Wingmen (9781310207280) (18 page)

“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—”