Wingmen (9781310207280) (50 page)

“Ruining your
Sunday like this.” They both stood and stretched. “After last
night’s flight, you probably would’ve been better off staying in
the rack.” They fell into step, side by side, walking in the
direction of the boat landing.

“I didn’t mind
getting up,” said Fred. “At least now I know why we’ve been flying
at night.”

“So do I.”

“You didn’t
know?”

“Not exactly. I
had a general idea, but today’s the first time it’s been spelled
out.”

“Will it
work?”

“With the right
people doing it, yes. It should.”

“Is it really
dangerous?”

That was
something Jack had tried hard not to think about since CAG had
asked him to pick a wingman and qualify him in night ops. Just
flying off an aircraft carrier during daylight hours, even in
peacetime, was dangerous work. Doing the same thing at night in a
wartime combat zone with enemy planes in the area and scores of
itchy-fingered mount captains below, was just this side of
insanity. But so was attacking an enemy base on a regular strike.
Inevitably men died. And it could happen to him, or to Fred—the one
person he had ever really cared for.

“Yes,” he said
helplessly. “It is.” He wanted badly to touch Fred, hold him. But
he couldn’t.

“So I guess we
better be careful,” said Fred.

“That would
help.” Jack smiled wryly.

They walked in
silence for several minutes. The dewy grass wet their shoes and
pants cuffs. An enlisted man in a smart white uniform passed and
saluted. Both men absently returned it.

“Did you get
any more mail from home since Christmas?” asked Jack.

“Not since the
flying scarf.” Fred laughed. “That was more than enough.”

“I got another
package from my mother. A new wallet. Very nice.”

“They did
really well with the mail this year.”

“Took them
three years to get it right.”

They came to a
narrow asphalt path leading down to the landing and turned onto
it.

“Feel like a
bridge game this afternoon?”

“Sure,” said
Jack. “If you get the people together.”

“Okay.”

They continued
down the path to the liberty boat, talking about the weather,
flying, the still-unannounced sailing date, the
Oklahoma
—everything except
themselves and each other. They were two men who were as close as
two men could be, but they were still very much apart.

20 January 1944
: U.S.S.
Constitution
sailed this day from Pearl Harbor as part of Task Group 58.1,
comprised of carriers
Enterprise
,
Yorktown
,
Belleau Wood
, and
Constitution
. Air Group Twenty, including
this squadron, was brought aboard ship beginning at 1300, after
which standard CAP was instituted. There were no operational
mishaps. Squadron strength stands at thirty-three operational
aircraft and thirty-two pilots. Course of the Task Group has been
determined as approximately two hundred degrees true, although the
actual target area has not been announced.

This War Diary
has been written for that period of time from 6 June 1943 to this
entry by Lieutenant (j.g.) Frederick Trusteau, USNR. This duty will
now be handled by Ensign William C. Hill, USNR.

“Did you read
over all the past entries?” Fred asked Hill as they were seating
themselves at a table in the ship’s library. He had chosen this
compartment because it was off limits at this time of day to
on-duty personnel, which effectively included everybody.

“Most of them,”
said Hill. He was a thickly built young man with a beardless face
who nevertheless managed to look grubby even after a shower. Fred
doubted he could handle the chore of writing the Diary, but he was
willing to help him. The skipper had wanted the new men to get more
involved in squadron affairs. The fact that Hill was the junior
ensign may have had some bearing on the selection as well.

“I asked you to
read them all,” said Fred.

“Aw,” said
Hill. “You read one, you’ve read ’em all.”

“I gave you
plenty of time. You had the Diary all last night. It isn’t that
long.”

“Well, I had
other things to do, too, you know.”

“Like
what?”

“Just
things.”

Fred opened the
book up to the last completed page and took out his ink pen. “When
someone tells you to do something, someone from the squadron, you
do it. Everyone in this group is senior to you and what they say is
an order. That means you jump. Okay?”

“Okay,” said
Hill. “Don’t get all riled up.”

“There has to
be an entry for every day, telling basically what the squadron did.
The number of operational aircraft and pilots has to be entered
every other day or whenever there’s a change…”

“I didn’t do
all that bad last night,” said Hill. He pushed his hand into his
side pocket and came up with a roll of bills.

“What do you
mean?”

“There was a
little game—”

“You played
poker last night?”

“I told you
there were things I had to do. That was one of them.”

“You get caught
at that and they throw the book at you.”

“Mister Higgins
plays.”

“Put the money
away.” Fred uncapped the pen and shoved it in front of Hill. “Here.
You’re going to write the entry for yesterday, the
twenty-first.”

“What’ll I
write?”

“You could
start with the date.”

“Yeah.” Hill
concentrated briefly and wrote on the line right under the last
entry “January 21, 1944.”

“You didn’t
leave a line,” said Fred, “and you wrote it wrong.”

“Ah, I ain’t no
good at things like this.”

“Can’t you look
at one of the entries up here and just do the same thing?”

“Yeah, I
suppose.” Hill crossed out the incorrect date with a thick, wet
line and wrote “20 January 1944” on the line below it.

“Yesterday was
the twenty-first.”

“Aw, shit,”
said Hill, dropping the pen to the book and leaving a little
splatter of ink. “I just ain’t no good at this sort of thing.”

“The skipper
didn’t pick you because he thought you were a great writer.”

“Can’t you tell
the skipper that I can’t do it worth a damn?”

“No one tells
the skipper anything.” Fred was getting a little heated. “Write the
goddamn date.” Hill crossed out the “20” and wrote “21” in the
space above it. It looked awful. Fred gritted his teeth.

“Hey,” said
Hill. “You’re the Skipper’s wingman. You should know.”

“Know
what?”

“Me and some of
the guys were talking. We think Mister Higgins is better than the
skipper. What do you think?”

“Better at
what.”

“You know.
Flying. Shooting down Jap planes.”

Fred turned his
chair so he could look at Hill. “What the hell difference does that
make?”

“Well, Mister
Higgins has more kills than the skipper so we just thought—”

“You thought
wrong. The skipper has seven. Mister Higgins has four.” He looked
around in exasperation. “I’ve got three. But who gives a damn?”

“Well, we
thought it was important.”

“It isn’t. Are
you going to write that entry or not?”

“Sure,”
grumbled Hill. He put his head in his hands in a semblance of
thinking. Fred seethed. “I bet we find out pretty soon,” Hill
said.

“Find out
what?”

“Who’s the
best. I hear we’re headed right for the Japs’ home base.”

“And where
would that be?”

“I don’t know.
Truk, maybe even Tokyo.”

“Sure,” said
Fred. “Tokyo.”

The ship’s
address speaker above their heads blared, “Mister Trusteau, your
presence is requested in the squadron office. Mister Trusteau, your
presence is requested in the squadron office.”

Fred got up
from his chair, irritated at the interruption, but curious—it was
probably the skipper who wanted him. He opened the War Diary to the
back cover and took out a thin stack of plain white typing paper.
He put the paper in front of Hill. “I have to leave for a few
minutes,” he said. “Take this scratch paper and write out the
entries for yesterday and today. When I get back I’ll read over it
and let you know if it’s good enough to copy into the Diary.”

“What if it
isn’t?”

“You’ll stay
here until you get it right. I don’t care if you have a date with
Betty Grable. Now do it.”

Fred stalked
from the library, found the midship’s passageway, went up two decks
and forward, and arrived ten minutes later in the squadron office.
The skipper was there, and so was Duane Higgins.

Jack sealed the
envelope carefully, laid it on top of another envelope similar to
it, and put both in the top drawer of the desk in the squadron
office. The single-spaced letter from his brother Monty lay by
itself on the desk in front of him. He read it through again from
start to finish while waiting for Higgins and Trusteau.

The letter was
typed carefully, probably by Monty’s secretary. It made the letter
seem terribly impersonal when he thought about someone else reading
it in the process of transcription. The gist of the letter was
straightforward: The executor of their father’s will had made
public, as per prior arrangement, the details of the disposition of
his estate. (The lengthy delay in the settlement had puzzled Jack.)
The part about lump sums made him mad. The bulk of the estate, of
course, went to their mother. A lump sum of ten thousand dollars
was bestowed on his sister and her family in Leeds, Ohio. A similar
amount went to brother Monty in Portland. But Jack was only awarded
five thousand. Another five grand went into trust “until the day of
his marriage.” The first five thousand had been deposited directly
into his savings account and was collecting interest; the second
five sat in a safe-deposit box and collected nothing but dust. Jack
wondered bitterly if it was worth five thousand dollars to get
married.

There was a
single knock on the door. Duane Higgins entered. “What’s up,
Skipper?” he asked. He seated himself in the one other chair and
immediately lit a cigarette.

“Nothing much,”
said Jack. He folded Monty’s letter in thirds, then in half, and
put it in his shirt pocket. “Just wanted to go over a few things
with you.” He moved his chair over and back to make room behind the
desk. “Move that chair around here.”

Duane looked
perplexed but did as he was told. He sat with his knee touching
Jack’s. Jack pulled open a drawer full of filing folders. “This is
the squadron’s file. I want to show you my system of running
things.”

“Sure,” said
Duane.

“First off I
got a file on every man in the squadron. I keep notes on everyone,
mainly for the writing of evaluations every six months.” Jack ran
his hand over the typed tabs and Duane saw his name on one of them.
“The service jackets are kept in the group office and Sweeney
watches them. You have to sign them out if you want to use them.
Back here I have the miscellaneous files. Aircraft, Communications,
Correspondence—”

“Just a sec,
Skipper,” interrupted Duane.

“What is
it?”

“What are you
showing me all this for?”

“Call it part
of your training.”

“Training?”

Footsteps
sounded in the passageway, stopping outside the door. There was a
knock and Fred Trusteau came in. Jack and Duane looked up. “Sorry I
took so long, Skipper,” he said. He closed the door and stood
uncertainly before the desk. There was no place to sit.

“That’s all
right,” said Jack. “I’ll be with you in a few minutes.” Fred leaned
against the bulkhead and crossed his arms. “Now,” said Jack. “Where
were we?”

“Training,”
said Duane.

“Yeah. The book
says I have to leave behind a qualified number two. Just in
case.”