Air Force Eagles (2 page)

Chapter 1

The Pentagon/August 6, 1947

"Hiroshima, Bandy—the big bang, just two years ago today! And since then the Air Force has gone from a world-beater to a country club."

The general limped around the table to jab his finger at a wall map. "If Russia starts something, they'll shove us out of Europe in six weeks."

Frank Bandfield stood up, stretched his six-foot frame, and rubbed his back muscles, still tight from the morning's flight in the new Republic YP-84. "Come on, Sam, we could stop them with atom bombs in a minute."

"Sure we could, if we had enough of them. But we don't. You wouldn't believe how few we have, even if I could tell you. Two years after the war, and. ..." The big man pursed his lips, aware that he was disclosing too much even to his old friend.

Bandfield dropped back into the red leather chair, uncomfortable in his just-a-shade-too-tight pink and green uniform, absorbed in the memories of the many sessions he'd had with Henry Caldwell in the same room during the war. It seemed like ancient history and it seemed like yesterday.

Varney painfully eased himself to a sitting position on the edge of his desk, rapping a ruler against the palm of his hand. They'd served together in combat in the South Pacific, and again in the war against the bureaucrats at Wright Field after V-J Day. It was there that Varney had flamed out in one of the new jets, a P-80, in a repeat of the accident that had claimed America's ace of aces, Dick Bong. Trying to save the new fighter, Varney had bellied it in a farmer's field, breaking his back and getting severely burned in the process. With his flying career over, Varney had channeled all his energy into staff work, handling the postwar demobilization with a ruthless skill that earned him the nickname "Meat-axe."

"But here's the good news. We're still cutting back in size, but we'll be picking up in quality. The Air Force has some tremendous planes coming off the drawing board, new fighters and bombers. Even your old buddy Troy McNaughton has a couple."

Bandfield walked over to the window overlooking the courtyard, running his hand through his shock of salt and pepper hair. "Don't mention that guy to me, Sam, he's no buddy of mine. How come the Army is still contracting with him, after all the dirty tricks he's pulled?"

Varney's huge shoulders heaved in a shrug. His height, pushing the maximum for a pilot, was only part of his truly commanding presence. His steel-gray brush-cut was set off by burning blue eyes, and he had a boxer's nose, broken in two places, over a tight-lipped mouth that rarely smiled.

Bandfield, in contrast, glowed with health and an inner contentment that he was back doing the only thing he liked doing—flying. His broad shoulders and barrel chest gave him a wrestler's build, and the long hikes in the Sierras with his wife Patty had toughened his legs. At forty-two he weighed only ten pounds more than when he had been preparing to fly the Atlantic, and today the unfamiliar pinch of his uniform made him resolve to get rid of the extra weight.

The general had once sung in his church choir; now his voice was as gravelly as Andy Devine's, the effects of a shard of Plexiglas driven through his throat in his crash. "It beats the hell out of me. If I had my way, I'd have shut down his plant years ago. But you know, he's got a lot of political influence, and when he merged with Vanguard Aircraft, he acquired some good engineers and managers. It's not so much a one-man show anymore."

"I'll never believe that."

"Maybe not, but he's got two good prototypes in the works. One's a rocket-powered research plane, real Buck Rogers stuff, and the other's a flying-wing bomber. Both of them were Vanguard projects originally. They're the real reason I had you recalled. Since they won't let me fly, I need someone to ride shotgun for me like you did for Caldwell, sort of a roving ambassador."

Bandfield snorted derisively. "You mean your own personal inspector general. Or spy—I've been called that in the past."

"Who cares what they call it? I want somebody who's not bucking for general to get out there and find out what's going on in the factories. Somebody who can fly anything in the inventory, and still go down to ride herd on McNaughton two or three times a month, to make sure he's staying honest."

Bandfield ran his finger over a silver manufacturer's model of a P-51 that sat on one side of Varney's desk. He'd never been happier than when he was working for Caldwell—in the field, facing new problems every day. His plant back in Downey was building prefab houses now, and he gladly let his wife run the operation. Hadley Roget had talked him into two more projects in Salinas, and they were batting .500 as usual. One idea was sensible, converting Stearman trainers into crop dusters, and they made a little money doing it. But all they made they had lost in Hadley's real passion, a flying car.

The truth was that Varney's recall notice had been a lifesaver—the only flying he was able to do was in puddle jumpers, with no real challenge. Still, Bandfield was careful not to appear too eager—he might need to win a few concessions.

"Don't you have military factory representatives anymore?"

Varney snorted so hard he had to grab his handkerchief. "As soon as they're on the job for two months, they become advocates.

Especially with these neat new jets. Hell, I'm giving you the chance of a lifetime, fly all this new iron, get the VIP treatment wherever you go. I'd do it myself if I could."

Varney pulled up his pants to show the braces over long medical stockings that hid his injured legs. "You know how it is, Bandy, the guys all fall in love with the airplane they're working on. Hell, it's their career, why wouldn't they? And McNaughton isn't the only slick customer in the business."

Laughing, Bandfield tapped Sam lightly on the arm. "Hell, he's got to be the slickest. I've never been able to figure him out." Then, suddenly serious, he said, "But this is only part of the package. I can tell you've got something else on your mind."

Varney stuttered "Yah, yah, in a—in a couple of minutes, Milo Ruddick will be coming in. Do you know him?"

"Never met him. Some sort of under-secretary or something?"

"Assistant Secretary for Defense—not much of a title for the guy who really runs the place. He was a Congressman for eight terms, ran the House Armed Services Committee from behind the scenes. Old Milo is a political powerhouse, with Roosevelt's charm, Harry Hopkins's brains, and John L. Lewis's clout."

"You seem mighty impressed by him."

"You're damn right I am. He still likes to be called 'Congressman,' and he calls the shots on defense. If he says yea, it's yea, and if he says nay, it's nay. I've never met anybody who had the military buffaloed like this guy."

"Well ..." The door popped open and a tall, slender man, impeccably dressed, flowed into the room as silently as a Wodehouse butler. He set down a bulging leather briefcase on the polished wood floor, folded his arms across his chest, and stood looking at them as if he were impressing their image on his mind forever.

Bandfield understood why Varney was impressed. Ruddick's entrance had not been theater but presence; there was an electric aura of power about the man. He was handsome in the manner of an aging Hollywood star, with thinning curly gray hair, perfectly cut, a contrast to his bushy eyebrows, which seemed to range forever across his broad brow. As he gazed at them his aquiline nose quivered slightly, as if he were sniffing out their personalities, while behind his wire-rim glasses his eyes were thin blue shields, as cold as liquid oxygen.

Suddenly he stuck out his hand in Bandfield's direction and with that simple movement seemed to change his whole persona from master inquisitor to lifetime friend. "Nice to see you, General Varney. And this must be Colonel Bandfield. I've heard a lot about you from your old friend, General Caldwell."

They sat down and Ruddick drawled, "I greatly admired Henry. Look there." He pointed to a photograph on the wall of President Roosevelt pinning on Caldwell's third star. "There I am, in the background."

Ruddick confided, "First of all, let me tell you why I'm so supportive of the services, particularly the air forces. I always wanted to fly myself, but didn't have the time or money. Both my son Bob and my son-in-law are pilots. Bob flew McNaughton Sidewinders during most of the war."

Bandfield shook his head. "And he lived through it? He must be damn good to survive a tour on McNaughtons. Troy McNaughton should have been prosecuted for sabotage at the least, and maybe for murder."

Varney turned ashen and Bandfield knew that he'd said the wrong thing. Yet Ruddick's manner did not change, his tone still johnnycake and honey.

"Now, I'm right sorry to hear that, Colonel Bandfield. Troy McNaughton's always been a good friend of my colleague, Congressman Dade, and I admire them both. And my dear son, Bob, swears by McNaughton aircraft—he wants to fly one in the Cleveland races someday. I hope your feelings won't affect your objectivity."

Ruddick lowered his head so that his eyes popped up owlishly over the top of his glasses to stare at Bandfield as he smiled. In the background Varney was white-faced and shaken.

"Sorry, Mr. Congressman, I meant no offense. If your son liked McNaughtons, they are probably better airplanes than I thought they were."

Ruddick purred, "Let's change the subject. How much do you know about the Gillem Report?"

"I've read a little about it—it's a recommendation on how best to utilize Negro servicemen, isn't it?"

"It's more than that—it's an attempt to bring about integration in a practical way. But most people don't like it. The services say it goes too far, and the coloreds, especially the NAACP, say it doesn't go far enough."

A skeptical look crept across Bandfield's face. "How do you feel about it?"

Ruddick glanced at Varney. "Well, you warned me that he was very straightforward." Then, "Colonel Bandfield, what do you think a man who represented the people of Little Rock in Congress for sixteen years feels about integration?"

"You're against it."

"To be honest, I am not, personally. I think it's inevitable, but not in my lifetime. My former constituents are against it one hundred percent, but I have to determine what's best for the service."

He spoke without bombast; it was a statement of political fact, but Bandfield was always suspicious of people who used the phrase "to be honest"—more often than not it meant they were lying.

"How do you see my role? I don't know how I can help you."

"General Varney's told me about your assignment for him—test-flying the new prototypes, visiting the factories, being his leg man, if Meat-axe will pardon the expression."

Varney nodded eagerly—it was obvious that he'd pardon Ruddick of anything.

"Colonel, all I want is that you just keep your eyes and ears open as you go around the country. Ask questions on the flight line, in the officers' clubs. Try to find out how service people feel about integrating the military. Form a picture of the real situation, and give me the pros and cons. If integration isn't going to hurt the services, I won't oppose it and I'll try to educate my former constituents to accept it. But
if
—as I fear—early integration will be harmful, then I'll fight it tooth and nail."

As he spoke, Bandfield placed his voice—it was Edward R. Murrow's, with a Southern drawl, richer in tone, warmer, and laced with indulgent good humor. The man could have made a fortune in broadcasting.

"I can do that, but what good will it be? I'm just one man; I can't gather a genuine statistical sample."

"Colonel, you have a reputation for being hot-headed, hardworking, and totally honest. I don't want a six-inch-thick report that shows the third standard deviation of a multiple choice questionnaire. I want someone with some common sense, somebody who can get a gut feel for a situation. Varney says you fill the bill."

Bandfield felt the same uneasy ambivalence about Ruddick that he might have felt about a likeable car salesman. The man had a marvelous personality, and he was direct and to the point. Yet in his eyes there was a thinly veiled hint of mockery, a cozy awareness that he was playing his game, and playing it well.

"Sir, I don't even know what my own feelings are. A good friend of mine, John Marshall, was one of the Tuskegee pilots. He fought in Italy and scored a couple of victories. John worked for me for a while in California, after the war. There were no problems with anyone. But the racial climate's different there. There's no way for me to guess what a guy from Alabama or Georgia might be thinking."

"You don't have to guess about Southerners—I already know what they're thinking. But integration's coming. Truman wants it because he needs the black vote. It's just a matter of when and where, and if it should be delayed. And for me, the major question is whether it should come first in the armed services. What do you think?"

Varney, tense as a torsion bar, watched Bandfield tussle with the question. "I don't know. The Constitution applies to everybody, black, white, or in-between. Everybody has a duty to serve. But I'd have to see what it does to military efficiency. I know from my friend that the guys from Tuskegee, the 332nd, did well enough during the war."

"Did you know that General Eaker didn't think so?"

"No, I didn't. What did he say?" Eaker was one of the most respected men in the Air Force, a war hero and a gentleman.

"General Eaker argues that the Negro units required too much support relative to the results they produced. He says that the service shouldn't be a testing ground for race relationships, or for advancing the prestige of the Negro race."