Stage Door Canteen (17 page)

“Yes,” Malcolm ventured, “I saw the photos of the medals ceremony at the White House. Too bad the pilot is still in the hospital.”

The lieutenant colonel bristled. “Yeah well, the pilot catches hell, that’s his job. But we’ve still got the navigator and the bombardier, and the two gunners. The Navy had Colin Kelly at the beginning of the war, they built him up big, all that ‘suicide run’ stuff. They got a lot of mileage out of one of their pilots at a time when we were getting our asses whipped in the Philippines and people needed to hear we had a bona fide hero on our side. But the Navy hasn’t got anything like the Cincy Gal team. They’re outstanding.”

The arm with the mechanical device had found what he wanted. It laid a labeled folder before him. “That’s part of the problem,” he said, scowling down at it. “The public likes the Cincy Gal crew a lot, but to look at it from one standpoint, there’s not much to brag about. High altitude bombers like the Cincy Gal didn’t hit a thing at Midway, it was dive bombers. And the dive bombers caught on that they had to come in low and lay it right on the deck like they did on the Hiryu. Of course the losses were heavy that way, but hell, the torpedo bombers were worse. They not only got zero hits, but when they let their fish go, too many of them ran around in circles. This is not a good way to spend the taxpayers’ money. The public doesn’t want to hear about defective torpedoes, there are a lot of people out there working in defense plants whose sons and husbands are fighting this war, and they damned well want to hear that things work.”

The lieutenant colonel gave Sandover another dark look, but he only nodded. He couldn’t say he disagreed.

“The glitch,” the other continued, “is that even before things got started the Cincy Gal had engine failure. They lost number two engine and had to fall behind. In the meantime their group had been over the designated area and dropped their bombs and were headed back again. Glitch number two, when the Cincy Gal finally got to where they thought they were supposed to be, they encountered heavy undercast—there was fog all over that part of the Pacific June Fourth, even the Japs didn’t know where they were. So they estimated they were on target over the Jap fleet and saw a clear spot in the undercast and dropped their bombs. Right then it started clearing out good under them and there they were, at about four thousand feet, and within range of a bunch of Zero fighters off the Jap carriers. They started taking casualties, the Zeros were armed with twenty millimeter cannon with exploding shells. One came into the cockpit and killed the copilot and tore up the pilot pretty bad. He did a helluva job getting that plane back, but now he’s still laid up. Both waist gunners were killed taking another exploding shell in the middle of the plane, and then this ball turret gunner comes up out of his hole and takes over both waist guns, running back and forth from one side to the other shooting down four Jap Zeros all by himself.

“You know what they say about the B-17’s, don’t you?” Before Malcolm could answer, he went on, “They say that crate will stay in the air like nothing else. Flying Fortress bombers can be shot all to hell and still make it home, they’ve got that kind of reputation. When the Zeros ran out of fuel and turned back to their carriers, the Cincy Gal crawled back to Midway with one engine dead, major damage in the waist, a gas tank with a direct hit, no radio, and the oxygen system blasted all to hell. And with one dead co-pilot and radio operator, two dead waist gunners and an engineer with his hand blown off.”

“Jesus,” Malcolm Sandover murmured.

“Glitch number three,” the lieutenant colonel went on, “is what we have is this whole scenario is basically a case of a broken down airplane taking defensive action against enemy attackers while trying to get back to base. And not a story of a victory in any military sense. Unless you credit that a very expensive piece of bomber equipment was saved so it could fly again. Which, considering the current shortage of aircraft of all types, is not a matter to be overlooked. However,” he said, consulting the folder again, “policy says right now there is an urgent need to tell the American public about simple but profound acts of heroism that best exemplify the indomitable spirit of the American fighting man. Specifically, the crew of the Cincy Gal. General Arnold thinks they are a fine bunch, he likes everything they’ve done so far, including the presentation ceremony at the White House and the newspaper interviews and the newsreels. So does General Marshall. And the commander-in-chief, they tell me, is a big fan. So it doesn’t matter what the Cincy Gal crew think they did, or what they think they didn’t do, and what they shoot off their mouths about. There will be a continuing effort to keep things right and regulation, Air Force-style.”

There was a pause. The lieutenant colonel directed his fierce gaze at Malcom. Who had been reflecting the burned face and hands were probably acquired in the Western Pacific at a time when a handful of P-40 fighters out of the Philippines were kept in the air with spit, baling wire and the determination of a bunch of flying lunatics. And who, there being no use to throw themselves into suicidal combat against the Japanese and waste what precious equipment there was still airborne, flew reconnaissance again and again out of Bataan and then Corregidor to confirm what everybody already knew: that they were overwhelmed.

When the collapse came they evacuated in their outmoded crates in one last act of defiance. Not that the Japs wanted the worn-out, obsolete U.S. aircraft that these heroes had flown to glory; it was the spirit of the thing! That any of them had managed to survive at all. And that they weren’t going to let the Japs have a barely-flying scrap of anything.

The silence, Sandover realized belatedly, was his cue to say something. “That’s understood, sir.” He was beginning to get a glimmer of what this was all about. “Ah—good public relations are invaluable.”

The lieutenant colonel’s chin jerked up. “The air force doesn’t have public relations. Information services are what the air force has, plain information, no bullshit, just information! What we’re dealing with here are national heroes, veterans of air combat against Jap Zeros during one of the most critical battles of this man’s war. Everybody’s proud of them. Even the president of the United States. Especially the president! If the crew get a little loosey goosey after a few beers and sound off about classified information, it’s what many of them do at one time or another, believe me.”

“Yes, sir,” Malcolm said, “I understand that.” Like most newspapermen he regarded the field of public relations with distaste and was somewhat irritated to think he might be giving the impression of recommending or even defending it.

“Perhaps ‘public relations’ was not the right phrase,” he offered. “It was just a way of saying...”

“Officer from First Army Headquarters in New York,” the lieutenant colonel interrupted, shuffling among the papers again. “Here it is, MacElsmore, Second Lieutenant MacElsmore, First Army HQ information officer. He says the ball turret gunner, Struhbeck, is the hardhead. Likes to fight. Not a problem drinker yet but when he has a few, needs handling.”

While the lieutenant colonel took a moment to read the paper and refresh his memory, Lieutenant Sandover could put two and two together and could guess what was coming.

“The crew’s on two weeks’ home leave,” the other said from behind the paper, “then they report back to New York for reassignment. They’ll be broken up as a unit and shipped out. Air combat veterans are high priority in England right now. Struhbeck went home to some place outside Midland, Texas. He had a chief from First Army HQ assigned to him to keep things straight, make appointments, keep him in line, but the chief had a recurrence of the belly trots he picked up in the Western Pacific, and had to go into the hospital at Davis Air Force Base. Struhbeck’s hometown threw a big parade, which I gather he didn’t particularly object to, and gave him newspaper interviews and appearances on local radio stations for a couple of hundred miles around. Then Washington started getting queries from Texas media about B-17 performance, dive bombers at Midway and so forth, that appeared to be in conflict with earlier Air Force releases about those items.” He put the paper down on the desk and said abruptly, “Nevermind all that, lieutenant, it’s in the folder Sergeant Stoll will have ready for you before you hop your transportation.”

“Sir,” Malcolm began.

“USAAF likes your work very much, Sandover,” the lieutenant colonel went on. “Tell me, is a position paper what I think it is? It’s about time we had a comeback for those Brits. They can double-talk the arms off a brass monkey. I understand you’re a very popular type at HQ these days.”

“I don’t know,” Malcom said, uncomfortably, “if anybody anywhere has read any position papers or whether there’s even been a top level meeting. Besides, if you don’t mind my saying so, isn’t the solution to your problem to cancel Struhbeck’s leave and get him back to New York?”

From the look on the lieutenant colonel’s face Sandover knew that although his forthright approach would have seen him in good stead in a newspaper editorial meeting, such tactics were not often welcomed in the military.

“Lieutenant, the Army Air Force doesn’t want to make an incident where none exists, you understand that?” The lieutenant colonel’s scarred face looked notably irritated. “Nobody’s going to get their leave cancelled. Nobody’s going to get yanked back to New York. The general of the air force has an idea you could assist the Cincy Gal crew by accompanying Sgt. Struhbeck during the rest of his home leave, while gathering material for some sort of newspaper story or magazine article on him. Sgt. Struhbeck is a decorated war hero, USAAF staff believes you would have plenty of good, positive material. You could write all of it up and submit it through proper Air Force channels to Texas newspapers and radio stations. To sort of round out the picture and correct any misapprehensions on the part of the American public about what our air force personnel might have said.”

It was Malcolm Sandover’s turn to stare. He couldn’t believe it, but the Air Force intended to send him to Texas to baby sit some errant B-17 crew member who had, he gathered, been shooting his mouth off about what the Air Force considered to be sensitive issues , like B-17s with broken down motors. It was difficult to regard all this as earth-shaking, but apparently USAAF did. General Arnold, or somebody close to him, he gathered, was sufficiently fond of his work on the position papers to issue an order assigning him this little dilly. That writing position papers had very little to do with chaperoning a fractious decorated war hero, was apparently not very important.

Feeling somewhat desperate, he tried another tack. “Sir, my group, ISPD, has been alerted to a coming transfer to the European theater. It could happen at any minute. I’m sure Major Haller—”

“If they leave,” Lieutenant Colonel Singletary said tersely, “you’ll catch up with them. Your group hasn’t been formally designated anyway. Your classification is going to be changed when you go over to Tactical Planning. I’ll have a copy of your briefing down to your office within the hour. Don’t leave without it.”

“Yes, sir,” Malcolm told him. He stood up and after a moment’s pause remembered to salute.

The lieutenant colonel was reading his papers again and did not look up. “Yes, dismissed.” However, as he reached the door the other called to him. “Lieutenant,” Lieutenant Colonel Singletary wanted to know, “you ever interview Joe Louis?”

Without turning, Sandover said, “Yes, nice big colored guy, very quiet. Very nice manners.”

There was a silence. He left, carefully shutting the door.

The telephone rang at eleven thirty, when Dina was in the kitchen fixing cocoa. Her parents were upstairs listening to the radio and getting ready to go to bed, but her mother called down as though she knew right away who it was for. “Bernadine, who’s calling at this time of night? Don’t answer it!”

“It’s only Angie, Ma,” she called back.

She was pretty sure it was her cousin. Angela always had some urgent thing, at least in Angie’s mind it was urgent, that she had to talk about, usually at night. As Dina’s relation on the Italian side of the family—that is, her mother’s sister’s daughter—she was family and allowed late evening calls. Although eleven thirty was pretty late, even for Ange.

At the same time the phone rang in the downstairs hallway Dina’s Uncle George, who lived with them to be near his defense job on Long Island, came out of the living room where he was reading his detective novels. Dina waved him away, mouthing, It’s only Angela.

She carried the phone on its long cord into the kitchen, knowing that Angie’s calls could last for an hour or more depending on the problem, usually men Angie was dating, and sat down at the kitchen table.

“Yeah, Ange,” she said, lifting the receiver.

First, there was a burst of loud music. It sounded like a jukebox, and the song was Rose of San Antone. Bar music. It continued in the background, almost drowning out the furious voice that, skipping Hello or identifying itself or any other form of civil greeting, blared in her ear, “Why did you give that son of a bitch Weathersley your telephone number?”

ELEVEN

Dina couldn’t speak for a moment.

“I asked you for your telephone number,” the voice rushed on, “and you wouldn’t give it to me, remember? But when my back is turned you give it to Weathersley! What in the hell did you do that for? You know how that made me feel? He hasn’t got guts enough to be ashamed of himself, trying to steal somebody else’s girl, even when that somebody is in his own goddamned crew, for God’s sake!”