On Wings Of The Morning (12 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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14
Morgane
The Pacific—February 1943
 
I
squared my shoulders and knocked on General Martin's office door.
“Come in!” The grizzled, white-haired general sat at his desk, bent over a pile of papers and chewing on the end of a corncob pipe à la MacArthur. Another officer might have gotten a ribbing using the same pipe as the Supreme Allied Commander in the Pacific, but General Martin was a good egg, and we all respected him. Besides, he'd been smoking corncob pipes since MacArthur was a boy. As far as the men of the Thirtieth were concerned, it was MacArthur who was imitating Martin, not the other way around.
I saluted, and the general gave me my ease. “Sir? You asked to see me?”
“Yes. Take a load off.” I pulled up a chair and sat down a little uneasily. It wasn't usual for a lowly lieutenant to sit in the presence of the base commander.
“Relax, son. I didn't bring you in here to bawl you out.” My jaw unclenched a little at this, but not much. “Morgan, you've been doing an outstanding job.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“You're not only a helluva pilot, you've earned the respect of your men. I know you got your field commission because we'd lost so many of our junior officers in combat, but you earned that rank and no mistake about it. You're a natural-born leader. And, as of last week, you lead the squadron in enemy kills. However,” he said, taking the pipe from his mouth and tapping the stem against a personnel file that topped the stack of papers sitting in front of him, “your superiors are a little concerned about you.”
He picked up the file and began reading from it, underlining the text with the stem of his pipe. “‘Lieutenant Glennon possesses outstanding leadership qualities, exemplary character, superior technical skills, and commitment to the mission. From the first, he has displayed an admirable personal courage. However, in recent weeks, Lieutenant Glennon's willingness to undertake personal risk has moved from the realm of the courageous to the reckless and may present an unnecessary danger to himself and others.' ”
The room was quiet for a moment while I waited for the general to speak. He took his time before saying anything, his eyes still on the paper as he silently reread the file. “Captain Conroy's quite a wordsmith, isn't he? I've been in the service for twenty-eight years and I still can't write a personnel report with anything like his style. But, all military jargon aside, there's a fine line between bravery and foolhardiness, and Captain Conroy thinks you've crossed it. I tend to agree with him. Twelve kills? And you've only been here since June. That's quite an impressive record, Glennon.”
I cleared my throat. “Permission to speak, sir?”
“Of course. I told you, you're not here to get bawled out.”
“It is true that I have a high record of enemy kills, but it's been more luck than anything. For whatever reason, my section has come under fire more frequently than some others. When we have, I've tried my best to do my job, engage the enemy, and protect the craft I've been assigned to escort by neutralizing the threat. I haven't gone looking for those Zeros, sir. They've come after me, and when they did, I took them on. That's my job, sir.”
“Morgan, when you're assigned to escort a ship, your job is to defend them against the enemy, not go looking for them. Twice last month, when your group came under attack you engaged the enemy and took out one of their planes—very ably, according to this report. But then, after the Japs peeled off and headed for home and the ship you were assigned to protect was no longer in danger, you took off after them. Is that correct?” General Martin peered at me over the top of his black-rimmed glasses.
“Sir, I was concerned that they might come back and attack a second time, so I gave chase to make sure they'd gotten the message.”
“But that is not the procedure. When you are on escort duty, your orders are to defensively engage the enemy. This isn't the Wild West, Lieutenant, and you're not the Lone Ranger. You don't go off chasing the bad guys unless you've been told to. Fortunately, it worked out for the best both times. But what if, while you were off hunting Japs that had already decided to call it a day, there had been an attack from another direction? Your section would have been down a man. Your absence could have given the Japs the advantage they need to take out one of our pilots, one of the boys in your own section. The pilots that you are supposed to be leading!” In spite of his assurance not to bawl me out, the general's voice was loud and accusing. I didn't blame him. I deserved it.
“Then we'd be down two pilots, and that, as you know from experience, could be just the opening they'd need to shoot down the rest of the escort craft and then start bombing the hell out of the ship you were assigned to protect! Your little stunt could have caused the failure of the entire mission—not to mention a terrible and unnecessary loss of life! What in the hell were you thinking, son?”
“I ... I guess I wasn't, sir. It was a stupid mistake. It won't happen again.”
The general took a deep breath. “I'm sure it won't, Glennon. But I don't believe it was just a mistake. You're too fine a pilot for that.” He picked up his pipe and wedged it between his teeth before fishing a match out of his pocket and relighting it. When he spoke again, his voice was calm. Something in his tone and inflection reminded me of Papaw.
“You were in Walker's section, weren't you?” I nodded. “He was a good man. Captain Conroy tells me you were with him when he was shot down. You were the only one who made it home that night, weren't you? Can you tell me about it?”
It was an order phrased as a request. General Martin waited for me to respond, but it took me a minute. It seemed like my Adam's apple was stuck in the middle of my throat.
The only other time I'd spoken about it was to brief Captain Conroy the day it happened. I'd made my report, answering all the captain's questions and including all the pertinent information, but at that time it hadn't really hit me yet that Fountain Walker, Brian Holman, and Tony Campezzio were really gone.
Later, no one asked about it, and I didn't volunteer. That was the unwritten rule of the Thirtieth. But when I walked into the mess hall and sat alone at a table that had been crowded with my buddies the day before, moving my eggs from one side of my tray to the other and tearing my toast into pieces, I could feel the stares of the other men boring holes into my back. They wondered why I was the only one still alive. So did I.
Now the general was ordering me to tell him about that day. It took all my effort to bring forth a painful trickle of words, but once I started it was almost a relief. Memories roiled to the surface like a flood, so brutal and unyielding that they knocked me off my feet, forcing me to abandon the stoic posture I'd held for so many weeks.
I told him everything. How it had started off as a routine escort of a routine bombing mission, like dozens we'd flown before, and what a clear blue the sky had been that day. How relaxed we'd been after takeoff, joking back and forth on our radios, certain we were too close to the base for the Japs to show themselves. How Fountain had razzed me about brushing off the advances of an old streetwalker who'd approached me on Thursday night. How he'd called me Choirboy of the Fighting Thirtieth, and everyone, including Fountain, had laughed. And how, just like that, the sound of our laughter was engulfed by a wave of engine noise. They were on us.
They shouldn't have been there, not that close to the base. I guess there were so many of them they felt like they could risk it. They counted on being able to hit us hard and fast, to finish the job before we could radio for backup. They were right.
They took out Holman first. A Zero came boring down and got off a lucky shot right into his gas tank. The explosion was so fast and fierce that I doubt he ever knew what hit him. I could hear Fountain hollering on the radio, telling the base that we needed more backup. I knew help was on the way, but I also knew there was no way they could get there fast enough. We were going to have to take care of these guys ourselves.
Campezzio was next to go down, but not before he scored some pretty serious hits to one of the Zeros. The crippled Jap plane bugged out and headed for home, but we were still outmanned two to one, and the whole time we were trying to hit those Zeros without getting ourselves killed in the process, they were buzzing in and out, taking turns with the bomber.
I banked hard right, came up behind one of the Japs, and scored a direct hit that sent him into the drink, but Campezzio was hit at almost the same moment. The two planes, one Japanese and one American, spiraled into the sea side by side, streaming smoke. If you could have blocked out the sound of roaring engines, stinging bullets, and Campezzio's screams coming over the radio, it would have looked like some terrible and beautiful aerobatic ballet as they floated toward the blue below, striking the water at the same time, sending up a final wave of white before disappearing under the waters forever.
There was no time to think about the fact that two of my friends had been killed in a little over two minutes. We were weaving in and out between the planes, trying every piloting maneuver we knew and inventing some new ones, fighting to keep the Zeros away from the bomber, to get ourselves into a decent firing position, to stay alive long enough for reinforcements to arrive.
Everything was happening so fast. Two Zeros were after Fountain, stalking him like wolves. In the meantime I had problems of my own. Fountain hollered a warning to me over the radio. Thanks to him, I spotted the Zero just in time and barrel-rolled right to evade a hail of Japanese bullets. I pulled out of the roll and, for a split second, was in a perfect position to hit one of the Japs that was after Fountain. He went straight down.
Then, I'm still not sure what happened, but I think a stray bullet must have hit the pilot of the other Zero, because I saw him slump forward over his controls, either dead or unconscious. I called out a warning to Fountain but I don't think he heard me. He was trailing smoke, and the Zero was closing in on him fast but Fountain didn't see him. Another Jap was after me, but I looped down and lost him, then banked as hard as I could and circled behind, trying to get into a position where I could shoot down the Zero before it collided with Fountain. But I was too late. The unconscious Japanese pilot slammed into him, setting off an explosion that engulfed both planes in a ball of fire.
The blast was so powerful that I could feel the heat of it through the skin of my plane. If I'd have been three seconds quicker, maybe even one, I could have saved him.
I took a deep breath and closed my eyes, trying to compose myself, trying to banish the mental picture of Fountain's plane—strafed with bullets, flames shooting out of the starboard wing—the nightmare picture that invaded my dreams and startled me from sleep every night, the last image I had of Fountain before five of our guys flew in and Japs took off. The bomber was crippled but still in one piece. My tail was so shot full of holes that it was like trying to fly with a cement block tied to my rudder, but we made it. The other planes stayed close until we landed, first the battered bomber and then me—the only fighter out of the original four who made it home that day.
“One second. Just one,” I whispered. “I was too slow. That's what killed him.”
“No,” General Martin said sternly. “It was the Japanese that killed your friend. It was the war that killed him. What you did was try to save him, but you can't save everybody, Morgan. Is that why you're going off, chasing after every Zero you see, trying to kill them before they get another one of your guys?”
“I don't know. Maybe. I just ... I just don't understand why I'm still here and Walker, Holman, and Campezzio aren't. Especially Walker. Half those maneuvers I used to get myself out of trouble that day was stuff he taught me. He was ten times the pilot I am. It should have been me that died, not him. Why am I still alive?”
Looking up, I could see the sun dipping lower in the sky, beaming shafts of light through the venetian blinds that covered the general's windows. I'd talked longer and said more than I'd intended.
The old man probably thinks I'm a nut job. He'll probably take my wings and bust me down to kitchen steward before the day is out,
I thought.
But he didn't. Instead, he opened a wooden box that sat on his desk, took out a cigarette, and offered it to me. I don't really smoke and was about to tell him so, but all of a sudden, a cigarette seemed like a good idea. I needed something to do with my hands. The general held out a lighter built into an enormous hinged conch shell. I leaned toward it and lit up.
“Ugly-looking thing, isn't it?” he said as he snapped closed the shell lid. “MacArthur sent it to me last Christmas from Manila. I've known Doug since we were cadets at West Point—gave him his first pipe. He's got a brilliant military mind, but not a nickel's worth of taste.” He chuckled and leaned back in his chair before continuing.
“Morgan, every soldier who's seen combat—at least, any soldier that's worth his salt—wonders the same thing. I don't think civilians can really understand the bond that exists between soldiers. You go through so much together that the guys in your unit get to be like brothers, even closer. That's what I love about the military. It's also what I hate about it.” He took a long pull on his pipe, making the tobacco in the bowl glow orange-red before he spoke again.

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