Armageddon (73 page)

“Yes, sir. What are we landing in Berlin now?”

“The day I took over the command, a week ago, we put down a thousand tons with the British.”

“How far can we push this?”

“With the present setup, not another ounce.”

Clint understood, and got up to leave. The general gave ever so slight a nod that said he was glad Clint had come.

“By the way, sir. What am I?”

Stonebraker scratched his head. “Lieutenant Colonel, I think, vice chief of staff, or something.”

“Air Force or Army?”

“Air Force. We’re all Air Force. Even Buff Morgan and his country-club set.”

The situation was worse than Chip Hansen or the President realized. Stonebraker’s chief of staff told him bluntly that if C-54’s didn’t arrive, the whole mission would turn into a fiasco.

They were short on every kind of personnel: weathermen, crews, mechanics, engineers, radiomen, radarmen, office personnel, cooks, doctors, carpenters, drivers.

Housing, food, medical facilities were substandard. Rhein/Main, the key base outside Frankfurt, was at 150 per cent of capacity with more people pouring in each day. There were no beds and a food shortage loomed. Rhein/ Main had the worst living and working conditions of any American air base in the world. It was called, without affection, Rhein/Mud.

With lives left dangling all over the world in a peacetime mission, morale was bound to collapse.

Air Installation reported that the two American bases of Rhein/Main and Y 80/Wiesbaden were inadequate in length of runways, taxiways, hardstands, fueling facilities, loading and unloading facilities, hangar space, dump space, administration buildings, and all lighting; flood-lights, approach lights, hangar lights were below standard.

Communications told General Stonebraker that most existing equipment was obsolete. Beacons and ranges to and from Berlin could not control precision flying in the narrow corridors. There was no ground-controlled approach system to “talk down” pilots in bad weather.

Ground transportation had to have more and larger trucks and trailers, spare parts, garages, mechanics, drivers. Better roads and storage dumps were an urgent necessity. Rail lines and spur lines had to be built to bring in aviation fuel from the port enclave of Bremerhaven; rail lines were needed to bring in the Ruhr coal; loading and unloading of aircraft was erratic and awkward and cargoes were bulky, improperly packaged, improperly weighed, improperly tied down.

Colonel Matt Beck told Stonebraker in his report that crews were flying too many hours. Coal was a dangerous cargo, with explosion potential. The weather was the worst in Europe and the approaches to Berlin were treacherous, running over Russian airstrips, demanding steep angles of glide into the midst of a jammed city.

The two Berlin airports of Tempelhof and Gatow were only ninety seconds apart by air. More radar was urgently needed to keep control of everyone’s position. Unless ground-controlled approach was installed to maintain positive air discipline, mid-air collisions were possible.

The staff meteorologist, Lou Edmonds wrote: “If we were to list all airfields in the United States in descending order, the worst would be Pittsburgh. If we were to list Pittsburgh among the Central European cities, it would be the best.” He promised late-summer fogs, violent turbulence from thunderstorms, and in the winter, low icing levels and crosswinds.

The logistics and maintenance men added the final amens. The Gooney Birds were covered with dangerous grime from coal and flour cargoes that was wrecking delicate instruments and setting in corrosive action on cable systems. The numerous take-offs and landings with heavy loads placed unmerciful stress on engines, brakes, tires. There were no facilities for proper maintenance; the spare part situation was beyond mere desperation.... This was Hiram Stonebraker’s inheritance.

Clint returned from Berlin and gave the general further bad news.

“Both the Tempelhof and Gatow strips are breaking down. Just stand there a half hour and watch the Gooney Birds land and see the blue flames shoot off their tires. With C-54’s hitting the runway with triple the present loads, Swede figures the runways will be knocked out in a matter of a few weeks.”

Clint had drawn a list of urgent needs. A new runway at both Tempelhof and Gatow, and then the repair of existing ones. New aprons were needed for loading and unloading, new lighting. Finally, they had to find the site for a third airfield.

“We can fly in pierced steel planking and asphalt,” Clint said, “and we are certain we can use the rubble in Berlin for a base. Labor is no problem. The ball breaker ... pardon me, General ... the clinker is how to fly in bulldozers, steam rollers, graders, rock crushers. There aren’t any in Berlin.”

The question of flying in heavy machinery was a new monster. There had to be a certain amount of food brought in daily before they could move in the asphalt and planking.

“You worked with the Magistrat, what’s the food picture?”

“Stores are running very low, General. Less than a month’s supply of staples.”

“How much, Clint?”

“We’re going to have to fly in fifteen hundred tons of food a day.”

“What the hell are those people doing, glutting themselves in an orgy? Christ almighty, we’ve only reached a thousand tons a day of everything with the British. That has to be reevaluated and cut in half.”

Clint shook his head, no. “It would be lighter to fly in flour and have them do the baking in Berlin. Allowing for a one per cent loss we can squeeze by with six hundred and fifty tons a day.”

“What the hell else are those people gorging themselves on?”

“By dehydrating potatoes and vegetables and powdering milk we can swing it with a minimum of eighty tons of potatoes, forty-four tons of vegetables, and twenty-one tons of milk. Sixty tons of fat, a hundred tons of meat and fish, all boned.”

Stonebraker grunted.

“Thirty-eight tons of salt and ten tons of cheese.”

“What the hell do they need ten tons of cheese for?”

Clint continued to drone out the meticulously planned list of the most valuable foods supplanted with vitamins. There would also be need for whole milk, special foods for hospital patients, food for the zoo, and for seeing-eye dogs. When he was done, Stonebraker knew Clint had figured it down to the ounce. In truth, they were asking two and a quarter million people to cling to bare threads and forget every comfort and most necessities known to a civilized community.

“Hello, M.J.,” Hiram said, bussing his wife’s cheek. “How was the flight?”

“Just fine, dear,” she answered, searching for signs of fatigue on him.

“How are things at home?”

“Dorothy and the children are all settled in and will stay for the duration.”

“Good, it was wonderful of Jack to let her come.”

The town was mostly dark when they arrived except for the lights burning at his Headquarters complex. M.J. commented that it appeared to be a pretty city. Hiram said he didn’t know as he hadn’t seen much of it.

“It was spared,” he said, “because some people had designs on it as an occupation country club.”

As she suspected, he lived in a hotel within walking distance of his office. A pinstriped, cutaway-dressed German manager of the requisitioned Schwarzer Bock Hotel welcomed M.J. profusely. It was a magnificent hostelry in the grand old style with great high ceilings, marble fireplaces, enormous baths, glass-fronted wardrobes, glittering chandeliers, antique clocks, seventeenth-century writing desks, and an abundance of marble. Their suite looked down on a small square, the Kranz Platz, which was the site of the original Roman spring.

When the attendants were finally shooed out, M.J. loosened the general’s shoe laces, and went about doing those things to force him to relax, then she unpacked.

“How is the mission going, dear?”

“Just fine. We have a few minor problems, but those will be ironed out.”

From the hall came the sound of an alley-cat chorus of nonharmonizing voices.

We are poor little lambs,

Who have gone astray,

Baa, baa, baa.

We are little black sheep

Who have lost our way ...

M.J. opened the door and Perry Sindlinger handed her a great bouquet of roses and Clint Loveless held two magnums of champagne. They piled in ... Pancho, Ben Scudder, Swede, Sid, and Lou Edmonds.

Crusty mumbled that unfortunately he would have to bounce for drinks. After a good and true welcome they crawled off wearily, well past midnight.

At last the general and his wife settled into bed. Just as M.J. rolled over to get comfortable, Hiram sat up, turned on the lamp, and grabbed the bedside phone.

“Get me Colonel Loveless at the Rose Hotel. Hello ... Clint. Get back up here, right away.”

Hiram was out of bed, wrestled into a bathrobe, and paced the living room until his vice chief of staff arrived from the hotel down the block.

“November, 1943,” Stonebraker said. “I sent you to the Assam Valley to get some tractors flown into Chengtu.”

“By God!”

“Think, Clint.”

“By God!” Clint’s voice trembled. “By God. We had a little sergeant in maintenance. I remember now. He was a
regular impresario with a cutting torch.”

“Remember how we got those tractors over the Hump, Clint!”

“Yes, sir. This little guy cut them each up into fifty parts, numbered each part, flew with them to Chengtu and welded them back together.”

“Why in the hell didn’t you think of this earlier?”

“Because ... sir ... I’ve been too busy keeping the goddamed food down to fifteen hundred tons.”

“All right ... what was his name?”

“Christ ... let me think ... a real gook name ... Homer ... Halbert ... Remus ... something like that. Freshwater.”

“Goldwater?”

“No ... let me think ... we sent him a citation. Drinkwater! Clarence Drinkwater!”

“Get back to Headquarters, find out where he is, and get him over here.”

Clarence Drinkwater, auto wrecker and junk dealer from Atlanta, Georgia, was approached the next afternoon in his yard by a man from Air Force Intelligence.

He was very happy because he spent his days cutting up junk with a torch and was pleased to know that his rare talent was needed. He packed an extra case of chewing tobacco for he always needed a chaw to help him concentrate.

Twenty-four hours later he arrived in Germany at the Hanau Engineer Base into the waiting arms of Clint Loveless, who nearly broke into tears watching Clarence begin cutting up rock crushers, graders, bulldozers, and all the heavy machinery needed to make new runways in Berlin.

Big Nellie sat in Hiram Stonebraker’s suite listening to the general explain the mountain of new projects that had been initiated to support the mission. Work had begun on rail lines, highways, airstrips, dumps.

A spare-parts base had been established outside Munich at Erding; MATS announced the first Skymasters would be on the way from Hawaii and Alaska and Tokyo and the Caribbean, and the President had authorized the call-up of ten thousand reserves.

“I’m hoping to be able to give the order to stop the cannibalization of the Gooney Birds. It is still a great old craft and I hate to see them lose their integrity. If we intend to airlift Berlin ...”

“Excuse me, General. What did you just say?”

“I said, if we intend to airlift Berlin ...”

“Airlift ... my God ...”

“Never thought much about it.”

In his column, Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury told America that a new word had been given to the English language by the rightful father, Hiram Stonebraker. It would capture the imagination of the world.... The word was
Airlift.

Chapter Twelve

H
ONOLULU

Master Sergeant Nick Papas, a sizable and burly man, made into Tiger Quong’s Gentleman Bar in Pearl City. Tiger was weary, making motions of mopping the bar, waiting to close. He poured Nick a beer. Nick chug-a-lugged it.

“Where’s the sleeping beauty?”

Tiger pointed to a tiny office off the hallway. Nick entered. Captain Scott Davidson was passed out cold, sprawled on a cot. Nick had been looking for him all over Honolulu when the Tiger chased him down by phone.

He stared down at the captain. “Christ, what a sorry-assed sight,” then brought Scott Davidson up to a sitting position. He was like a limp rag doll. Nick slung an arm over his shoulder and dragged him into the men’s room, where Tiger was waiting with a bucket of ice water. The frigid dousing stunned him from his reverie.

“You son of a bitch,” Scott moaned, “you son of a bitch. I’m sick ... I may die ...”

“Go in the can, stick your finger down your throat, and vomit.”

“Goddam you, Nick. You’ve got no respect for rank.”

“Puke already. Tiger’s tired. He wants to go home. I want to go home.”

After Scott did as he was told, he recovered enough of his senses to study his sorrowful appearance in the mirror.

“You better get some sleep. You’re due at the CO’s office at 0730. There’s flak up we may be flying out to Germany.”

“I can’t go back to the base looking like this.”

“I’ll take you to Cindy. She’s been looking for you.”

“Did she find me?”

“No.”

“Then let me sleep at your place.”

“I said, she’s waiting for you.”

“With a pickax. I can’t take any of her static tonight She started me on this bender in the first place.”

“Sure, she’s got a hell of a nerve getting teed off just because you tried to pick up another broad right in front of her ... a married one at that.”

“Nick, you going to let me sleep at your place or not?”

“Come on ... Captain ...”

Nick shoved a fin into Tiger Quong’s protesting palm. The two of them assisted the wobbly flyer into Nick’s car and he drove toward Honolulu, then up to the Pali Hills, where Nick maintained a flat that belied his rank.

Nick Papas had been a flight engineer for fifteen years and remained in the Air Force because it supplied a source of new blood for his card-playing proficiencies. Nick backed a number of enterprises in Chicago’s Greek section staffed by relatives; a bar, a garage, a piece of a laundry, and a small hotel.