Wingmen (9781310207280) (47 page)

“Sometimes if
the first time wasn’t just right, we’d do it again, and it was
always better.” She brought her knee up to his groin, worked it
slowly up and down.

“You’re a
shameless woman,” he said.

“Yes,” she
said, smiling. “But is there a Navy regulation that says women
aren’t supposed to enjoy it, too?”

“Hell, no.” He
loved the way her breasts flattened against his chest, the
delicious way her body conformed to his. Eleanor Hawkins was
definitely not like any other woman he had known, and maybe that
wasn’t so bad.

“There,” she
said with finality. “We’re all ready to try again. And we’ll keep
doing it until we get it right.”

“Yes, Sister,”
he said. But before he could move, she reached down and with her
own hand made the all-important connection. And it was just at this
moment and during the next fifteen minutes that Duane Higgins
became convinced he should marry her.

Despite the rather
abrupt cessation of the civilian tourist trade after December 1941,
Waikiki’s two fine resort hotels, the Royal Hawaiian and the Moana,
had not suffered financial setbacks. On the contrary, they enjoyed
a higher level of occupancy than ever before. Like most of the
island of Oahu, they were appropriated by the Navy and the Army for
the duration of the war and served as rest and recreation havens
for submarine officers back from long war patrols and Navy pilots
returning from combat cruises. The ballooning number of naval
officers in the islands had cut the average length of stay from
over a week during the first part of 1942 to its current three days
and two nights during the Christmas season. Thus it was on
Christmas eve 1943 that Air Group Twenty parked its aircraft in
scattered revetments on Ford Island, packed its personal gear into
B-4 bags, boarded buses at the Naval Station, and transported
itself en masse to the lobby of the Moana Hotel, ready to squeeze
as much rest and recreation into that short period as was humanly
possible.

Fred Trusteau
was watching two sets of luggage that afternoon. He had found out
the day before that Jack would be tied up most of the first day of
R and R in a meeting with the air group commander and some
higher-ups, and would take a cab out to the hotel later. He had
offered to take the Skipper’s stuff along with him on the bus, and
Jack had accepted. Fred didn’t mind; in fact he was pleased to be
able to help out.

On the trip out
to the Moana, Fred’s thoughts were concerned with the mysterious
officers’ meeting. He wasn’t sure what it was about, but he felt it
had something to do with what had happened the previous evening.
Long after dark Fred and the Skipper had flown out over the ocean,
making turns, climbs, and dives, and finally some simple formation
aerobatics, and returned to Ford Island after ninety minutes. Fred
felt that he was being tested and hoped he had qualified for
whatever it was the Skipper was looking for. As for Jack, he had
been extremely reticent about the entire matter.

Fred lugged the
two heavy leather bags across the lobby (past a strangely
un-Christmas-y Christmas tree), checked in, procured two room keys,
then trudged up the stairs to the third floor, to their assigned
room. He was anticipating sharing the same room with the skipper
for two nights as much as he had anticipated anything else he had
done since joining the squadron. He had no idea what the night
would bring.

The room had a
private bath, two double beds, a desk, a night table with lamp, and
a veranda with a sweeping view of beach and ocean. He set the
skipper’s bag down on the bed nearest the veranda, then unpacked
his own. Three sets of clean underwear, a set of tropical whites,
swimsuit, toilet kit—all went into one of the desk drawers. He left
the top one for the skipper.

His unpacking
completed, Fred drew the drapes wide open, admitting a delicious
ocean breeze and a burst of sunlight. He sat down on the edge of
the skipper’s bed and looked for a long minute at the water and
sky, not thinking of anything in particular. It felt good for the
moment to do nothing, and he let himself fall slowly back until he
was on his back, hands beneath his head, feet touching the
floor.

“Hey, Trusty,
you still dressed?” It was Frank Hammerstein. He had opened the
door without knocking and was in the room. “Come on, the guys are
all going down to the beach.”

Fred sat up.
Frank was in his swimsuit and a pair of shower sandals; a white
hotel towel was around his neck. His body and arms were almost
laughably white.

“I’ll be along
in a little while,” said Fred.

“Hey, you guys
really got a room.” Frank walked over to the glass doors and looked
out. “Me and Patrick got a view of a bunch of palm trees. Someone
said the whole top floor is full of Waves. Waves. Can you beat
that?”

“Waves, huh?”
Fred fell back into his prone position.

“Yeah. You
going to try your luck tonight?”

Fred thought
for a second, his eyes closed. “I’ll just play it by ear,” he
said.

“Hey,” called a
voice from the corridor, “you guys coming?”

“Sure,” Frank
called back. He headed for the door. “You coming, Trusty?”

“In a little
while,” said Fred. He was comfortable where he was and had no
desire to take off most of his clothes and expose his easily burned
skin to the fierce tropical sun.

“See you later,
then,” said Frank.

“Close the door
when you leave,” said Fred, and was satisfied to hear it shut.
Frank’s footsteps faded away down the hall. He felt sleepy but
thought it would be better to stay awake in case the skipper came
back. He was trying to decide what he should do until then when he
fell asleep on the skipper’s bed.

He was awakened
some time later by a slight commotion in the bathroom. Sitting up
quickly, he noticed that it was already getting late; the sun was
far over to the west and low on the horizon. It slanted through the
open drapes, casting a beautiful golden glow on the far wall.
Jack’s bag, which had been near his head when Fred first lay down,
was sitting on the desk. The skipper had arrived.

“Sorry I woke
you up,” said Jack, coming out of the bathroom, drying his hands on
a small white towel.

“I didn’t hear
you come in,” said Fred. He stood up and stretched. “Looks like I
slept the whole afternoon.”

“That’s what
it’s for,” said Jack. He tossed the towel through the bathroom
door, then turned the chair that faced the desk around and lowered
himself into it. He propped his feet up on the edge of the bed, put
his hands behind his head. He looked completely relaxed. “Thanks
for taking care of my things,” he said.

“You’re
welcome,” said Fred. He was suddenly tense, awkward. He didn’t know
what to say, what to talk about. “It was nothing, really.”

“I still
appreciate it.”

Fred sat back
on the bed, nearer Jack, and leaned back on his elbows. “How’d the
meeting go?” he asked.

“Fine. But that
comes under the heading of business, and I promised myself not even
to think about it for the next two days.”

“That’s okay
with me.” Fred glanced out the glass doors. “I guess I should be
getting ready for dinner.” He stood up, put his hands in his
pockets, looked out at the ocean. “Did you make any plans yet?”

“Unfortunately,
yes. Jennings corralled me and the other two skippers into eating
with him. Orders are orders.”

“I understand,”
said Fred.

“By the way,”
Jack said reaching behind him and dragging his bag across the desk.
“I brought a little something for you.”

“For me?” Fred
came over and sat on the bed near the skipper’s feet.

Jack unzipped
the bag and took out a bottle of liquor. “It being Christmas and
all…” He pushed the bottle across to Fred.

“Walker Scotch.
Black Label.” Fred held it up in the failing light.

“I know you
like Scotch.”

Fred was awed.
He hadn’t seen a bottle of Black Label since 1941. “I do,” he said.
He started to take the top off. “Shall we try it?”

“Not now,” said
Jack, standing up. “I’ve got to get ready for dinner. Save it for
later. Say ten-thirty tonight? Just the two of us?” He walked
across the room and into the bathroom.

Fred followed
him with his eyes. “Fine with me,” he said.

“Good,” said
Jack. The light came on in the bathroom and the door swung shut.
Fred sat holding the precious bottle for several long minutes, then
put it down carefully on the desk. He was beginning to get a better
idea of what the night would bring.

Duane Higgins
sat at the Moana Lounge Bar and watched the three squadron
commanders and CAG enter the restaurant, leaving their hats with
the hat check boy near the door. For a man who could have had a
room to himself, he thought, but chose instead to share a room with
his j.g. wingman, Jack Hardigan was sure spending a lot of time
with everyone else. First he had turned over the expedition to the
hotel to Duane, the second in command, coming in later with CAG in
a cab. Trusteau had been conspicuously absent from the festivities
on the beach that afternoon, and Hammerstein had mentioned that he
had probably fallen asleep on his bed. So he had to be there when
the skipper checked in, He’d spent maybe twenty minutes alone with
Trusteau in the room, but when he came out he was freshly showered
and shaved. Did any of this mean anything?

There were ten
officers in the bar for every woman. In fact, he was seeing fewer
and fewer women in the area every time they came back from a
cruise. But that no longer bothered him. He had Eleanor Hawkins, an
affection-starved beauty of a woman with her own car and house. It
was an unbeatable combination. Duane finished off his drink and
ordered another. Rest and recreation was a precious time, and he
meant to enjoy as little of the first and as much of the second as
he could.

At six-thirty
Trusteau and Hammerstein, Levi and Bagley, came through the bar on
their way to the restaurant. They sat near the door and eyed a
couple of Waves who came in and took a nearby table. Duane had
already checked out the Waves and had been uninterested; just the
thought of Eleanor Hawkins made him forget about them. Duane
ordered a third drink, then stepped to a phone near the door. He
dialed Eleanor’s number. It rang a dozen times without an answer.
Hanging up, he went back to the bar and thought,
Maybe I’ll try my luck with the
Waves, after all
.

A little after
seven the CAG party came out of the restaurant and headed for the
patio, a palm-frond-and-tiki-torch affair with a piano bar and a
dance floor. They had a woman with them, a statuesque redhead who
was not bad, not bad at all. She was obviously one of CAG’s
girls—he had a whole string of them, damn him, and kept close tabs
on every one. But there were still the two Waves.

At seven-thirty
Trusteau’s group came out of the restaurant. They had the two Waves
in tow. One of them was leaning on Trusteau’s arm and laughing
amiably. All six went through the bar to the patio. Duane cursed to
himself and pulled on his drink.

Duane went back
to the phone and tried Eleanor again. There was no answer. He
looked around the bar, seeing a half-dozen women, each with a
multiple escort of eager pilots. The odds were just too great.

He heard music
coming through the door to the patio and wandered over to
investigate. A stout Hawaiian woman sat at the piano bar, playing
dance melodies. While he watched, the skipper’s wingman and one of
the Waves got up and began to dance. Duane looked away, scanned the
rest of the patio. The skipper was sitting with Woody Heywood. They
were talking about flying: four hands did rolls, made attacks, flew
aerobatics. A couple of the new pilots who had checked in since the
Tarawa operation were sitting together, drinking beer and looking
very homesick. He almost felt sorry for them and decided to go over
and talk. What were their names? Hill, yes. Anderson? No,
Anders.

“Hi, guys,” he
said. Both looked up.

“Hello,” said
Hill.

“Mister
Higgins,” said Anders.

“Mind if I join
you?” Duane pulled out a chair, turned it around and straddled it.
He set his drink down and lighted a cigarette. “Enjoying
yourselves?”

“Sure,” said
Anders. “What a great place to spend Christmas.”

“I’ve been in
worse places than this for the holidays, pal,” said Duane.

“Sure,” said
Hill.

“When are we
gonna see some action?” said Anders.

“Yeah,” said
Hill. “All we do is sit around and practice and take vacations in
the hotels.”

Duane laughed.
“You’ll get your share of action,” he said. “I guarantee it.”

“How many kills
do you have, Mister Higgins?” asked Hill.