out”, he contin- ued. “And saddle some unsuspecting guy with a trained profess- ional soldier who has been willing to let a bunch of civilian school boys carry the brunt of the fighting, instead of giving them the leadership they deserved - and needed.”
He then began to pace the floor, while still riveting his eyes to Gately’s, who now, occasionally, looked away.
“That’s what you want, isn’t it? A cozy berth where you can sit out the war, preferably with a combat unit so that you can steal fake glory. But I’m not going to pass this buck.”
He stopped directly in front of Gately.
“You are going to stay right here. Where I can show you how much worse I hate you than the goddamn Nazis - because you’re supposed to be on our side. I’m going to burn your butt! I’m going to make you lay square eggs! I’m going to hold your head down in the mud and trample it! And I’m going to make you wish that you had never been born!”
Spotty color was returning to Gately’s face, and he was shak- ing all over. Never in his life had anyone talked to him remotely like this, nor had he ever experienced the scalding sensation pro- duced by the venom in each of Savage’s words.
But Savage wasn’t through, although he returned to his desk and sat down.
“Meanwhile, Gately”, he continued, “you’re going to do a lot of flying. You’re going to make every mission, until further no- tice. You’re an airplane commander now, not the Air Exec. I’m going to give you an aircraft and I want you to have this name painted on the nose . . .
THE LEPER COLONY
And I’m going to hand-pick a special crew for you. Men who have shown a predisposition for head colds and earaches. You’re going to get a co-pilot who’s all thumbs, a bombardier who can’t hit his plate with his fork, and a navigator who can’t find his own navel.”
Savage paused for a moment.
“Have you anything to say?”
“Yes, sir”, Gately said, in a strangled voice. General Savage, I have the right to a trail. And I have a right to prefer charges against you, sir, for personal abuse and exceeding your lawful authority.”
Savage sprang to his feet. “Major Stovall”, he called out!
There was a bang, from a chair being overturned, and then the Adjutant opened the door.
“Get me General Pritchard on the phone.”
“Yes, sir”, said Stovall, then he quickly withdrew.
“Rights, Gately”, said Savage, his voice shaking! “Rights? You’ve got a right to cable your father. He’ll be goddamn proud of you. I’d like to kill you with my bare hands. But I’m going to give you a break. I’m going to let you explain to General Pritch- ard just where you’ve been since Tuesday. To explain desertion of your post at a time when a Field Order could have come down!”
The alarm which had transformed Gately’s face at Savage’s mention of Pritchard, now began to resemble panic. The ex-Air Exec struggled, within himself, for several moments, then came to a decision.
“General Savage”, he said, “I retract my statement.” The general stared at Gately for a few minutes. “Stovall”, he called out again, “cancel that call.” Then he said, “That’s all Gately.”
Gately saluted, did an about-face, and left.
Savage felt weak, almost physically ill, after Gately had gone. Reaction to the violent emotions which had gripped him now left him trembling.
He had always hated to humiliate a man, and dreaded having to fire a subordinate. But against Gately, and all the Gatelys, he felt the ferocity of an anger that had been accumulating for many months.
But, upon this one man he had felt compelled to vent his per- sonal war against complacency in the midst of what he believed to be a fight to the death, in the most liberal sense of the words.
Stovall walked in with some more papers.
“Would the general like something to eat brought over”, he asked? “No thanks, Major”, said Savage, still trying to calm himself down. “I think I’ll drop by the Officers’ Club for a beer, though. How about you?”
“A lot of new stuff just came in, sir”, Stovall replied. “Maybe I can get over later. Er . . . . excuse me, General, but the insignia must have come loose on your trench coat.”
Savage looked down at his shoulders, bare of rank insignia.
“To tell you the truth”, he said, “I haven’t got enough pairs of stars to go around. Put that on your shopping list, won’t you? The next time you’re in London.”
“Certainly, sir”, said Stovall. “If they’ll sell stars to a major.” “Hell, Harvey, you look more like a general than I do.”
“A little older, anyway”, replied the Adjutant, tactfully. Savage smiled, then picked up one of the 66-1 files.
“Cut an order tonight, relieving Colonel Gately as Air Exec”, said Savage. “Very well, sir.”
“There won’t be any immediate replacement, though, until I’ve had more time to go over these reports.
Savage studied the 66-1 he held in his hand.
“He isn’t the senior Squadron Commander, but Major Cobb’s got the most impressive record here.” He tapped the forms.
“He’s flown the most missions, has the most decorations, and has the best efficiency reports.” “He’s a strong officer, sir”, commented Stovall.
“I want the most aggressive we’ve got. How does he stack up in that respect?” “Major Cobb is certainly aggressive, General.”
Savage studied the Adjutant for a moment.
“You seem to have some reservations about him”, he said.
“Well, sir”, began Stovall, scratching his head. He has just one fault - that you ought to know about. He goes out of his way to pick fights when he’s had a drink, or two. It’s gotten so every- body’s afraid to go near him in the club. He’s a big bruiser.”
“Is that so”, asked Savage, tapping his fingers on the desk? “And, how long has this been going on?”
“Just recently, sir. It started this last month, I’d say.”
Savage rose and prepared to leave. “Thanks, Major. I’ll think it over.”
Outside, the rain had stopped and a full moon bathed the driveway in cold light, when Savage stepped through the door. A smartly uniformed solder stepped from the shadows and saluted.
“General Savage”, he asked? “Yes.”
“I’ve been assigned as your driver, sir”, he motioned toward a sedan. “Fine”, said Savage.
Suddenly the general looked a little more closely at the man, whose sleeves, bare of rank chevrons, proclaimed that he was a buck private.
“Say, aren’t you the clerk I met in the Adjutant’s office this afternoon?” “Yes, sir. Private McIllhenny.”
Savage, struck by Major Stovall’s skillfulness at devising this stratagem, smiled, in spite of himself.
“McIllhenny”, he said, “I can’t have a plain dogface private driving me around. Put those stripes back on in the morning.”
“YES, SIR”, declared McIllhenny, smiling broadly.
“I’ll walk over to the Officers’ Club, Sergeant. You can follow me there in a little while.” “Very good, sir.”
He set off without asking for directions, as Archbury Airfield had an arrangement of buildings identical to that of Savage’s old station at Middle Heath. As he walked along he had a warm feel- ing of being back on his home grounds.
Entering the club, he folded his uniform hat, thrust it into his trench-coat pocket, and walked to the lounge. He was standing at the entrance of a low roofed, poorly lit room, that smelled of the coal burning in a stove, sitting in the center, and ugly with over- stuffed, leather covered chairs, that were lopsided, hollowed and misshapen by the backs of many men.
A half dozen men were sprawled in a semicircle of easy chairs about the stove, and nearly every part of the room was crowded, except for the bar, where the only customer at the moment was a tall Major, built like a fullback football player. As he walked over to the bar, Savage was conscious of heads swiveling around, of faces looking up, and of eyes concentrating upon him.
Savage felt terribly alone. The word, he thought, had spread. I know what they’re thinking, he said to himself, . . . Davenport . . . Zimmermann . . . those damn generals . . . brass hats who can- cel leaves. No one approached him. No one offered him a drink.
He reached the bar and ordered a beer. The major standing near him stared into his highball without glancing up. Savage noticed at once that the officer wore a black eye and a name tag on his leather jacket stenciled - J. R. Cobb.
Savage had finished half his beer by the time Cobb finally looked over at him. It was obvious that the highball he had been drinking wasn’t his first.
“Have a drink”, said Cobb, gruffly, brushing a cowlick of hair out of his eyes. “Thanks”, said Savage, mildly, “but I’ve got one.”
“Beer”, complained Cobb, as he made a sour face. “English beer. Pour it back in the cow and have a real drink.”
“The beer’s okay with me.”
“Have a scotch on me”, said Cobb, his enunciation sounding a little thicker when he raised his voice.
Savage resolved to give the officer unlimited rope.
“I’m doing all right”, he told Cobb. “Save your money.” “You think I can’t pay for a drink?”
“Sure, I know you can.”
“Well, look at this”, bellowed Cobb, as he pulled a wad of, crumpled, white five-pound notes from his pocket. “I can buy and sell you. Have a drink.”
“I’ll finish my own drink, if you don’t mind.”
“I do mind”, he said, his face darkening with belligerence. “You don’t like me, do you”, he added? “Sure, bub. You’re okay.”
“Well, I don’t like you!”
He finished off his highball in one gulp. “And don’t call me bub.”
For the first time Cobb noticed the absence of a rank insignia on Savage’s shoulders. “What are you? A major?”
“No”, replied Savage.
“A captain?” “No.”
“Well, you’re a pretty old looking lieutenant then. You must be awfully goddamn dumb.”
As a score of spectators started edging toward the bar, Savage finished his beer and set the glass down, without comment.
“What’s it take to insult you, anyhow”, demanded Cobb? “I s’pose if I spit in your face you’d think it was raining . . . You yellow?”
“Nope”, responded Savage. “You wanna fight?”
Savage smiled, faintly, and his eyes were flickering.
“You’ve got yourself a playmate, Major”, he said. “There’s plenty of light outside.”
He strode to the door, followed eagerly by Cobb and every other man in the lounge. Most of them realized that Savage was their new commander, but no one made a move to interfere as he and Cobb headed to a clear space in the car parking area outside.
“Better take off that trench coat”, said Cobb. “Just start swinging”, said Savage.
Cobb took the general at his word and, evidently, tried to take his opponent’s head off with his first hard swing. But Savage’s left pushed him on the chest just hard enough to spoil Cobb’s aim.
Then Savage stepped in closer, driving both fists into Cobb’s face in two, nearly simultaneous, punches that traveled barely ten inches. Cobb toppled back. And no one who was there would ever forget how quickly Savage managed to spring forward and grab him by a handful of jacket, holding up Cobb’s heavy, sagg- ing body by the sheer strength of one hand, to prevent his face from striking the concrete. The contest was over in six seconds.
The general pulled Cobb back upright, dazed, the fight gone out of him. Then he guided the groggy major over to his car, where McIllhenny jumped out and opened the door.
“Get in there and wait until I come back”, Savage told Cobb.
As he walked back into the club, the crowd of officers quickly parted, then followed him inside. He went over to the radio, pick- ed up the Green Toby and carried it to the mantelpiece. Then he turned around, facing the roomful of officers.
“Give me your attention”, he called out. The murmur of voices hushed.
“This station is alerted from now until our next mission. That means hit the sack. The bar is closed until further notice.”
He then walked to the door and outside, without glancing left or right, went over to his car and climbed into the back seat with Major Cobb, who was rubbing his jaw.
“One of the guys just tipped me off, General”, said Cobb, rue- fully. “I’m awfully sorry, sir. I guess I’m just a damn fool when I’ve had a couple of drinks.” “That’s right”, said Savage. “You are.”
Cobb smoothed his hair back.
“Two thousand guys on this station”, he groaned, “and I had to go and pick on a general. Well, . . . that’s the way my luck’s been running. I’m glad I saved my second lieutenant’s bars. But I hate the idea of leaving the Group.”
“You think you’ve got a pretty fair Group here?”
“We’ve got the best goddamn Group in England, General! I know we have a black eye up at Bomber Command, but all we need is half a chance . . . And I’ve poured mine down the drain.”
“Who said anything about busting you, or transferring you out? Are you trying to run my Group for me?”
“No, sir, but . . .”
“I’ll admit that you made an horse’s ass of yourself, but your Sixty-six dash One says you’re the best Squadron Commander in the 918th. So, effective tomorrow, you’re the new Air Exec of this Group.”
“Gee”, stammered Cobb. “Gee, sir, I don’t know what to say.”
“There’s not a damn thing for you to say. Just cut out your drinking, entirely. You can’t handle it. And save your fighting for the Germans.”
At five minutes till eight, the next morning, the Briefing room was packed with the men of the combat crews. The place buzzed with conversation, most of it about Savage and most of it uncom- plimentary.
“Why did they have to send a general down here.” “Who the hell does this guy think he is? Superman?” “Stand by, men, for a good old-fashioned fight talk.”
The predominant feelings of the crews were that Davenport had been relieved, unfairly, for complaining too loudly and too often, on their behalf, to superiors who weren’t interested in his complaints.
Chaplain Twombley, who had taken the liberty of attending, uninvited, sat expectantly in a front row seat while, near the rear door, the Flight Surgeon sat next to Harvey Stovall, who was waiting anxiously to call everyone to attention as soon as the general appeared. Stovall was nervous, as he had heard about Savage’s unconventional encounter at the Officers’ Club with Major Cobb, an event which had both impressed and puzzled the witnesses.
Most felt that Cobb had it coming to him for a long time, and were glad to see somebody step up and oblige. But Stovall knew that the men were too far gone to be won over so quickly by any spectacular act on the part of the new commander, even if he was a general. He prayed that Savage would have the discretion to handle these hard-boiled crews, whose sentiments were danger- ously close to mutiny, with a sensitive tact.
At one minute to eight, Savage entered. “Ten-SHUN”, called out Stovall.
The men rose raggedly to their feet.
“Rest”, said Savage, as he walked forward to the platform. The crews sagged back into their chairs.
Savage appeared to be fresh, although he had been up and going all night, looking into every nook and cranny of the station and poring over reports that X-rayed the 918th’s status. Over in his quarters, his bags were still unpacked.
Savage waited until the shuffling of feet and chairs had died down. Then, in a clear voice that carried well, he said.
“I’m General Savage. Your new C.O.”
His eyes swept the room slowly, giving each man the impress- ion that the general was looking directly at him.
“The local weather is going to be okay today. At eleven hun- dred hours there will be a briefing for a practice mission.”
He paused until a scattering of coughs ceased.
“I was sent down here”, he resumed, “to take over what has come to be known as a Hard Luck Group.”
He paused again.
“Well, I don’t believe in hard luck.”
Savage was reaching deep inside himself to find the words to express his feelings. It was immediately apparent to the crews that he had not prepared any pat speech in advance.
“Hard luck doesn’t win battles”, he continued. “It doesn’t get bombs on the target.” A pause.
“I’ll tell you one reason why you’ve had hard luck. I could see it on your faces . . . at the club last night. I can see it there now. You feel sorry for yourselves.”
Stovall winced. A faint murmur passed over the assemblage.
“Why should you be the fall guys, you’re asking yourselves. Well, who the hell else is there? We’re it. This is the front line in the dirtiest, bloodiest war in history. We’re fighting the most powerful air force and the greatest land army of all time. And the most fanatical enemy. In that kind of a fight, somebody’s go- ing to get hurt. Us . . . you . . . me.”
An electrified silence gripped the room.
“Hitler is going to whip us unless someone goes out and beats him. If we fail to beat him, then we are turning over our wives, and our children, to rot in Nazi concentration camps, just as sure as hell. That’s what has already happened to those people who have failed to beat him.
Unless a man amongst you is willing to have that happen in America, how can he be sorry that he is sitting in this room, this morning? How can he think that his own life is that important?” Savage stopped concentrating on his next words “Fear is normal”, he continued. “Go ahead and be afraid. But remember that the difference between being afraid to die, and quitting, is surrender. And I’m not going to surrender while I’m C.O. of the 918th. Forget about doing twenty-five missions . . . and going home.
Consider yourselves already dead.
If any man here wants to save his hide, then he’d better make up his mind right now. Because I don’t want him in this Group. He can come and see me in my office. I’ll be there in five min- utes.”
Savage jumped from the platform and started down the center aisle, his head up and his eyes looking straight ahead. Ordinar- ily someone should have called everyone to attention, but the men were frozen in their seats, transfixed by a mass reaction of furious resentment, not only for the mortifying implications of Savage’s words, but for the deliberately antagonistic manner in which he had said them.
As the general reached the door, a voice rang out, “I’LL TAKE COLONEL DAVENPORT.”
There was an instantaneous roar of assent, which echoed and burned in Savage’s ears, as he stepped outside and walked away.
Harvey Stovall was the first to rise. He had the feeling that he had better hurry over to his office before the line started forming at the door marked - C.O.