The Fly Boys (13 page)

“That’s a raw deal,” Benny said. “I’d sure hate it if any of Miss Bessie’s nine kills didn’t count.”

“Miss Bessie….” Steve chuckled. “You guys with your names for the fighters really crack me up. An airplane is an airplane.
Some are better than others, but they’re all just machines and nothing to get sentimental about. It’s the man in the cockpit
that makes the difference. Who’s Miss Bessie, anyway? Your girlfriend?”

“My
bubbeh.
”

“Your buddy?”

Benny chuckled. “
Bubbeh
—it rhymes with ‘tubby.’
Bubbeh
means grandmother,” Benny explained. “Bessie was the name of my maternal grandmother in the Old Country.”

They were at Steve’s tent. “Hey, how about a drink?” Steve asked. “I got a bottle of genuine sour mash stashed away. My old
man sent it to me for my birthday.”

Benny looked uncomfortable. “I don’t drink.”

“Oh.” Steve shrugged.

“Hey, thanks again for helping me with those Marines,” Benny said earnestly.

“No problem,” Steve replied awkwardly. “I would have done it for anyone.”
Stupid thing to say
, he thought as Benny flinched.

“Yeah, right.” Benny was smiling thinly. “Well …” He held out his hand to Steve, who shook it. “Maybe someday I can repay
the favor.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“You take care of those ribs,” Benny cautioned.

“The only medicine I need is a stiff drink,” Steve replied.

He watched Benny walk away, and then stepped inside his tent, where he tossed his soiled uniform onto the vacant cot. He lit
the lantern and rummaged through his footlocker until he found the fifth of bourbon and pulled the cork. He took a swig off
the bottle. The cuts in his mouth burned like hell from the alcohol, but at least the bleeding had stopped.

He stepped out of his unlaced boots and gingerly lowered himself onto his own cot. He took a couple more sips off the bottle.
He had his cigarettes rolled up in the sleeve of his T-shirt. He took them out, shook a smoke from the pack, and lit it. It
hurt his ribs to inhale, but it was worth it.

What I should have said was that I wanted to help Benny out of that scrape to make up for what happened between us back in
October
, he thought, and sighed.
Yeah, that’s what I should have said
. Wasn’t it just like him to think of the right thing to say when it was too late?

He took another long pull off the bottle, recorked it, and got up to put it away. He ground out his cigarette and turned down
the lantern. He was asleep thirty seconds after his head hit the pillow.

The next morning Steve woke up at six
A.M.
, feeling like he’d been run over by a Seabees bulldozer. His back and side muscles were as stiff as a board, and his face
was one big purple bruise. He got dressed and hobbled over to the mess, where he managed to choke down some breakfast and
coffee. He saw Benny Detkin coming into the mess as he was going out. Detkin looked even worse than he did: he had a black
eye, and his swollen split lip was scabbed over.

By eight, Steve was in the ops-ready room along with the three other pilots scheduled to fly patrol.

“Golly,” Captain Crawford said disapprovingly. “First Benny comes in looking like death warmed over, and now you.” He was
frowning in his best schoolmaster’s style.

Before Steve could think of a suitable reply, Cappy came in to deliver his briefing.

“Good morning,” Cappy began, scanning the room. “Who’s got a smoke?” He stopped in his tracks as he looked at Steve, and then
saw Benny Detkin over on the other side of the room. “Holy shit!” Cappy said, and whistled. “Kerrrist, you two guys look like
dog meat. Did you two do that to each other?” he demanded.

“No, sir!” Benny said. “You see, Cappy, last night I got into a little scrape with some Marines, and the lieutenant there
was wandering by and was good enough to help me out, and …”

Cappy held up his hands. “I changed my mind. I
don’t
want to hear about it, okay? Just tell me one thing, are you fit to fly today?”

“Yes, sir,” Benny said.

Cappy turned toward Steve. “What about you? You fit to fly?”

“Yes, sir.”

Cappy nodded. “Case closed,” he said as he made his way up to the podium. “By the way, anybody got a smoke?”

An hour and a half later, the patrol was in the air over Buka, a tiny clot of emerald jungle just northwest of Bougainville.
The four Thunderbolts were arranged into two pairs. Steve was in the rear flight and, as usual, was flying wingman position
for Captain Crawford. Up ahead, Benny Detkin was flying as wingman for a captain named Williams.

A couple of months ago the squadron’s Jugs had been fitted with drop tanks, so now almost all of the Solomon chain was within
the Double Vees’ reach. This morning the patrol would sweep as far as Emirau, north of New Ireland, and then swing around
to head home.

The patrol was veering for a pass over Rabaul when Cappy Fitzpatrick’s voice came rattling over the headsets. “The Marines
here have picked up an SOS call from a cargo supply ship in your vicinity,” Cappy said. “It’s the damnedest strange thing.
The ship claims it’s being attacked by some Jap planes.”

What bullshit
, Steve thought as Cappy relayed the ship’s coordinates. It was just off the Green Islands, about a hundred miles east of
Rabaul.

“It sounds unlikely, but
something
has got to be spooking that ship,” Cappy said. “The Marines don’t have any CAPs in the area. They’re putting up a patrol,
but in the meantime they’ve asked us to check it out,” Cappy finished. “Over and out.”

“Let’s go have ourselves a look.” It was Captain Williams.

“Roger,” Captain Crawford transmitted. “We’re right behind you on this wild-goose chase.”

The patrol cranked their throttles, and less than fifteen minutes later the ship came into view, riding the waves with stately
grace, the way the big ones always seemed to do when viewed from the air.

“Well, I’ll be darned,” Crawford said.

“Roger that, Captain,” Steve muttered softly.

The ship was doing its best to fend off a trio of “Jill” Nakajima-built single-engine torpedo bombers, mixed in with a half-dozen
Kawasaki “Tony” single-engine fighters.

The Jills were painted lime green, with olive-colored engine cowlings. They were big red “meatballs” on their fuselage sides
and on their wings. Steve knew that each Jill had two fixed-position 7.7-millimeter guns firing forward and a sting in its
tail—a rear-mounted 7.7 gun—but its ship-killing ability came from the single shiny silver tin fish slung beneath its belly.

The Tonys were wearing green and tan camouflage paint. In profile the enemy fighters looked something like British Spitfires,
except for their Rising Sun insignia. The Tonys were well armed with a pair of 20-millimeter cannons and twin 7.7-millimeter
machine guns.

“I count ten bogies,” Captain Williams breathed over the radio. “Where the fuck did they come from?”

“There’s a lot of jungle on these islands. More than enough to hide an airstrip,” Benny Detkin replied. “We already know that
the Japs can hide out and survive anywhere. Look how long they held out in the swamps of Santa Belle.”

“This really sucks eggs,” Captain Williams was fretting. “Those Jills are going to hug the waterline in order to release their
fish. Our Jugs are gonna fly like bricks at that low altitude, and that’s when those Tonys will have at us.”

Steve shared Williams’s concern. The Tony was not a great fighter, but at low altitudes it was a lot more nimble than the
Jug. Normally that wouldn’t matter, but the squadron was going to have to abandon its bounce-and-run tactics and engage in
some down-and-dirty dogfighting in order to stay in the immediate area and protect the ship.

Being a cargo vessel, the ship was lightly armed. Steve could see scattered tracer fire reaching out toward the Jap planes
from the handful of .50-caliber machine guns mounted on the upper decks. The ship also had the canvas shroud off its single-barreled
20-millimeter cannon mounted on the forward deck. The cannon kept swiveling around, firing in rapid bursts, spewing white
smoke and flame. The gun crew was wearing glinting steel helmets and bright orange life jackets. They were stripping fresh
clips of cannon rounds into their gun as the expended shell casings littered the deck around their feet.

“Where the fuck are those Marine Corsairs?” Williams wondered out loud.

“At least another twenty minutes away,” Crawford replied.

“That’s Navy down there,” Williams argued. “Marines are Navy. This is their mess. Why not leave it to them?”

“You know we can’t do that,” Crawford replied calmly.

Atta boy, Teach
, Steve thought. He was beginning to feel a new respect for Crawford.

“We’ll start out doing it by the book,” Crawford continued. “Bounce as many of them into the sea as we can on the first pass.
If whatever’s left of them runs, great. If they stay, well, so will we.”

“I still don’t like it,” Williams said.

“Williams, we don’t have time to debate,” Steve cut in.

“Lieutenant Gold, you stay out of this!” Williams shouted. “Your superior officers will make the decision.”

“Yeah, right,” Steve said. “Well, if you guys don’t decide something soon, it won’t matter. That ship doesn’t have near enough
guns to set up the defensive cones of fire necessary to knock down those Jills before they release their fish.”

“Okay,” Crawford said. “Steve and I will make the first pass. Williams, you and Detkin stay high and try to keep those Tonys
off our backs.”

“Roger that,” Williams said, sounding relieved.

“Hey, Benny, it looks like you get pussy patrol,” Steve cracked.

“Hey, Steve, let’s hope you can shoot better than you use your fists,” Benny taunted in return.

“Okay, cut the chatter,” Crawford said, sounding the way he probably did when he’d been quieting unruly classrooms back home.
“Everyone, drop tanks. Lieutenant Gold, follow me in.”

“Yes, Teach,” Steve joked as he punched loose his exterior fuel tank.

“Just stick with me, or you’ll stay after school,” Crawford muttered as he began his attack dive. “I’m going after those Jills
setting up for their runs.”

A pair of Jills had come around and dropped down low to skim over the waves on a torpedo-launching attack toward the cargo
ship. The ship’s gun crews were blasting away, but they lacked both the skill and the firepower to set up a defensive curtain
of lead to stop planes that were coming at them head-on at wave height.

Crawford and Steve dropped down just behind the Jills. The Jills’ rear gunners opened up with their machine guns, but didn’t
seem to be hitting anything. Meanwhile, a couple of Tonys had dropped down to try and spoil Crawford’s aim, but Williams and
Detkin bounced them, chasing them away.

Steve watched out for more Tonys as Crawford opened up on a Jill with his eight .50-calibers, and it was suddenly raining
lead against the surface of the ocean all around the Jill. Some of Crawford’s rounds hit the Jill’s long plexiglass canopy,
sending shards flying and abruptly silencing the rear mounted gun. The Jill began leaking gray smoke. It dipped one lime-green
wing into the azure sea and then cartwheeled across the surface, breaking herself into fiery pieces.

“Nice shooting, Teach,” Steve said, all the while using his rear-view mirror and swiveling his head to make sure that Williams
and Detkin were keeping the Tonys busy.

“I’m going after that second Jill,” Crawford replied, just as the Jap torpedo bomber released her fish and began to bank out
of her attack approach. “I’m right on her,” Crawford said excitedly.

The launched torpedo was streaking a white wake toward the ship, which was coming around in a desperate evasive attempt. The
Jill was still banking. As she exposed her vulnerable belly to her prey, the ship’s .50-calibers, and the 20-millimeters cannon
tracked her, firing steadily. Steve watched, horrified, as Crawford’s Jug banked along with the Jill, less than two hundred
feet behind her tail.

“Crawford! You’re too close!” Steve called. “You could be hit by defensive fire coming from the ship.”

“Just another second,” Crawford muttered. He began firing short bursts at the fleeing Jill.

“Break! Break!” Steve called. He was just a little behind Crawford, and the tracer fire coming from the ship seemed to be
angling right toward them. As he was pulling up and away, the torpedo struck the vessel toward the stern, sending up a geyser
of water. Steve saw the ship’s superstructure tremble as it took the hit. Then there was a second explosion, one that sent
pieces of the deck and cargo flying. The ship began to list, spilling spiraling plumes of oily black smoke.

Those gun crews still at their posts on the crippled ship kept firing as the Jill streaked past, followed closely by Crawford,
who hammered the enemy plane until he’d knocked her out of the sky.

“Got her, Steve!” Crawford yelled triumphantly. “I’m coming around.”

Steve watched Crawford begin to pull up out of the gauntlet of defensive fire, but then a stray machine-gun burst from the
ship sprayed Crawford’s canopy. Crawford must have pulled back on his stick as he was hit. The Jug’s nose lifted up, and then
she stalled, her prop pointing up toward the sun. The Jug hung in the sky for an instant, and then began to tumble. As she
hit the water, she exploded in a cloud of fire and smoke that flared out over the surface of the sea.

“Did he get out?” Williams was yelling, sounding panicked. “Gold! Did you see him get out?”

“He never had the chance,” Steve muttered. “He probably never knew what hit him.”

Below Steve, the last Jap torpedo bomber was coming in to take a crack at the crippled ship. The deck cannon crew and machine
gunners began gamely firing.

Steve struggled to bring his reluctant Jug around in pursuit of the Jill beginning its run.
This one’s for you, Captain. Schoolteacher or not, you had a lot of balls
.