Call to Duty (31 page)

But it was hard.

“Your timing couldn’t be better,” Trimler told him. “B Squadron’s CO is being reassigned so it will be a simple matter for you to take his place and we can fit ISA into your
squadron. No problems.” He turned to his CSM, Victor Kamigami. “You’ve been working with them, Sergeant Major. How are they stacking up?”

“They are an extremely professional group of shooters,” Kamigami said. “They are showing us action and maneuver in the Shooting House that make us look like amateurs. And they do things with C Four that I’ve never seen. They can blow the front end of a car over a building without two teenagers copulating in the backseat missing a stroke.” His face was expressionless and brown eyes passive. “But they can’t hump Alice the Wart worth shit.”

“The sergeant major does have a way with words,” Trimler told Mackay. “But I have learned to listen to him.” Mackay found the soft humor in his voice reassuring and he started to relax. “I take it they didn’t keep up on one of your fun runs,” Trimler observed. The daily five-mile march that Kamigami led with full gear and the heavy rucksacks called Alice the Wart had become the common denominator for determining if a Delta commando was in shape. The troops referred to it as “K’s fun run in the sun” and the ISA shooters had failed miserably, not even finishing.

A new doubt started to gnaw at Mackay. Success depended on the team being able to make long marches through jungle. “I’ll have to sort that one out when we reach Entebbe,” he told the men. Entebbe was the name they had given their training site.

“The First SOW is airlifting us there tomorrow to start training,” Trimler said. “Sergeant Villaneuva jumped at the chance to volunteer and I’m quite sure the CSM would be more than willing to help you whip our friends from ISA into shape.”

“That would be appreciated, sir,” Mackay replied, “and there’s more help on the way.”

Bethesda Naval Hospital, Maryland

The medical officer of the day bolted out of the elevator as soon as the doors had cracked open wide enough to let him escape. He scurried down the corridor, looking for Edith Washington, the big black woman who served as the head nurse on the floor. He reached the nurses station, puffing
heavily, all too aware that he needed to get into better shape. “First time you’ve had the duty when the President has been on the floor?” Washington asked. She knew the answer. The young doctor nodded, still working to catch his breath. He had never been on duty when President Pontowski had been to Bethesda Naval Hospital and, even if he had, the senior members of the staff who looked after the President and his family would have shuffled him off into a corner. “Relax,” Washington told him. “Just be available if he wants to talk before Captain Smithson gets here. He’s been called and is on his way but I doubt if he’ll get here before the President.” The nurse gave a tight smile as she thought about Smithson, the pompous Navy doctor who served as the President’s personal physician. Smithson hated it when Pontowski dropped in on short notice to visit his wife. Personally, Washington would have preferred the young MOD as her own doctor.

“Is Mrs. Pontowski awake?” the doctor asked.

“She was asleep when I last checked with Margaret.” Edith Washington glanced at the wall clock—it was 10:34
P.M.
She ran her floor with military precision. “That was four minutes ago. Here”—she handed him Tosh Pontowski’s file—“review this while I see if there’s been any change.” She hurried off to talk to the duty nurse sitting in Tosh’s room.

The doctor appreciated the trust. Like everyone on the staff, he knew that the President’s wife was being treated for lupus and was in serious condition, but only the few doctors and nurses who were directly concerned with her care ever saw her files. When the nurse came back, the doctor handed her the thick folder. “Does the President know how bad she is?” he asked.

“I don’t know what Captain Smithson has told him,” she answered, “but I suspect he knows.” She took a deep breath and looked at the doctor. They both knew that Tosh was near death. “He comes every chance he can get and sits with her, even if she’s asleep.”

Three Secret Service agents stepped out of the elevator and scanned the hall. One spoke into his radio while the others opened doors and checked the rooms. One of the agents assigned to the floor appeared and the four talked quietly. The first agent spoke into his radio again and a few moments later, the elevator door opened and Pontowski walked out. He
headed directly for the nurses station. “Hello, Edith,” he said to the nurse. “How’s Tosh tonight?”

“Resting comfortably, Mr. President,” Washington said, heaving her bulk out of her chair. She was almost as tall as Pontowski.

Pontowski nodded and walked into his wife’s room. “Hello, Margaret,” he said to the on-duty nurse. “Mind if I sit in your chair?” The nurse rose and left, understanding the President wanted to be alone with his wife. She closed the door behind her. Pontowski sat down and buried his head in his hands. After a few moments, he lifted his head and relaxed back into the chair.

He ran the day’s events through his mind, sifting the wheat from the chaff, focusing on the major problems, forcing them into perspective. Then he relaxed, able to renew his strength for what the next day held. Tosh, he thought, I don’t know if I can do it without you. They won’t tell me how long we have. Oh, I know that young doctor out there would if I asked him a direct question; so would Edith, but that wouldn’t be fair to them.

The President sat there, hoping he would have another chance to tell his wife how much he loved her. He knew it wasn’t necessary, but he wanted that chance. He had only known one other woman in his entire life and he had loved her as much as he loved his wife. Tosh also knew that. It amused him to think of the opportunities that had come his way to sleep with other, equally beautiful and worldly women…. They seemed to come with the territory…. But only two…the most important two…and he had no regrets.

A movement caught his attention. “Zack,” Tosh said, reaching out to hold his hand, “go home and let those poor people get some rest.”

“I love you,” he whispered.

“I know.”

1943
RAF Fairlop, Essex, England

“Warts on a bullfrog’s ass,” Zack mumbled to himself, dropping the newspaper he had been reading onto the table in
front of him. He glanced around the reading room of the officers mess on RAF Fairlop, the base ten miles northeast of London where the Lysander had dropped him and Willi two days ago. He wondered when she would reappear.

“Sir?” the mess steward asked, not able to decipher the American’s words.

“Oh, sorry,” Zack answered. “Just feeling useless, hanging around like this.”

The steward sympathized with him. The young flying officer had been cooling his heels for two days, waiting for a summons that had not come. Speculation around the mess had it that he was in some sort of trouble, up on a charge or awaiting a court-martial. Personally, the steward suspected that he was at RAF Fairlop for another reason, for while the American was anxious, he was not worried. The steward had long recognized the different mental states fighter pilots were subject to. Over the past two years he had seen a succession of squadrons rotate through Fairlop and had become very adept at gauging their moods. This particular officer, he judged, was quietly competent and not the type to get into trouble. “Lovely day outside,” the steward told him, calculating that a walk and some fresh air would do the man good.

Zack took the hint and walked out of the two story redbrick building that served as the officers mess. He ambled by the sports field and headed for the main hangars. There, he walked through a hangar and studied the sleek fighter aircraft undergoing repairs or inspections. The 239 Squadron was flying the new Mustang, recently delivered from the States. “A real beauty, sir,” a voice said behind him. The flight sergeant in charge of the hangar was standing there.

“I’d love to try one out,” Zack said.

“You’ll be Mr. Pontowski, yes?” the sergeant asked. It amazed Zack how everyone on base seemed to know who he was. He nodded a reply. “I don’t think the CO would be too keen on that,” the sergeant said, “but why don’t you see how it fits.” He motioned toward an open cockpit. Zack climbed over the left wing and settled into the cockpit. The flight sergeant was right behind him. “Do you fly fighters?”

“Mosquitoes.” Zack studied the controls and instruments, liking the cockpit layout.

“Ah. Same engine, you know.”

“I’ve heard she’s fast,” Zack said.

“Faster than a Spitty and she has a decent range. The chaps are giving the Luftwaffe some nasty surprises.” For a few moments, Zack sat there, feeling pride in what his countrymen had built. The cockpit was nicely finished and functional. He tested the canopy and it slid smoothly back and forth onto the fuselage. The early Mustang did not have the clear bubble canopy that became one of its trademarks, but had a raised spine, much like the Spitfire. “The hood doesn’t jam like on the Spitty,” the sergeant explained. “An excellent machine.”

“I’ve heard some of the pilots talk,” Zack told him. “They seem to really like it.” He heaved himself out of the cockpit. “Thanks for the tour, Flight. I hope you won’t take offense, but I think I’ll stick with the Mossie.”

The sergeant escorted Zack out of the hangar and studied the pilot’s back as he headed for the perimeter road that surrounded the huge triangular patch of grass that served as the runway. “Is that the Yank?” a fitter asked the flight sergeant.

The sergeant nodded an answer. “A decent type,” he allowed. “All right,” he bellowed, “get the finger out! We’ve got work to do.”

Zack walked briskly around the perimeter, enjoying the light exercise. He paused for a few moments when he reached the southwestern end of the new concrete strip that stretched for four thousand feet parallel to the hangars. He watched as three of the new North American Mustangs taxied out and ran up, not using the concrete runway but taking off across the grass instead. Old habits die hard, he thought as the three made a formation takeoff, but that’s the English. He watched with a professional interest as the three aircraft lifted smoothly into the air and then moved closer together, collapsing their formation into a tight vic. I guess they want to impress the locals, he laughed to himself. At least they no longer engage in that formation like they did in the Battle of Britain. He wondered why the British had been so slow to change tactics when it must have been painfully obvious that what they were doing wasn’t working.

He walked more slowly now, past the dispersal pens and the squadron’s crew huts on the far side of the field. From the activity going on inside the huts, it looked like the squadron
was packing up for a move. That was not unusual as the RAF constantly moved its squadrons about, flying the aircraft and pilots out. Some of the maintenance personnel would follow but the rest of the base would stay behind, ready to accept the next squadron that would arrive shortly. Zack wondered when his squadron, 25, would be moved. They had been at Church Fenton since May of 1942. A long stay by RAF standards. That makes sense, he reasoned; move the aircraft to where they can work most effectively.

It took him an hour to make the circuit of the field. Finally, he was headed back for the officers mess, feeling more relaxed. A staff car he hadn’t seen before was outside and the old tingling sensation brushed his senses. Willi was back and his brief vacation was over.

“You were told to wait here,” Willi said when she saw him.

“What a pleasant surprise.” He smiled, ignoring her reprimand. “You’d like it here—many nice people.”

“Get your bag,” she ordered. “We’re leaving.”

The mess steward suddenly appeared, carrying Zack’s bag. “Here, sir,” he said. “I took the liberty of packing when the young lady asked for you.” He gave Zack a bland look that said, “Off to a dirty weekend, I take it.”

Zack played the game to Willi’s obvious discomfort. “Thank you. We really don’t want to waste any time.”

“Yes, I can imagine,” the steward replied. Willi stomped out of the mess while Zack settled his bill and thanked the steward.

The driver loaded Zack’s bag and they headed out the gate, turning toward London. “The house at Wimbledon,” Willi told the driver.

A polite “Yes, miss” answered.

Zack arched an eyebrow. “Tennis this time?”

“Don’t be stupid,” she snapped.

A cold silence hung over them as the driver headed into London. This was the third time Zack had been to London and, as before, he found the city depressing. War had made the huge metropolis even more drab and dirty. He wondered if this was the fate of all big cities. Maybe Ruffy’s right, he thought; we are going to have to change things after the war. He looked skyward, searching for relief in the clean and sim
ple sky. Then he saw them and smiled. “I see you’ve taken precautions against sinking.”

“Whatever are you talking about?” Willi asked.

He grinned at her and waved out the window. The sky over London was stacked with tethered barrage balloons. “You have so many balloons tied to the ground that your lovely little island is bound to stay afloat under the weight of all us Yanks.”

The driver laughed. “I think he’s right, miss.” Willi looked out her side of the car. It did indeed look like London was suspended from under a canopy of bloated silver sausages, each anchored to the earth by a slender cable that stretched earthward from the underbelly like an umbilical cord.

“They serve a very real purpose,” Willi told him, disapproval in her voice. Then she saw the humor of the sight. “You do have an odd way of looking at things,” she said, her voice softer now.

“It makes things much more interesting,” he told her.

“Miss,” the driver said, “there’s a diversion ahead.” A traffic warden was standing in front of a barricade. “I’ll ask for directions.” He pulled up beside the woman who gave them precise directions around the area that had been bombed the night before. “It would be best to take the Waterloo Bridge,” he explained and pulled back into traffic.

“Yes, do that,” Willi said, giving Zack an odd look. She settled back into her seat and studied the American’s face, waiting for a reaction. As they neared the River Thames, more and more American GIs packed the streets, moving aimlessly about.