Authors: Walter J. Boyne
Bandfield glanced at his own reflection again, running his finger around the smooth welt of a scar that ran across his forehead and down the side of his left cheek. He'd picked it up the last time he'd worked for Caldwell, crash-landing his fighter on a French beach, and it still bothered him when he shaved. Shrugging off the memory, he moved toward the door with the quick, tight grace of the natural pilot. Still in pretty good shape for an old man, he thought. Haven't gained a pound or an inch around the middle.
Outside, Roget resumed their conversation. "That must be a forty-dollar suit Caldwell's wearing, and a ten-dollar Stetson—pretty hot stuff for a guy who always shopped at Monkey Ward. And did you see his manicured nails? No Hupmobile grease on him nowadays!"
"He's driving a supercharged Graham now. And Elsie's changed, too, like she's been to some fancy finishing school. She's sure got Caldwell's number, you can see that. Did you ever think you'd hear somebody calling him 'sugarbaby'?"
Roget grimaced. "Well, old 'sugarbaby' is moving in some pretty fast circles nowadays. He was a major when I first knew him."
"Yeah, and next month, he's going to be a brigadier general. He's jumped ahead of a lot of big shots in the air force."
Roget shook his head. "Well, no matter how mad he makes me, he deserves it. If it hadn't been for the smart way he spread the money around, there wouldn't be any Air Corps worth talking about. The way I hear it, if it wasn't for him, Hap Arnold wouldn't be running the Air Corps today."
It was true. The once rough-hewn Caldwell had become a superb politician, smoothing over the differences that his mentor Billy Mitchell had had with Congress, while still managing to promote Mitchell's concepts on air power. After Mitchell's court martial, Arnold had been sent into oblivion, but Caldwell, at real career risk, had labored behind the scenes for him. Even the Navy brass liked Caldwell—a virtual miracle. Caldwell always cooperated with them, keeping them abreast of all the engineering developments the Air Corps had under way at Wright Field and once even testifying to Congress on the value of carrier-based aviation.
"What's his secret, Bandy? When I was working for him back at Wright Field, I always thought he was a grouch, no sense of humor."
"You haven't seen him operate! He's a real smoothie when he's working with the White House or Congress. Congressman Dade from Tennessee runs the military appropriations committee, and he's thick as thieves with Caldwell. They cut a sweetheart deal; Dade agreed to buy the four-engine Boeing bombers Caldwell wanted, if Caldwell would give McNaughton a contract for his new fighter."
Roget slapped his forehead. "Shit, so that's it. The McNaughton plant is in Nashville, Dade's home district."
"Sure, it's just a political quid pro quo."
Troy McNaughton had appeared on the aviation scene in 1936 with a stub-winged racer that had won enough money in the Cleveland Air Races to let him buy the remains of the newly defunct Hafner Aircraft Company. He hadn't gotten much—a few designs, some machinery, and the services of Elsie Raynor—but he'd moved the operation to Nashville and was beginning to prosper.
Roget reached out and touched Bandfield's arm. "I'm sorry about this morning, Bandy. I just got mad when that goddamn McNaughton bragged about getting a two-million-dollar contract from the French purchasing committee. Can you imagine it? A two-million-dollar order for a plane that hasn't even flown!"
"Hell, with Europe boiling over, it will help us—we can build parts for McNaughton just like we do for Douglas and Boeing."
Bandfield and Roget had finally given up trying to build aircraft in competition with the bigger manufacturers, turning instead to making aircraft parts and tools. For the first time in their lives they were a roaring commercial success, with orders coming in from all over the country as the defense buildup began.
Bandfield went on. "But you were right to be angry. Caldwell should have held two separate meetings, one to get us back on board, one to talk about McNaughton's new projects. I don't blame you, I was pissed off myself."
The game—and Elsie's efforts—had gone a long way to soothing tempers. Even Roget was feeling conciliatory when he and Bandfield finally got back to their seats. McNaughton moved aside as Elsie and Caldwell rose.
Elsie, simulating a little shiver, said, "I'm sorry, boys, this cold is just too much for me."
Caldwell took time to shake each man's hand warmly, and said, "I'm going off to Germany next month—it'll be my first official trip as a general officer—and I'll feel a lot better knowing you guys are firmly on board."
As McNaughton and Roget edged uneasily into a neutral conversation about the game, conscious that each had probably made an enemy of the other, Bandfield watched the other two leave, holding hands. Yesterday, life had been relatively simple for him. Now he tried to tie all the new developments together—his new job, Roget's argument with McNaughton, Caldwell's infatuation, the war that Caldwell seemed to think was certain. Things had become very complex. He wondered how it would all end.
*
En route to Hankow, China/October 10, 1938
James Curtiss Lee's father had drummed it into him that the Lees were many things—leaders, Southern aristocrats, Democrats—but above all, they were
survivors.
Well, he'd probably need to be in China. It had been a rough day, flying from Hong Kong to Chungking in a Chinese National Aviation Corporation Douglas DC-2 crowded with Chinese officials. The only other, English-speaking person on board was one of the pilots, an American.
Now they were bumping across a range of craggy mountains, east-northeast toward Hankow. The Yangtze River twisted and turned below, a better navigational aid than a railroad, its yellow roiling waters a vivid Chinese Mason-Dixon Line dividing the huge country into North and South. The scenery reminded him of the rugged foothills of the Rockies, rough mountains interspersed with valleys where little farm villages nestled against the side of the hills. The whole landscape was painted in a single dirty gray, save only where the river's yellow streak flashed in the sun.
He was just out of flying school, carrying a reserve commission as a second lieutenant in his back pocket. Normally he would have been assigned to some dull stateside base, flying Boeing P-26s or Martin B-l0s. Instead, his father, broke but still with political influence, had pulled strings to get him a special detached duty. He was to work for an old family friend, Claire Chennault, now tasked by Madame Chiang Kai-shek with rejuvenating the Chinese Air Force.
Lee remembered that he'd been sixteen years old when his father had driven the family to Langley Field to watch Chennault lead the "Three Men on a Flying Trapeze," the Air Corps' premier acrobatic team. Flying little yellow-winged Boeing P-12F fighters linked together with ropes, they put on a dazzling routine of loops and rolls. After a literally tied-in-tight landing, Chennault had popped out of his plane like a genie from a bottle, his nickel-Indian face cordovan-leather tan, flying suit streaked with oil stains, and a grin as wide as his black, bushy mustache. The image had never left Lee, and he determined on the spot to be an Air Corps pilot.
Lee was half dozing when the DC-2 stood on its wing and plunged like a dive-bomber. The transport leveled out to race along the side of a mountain, jinking back and forth, its left wing just missing the boulder-strewn surface, its right poised over the void. The DC-2 rolled up on its wing again so that Lee stared straight down at the mountainside. Behind the shadow of the transport, distorted as it raced across boulders and crevasses, he could see two smaller images in pursuit and thought, Man, they're not paying me enough for this!
Machinegun fire slashed through the right side of the cabin; an officer, big for a Chinese, slumped over in his seat, his head torn apart like a dropped melon. Seconds later, the DC-2 abruptly leveled out and began to climb. Lee jumped out of his seat and leaned across a screaming Chinese businessman to peer out the window opposite. Two Japanese fighters—low-wing monoplanes with fixed landing gear—were disappearing into the sun. Must be out of fuel or ammunition, Lee thought.
He unbuckled his seat belt and went forward to see if the pilots were okay. He stepped through the cockpit access door and splashed into blood.
The American pointed to the copilot slumped against the control wheel, blood pouring from wounds stitched across his chest. "He's dead. Pull him out of the seat, and fly copilot for me. I might need you if those bastards come back."
The rest of the flight into Hankow was uneventful; Lee sat in the blood-stained seat, queasily aware of the gore oozing through his trousers. The roads outside the city were jammed with people leaving, most walking with their possessions slung on poles, a few lucky ones with carts piled twice as high as they stood.
The pilot pointed. "Refugees evacuating. We're expecting the Japs in a week or so. These people don't want to stay here for a replay of the rape of Nanking."
The runway was a disaster, pocked with holes, its margins strewn with the wreckage of crashes, the pennons of their tattered fabric showing that some had been there for years. When they taxied in, he could see a Packard staff car pulled up to the flight line. Chennault himself was driving, no mustache now, but his face as craggy as ever.
"What the hell happened to you, son? You hurt? Trying to start your own war even before I get a chance to tell you what's what?"
Chennault 's Southern-accented bellow betrayed his deafness. Lee saluted and Chennault, relieved to see that he wasn't wounded, grinned. "That's right, play it military with your ass dripping blood like a stuck gator! Don't think you're going to ruin the seats of my car.
Throwing Lee's bags in the trunk, he commanded, "You stand on the running board next to my window here, and hold on. I'll try not to scrape you off against a rickshaw."
Chennault drove with flair and his horn, sending pedestrians scrambling, talking continuously and doing little listening.
"They don't like me to drive myself, they say I lose face, but my Chinese drivers are too dangerous."
Lee hung on as the Packard wheeled into the arched entrance of Chennault's compound, squealing to a halt in front of a mass of servants.
Chennault waved expansively, saying, "Manpower's the one thing there's no shortage of in China. You go get a bath, and come down for drinks and some home cooking. Civvies will be fine."
The big old house was cool and silent as Lee and two servants padded down teak-paneled hallways to a huge room overlooking the central atrium of the compound. A garden was at one end, with fruit trees now losing their leaves and well-tended flower beds; at the other end the kitchen, laundry, and garage ran haphazardly into each other.
There was a tub of hot water in his room; Lee bathed, changed into wrinkled shirt and slacks, and went downstairs. As he entered he heard the welcome clink of ice dropping into glasses.
"J.C., you look just like your daddy—he's about five-eight, too, isn't he? And the same red hair and freckles. By golly, the apple doesn't fall far from the tree."
He gestured at his brimming drink. "I just have two a day. You probably need one after your flight. Tell me all about it."
Chennault listened intently to Lee's account of the attack.
"Yes, the bastards are getting bolder. You're right about them being out of ammunition; that's the only reason they let you go. I'm surprised they didn't try to fly you into the ground. Hankow's about the limit of their range; they were probably short on fuel, too."
He swallowed with the lip-smacking appreciation of a man who knows he likes to drink too much.
"For a while, they weren't shooting at CNAC planes, but now that they're almost in Hankow—and we don't have any air defense—I guess they're starting up again."
"No defense? How many planes do you have?"
"Damn few. The Chinese busted up all their Curtiss Hawks in landing accidents. Let's eat."
The food was served in endless steaming trays, delicious but successively spicier. Lee could see that Chennault was teasing him, seeing how much he could take; as they ate, he watched Lee closely, all the while popping little red and green peppers into his mouth like after-dinner mints.
It was almost two hours before they were served the traditional last dishes of soup and rice; Jim, exhausted and burning up inside, wanted Chennault to excuse him.
"You did okay, son, your poppa would have been proud of you. I'm sorry things have gone so bad for him financially. He always helped me out."
"Things are bad for most people. As soon as my tour is up, I'm going to go back and help him get back on his feet. We Lees don't like living like poor white trash."
"That you could never be—but you should help your poppa."
Eyes squinting from the smoke of the Camel cigarette that hung like a growth from the corner of his mouth, he took Jim by the arm and led him into the living room. It was decorated simply, in Chinese style except for an enormous Wurlitzer piano in the corner.
"I want you to study this book on the little fighter Madame Chiang bought for me. She paid fifty-five thousand U.S. for it."
Lee glanced at the photo of a Curtiss Hawk 75 H on the front of the red velvet-covered manual Chennault handed him.
"Looks like a fixed-gear P-36."
"That's just about it, son. Fastest thing in China right now; I use it for reconnaissance mostly, but it's got two machine guns, if I need them." He tossed over a loose-leaf folder, filled with crude three-view drawings and hand-lettered tables of specifications.
"These are the best I can do for identifying the Jap planes. You don't have to worry about the biplanes, you can outrun them. But they've got some damn fast bombers, and a little Nakajima fighter they call the Type 97. Probably what hit you. Looks a lot like my Hawk, but it's smaller and lighter. Anyway, you get familiar with these tonight; I've marked the performance estimates down beside them. I've got a job for you tomorrow."
Lee was pleased that Chennault was not wasting any time.