Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  We rolled past the north end of a runway, and I recognized the training field at Van Nuys. P-38s were lined up on the west ramp, and a bird landed right over our heads as we passed. Then North Hollywood, Glendale, and Pasadena. As night fell, we headed up Cajon Pass and into the high desert.

  Supper was announced and we lined up in the aisles to wait our turn in the dining car, which was more like a chow hall. That done, we sat for a while before being herded back one car to the berths, where it was two in the lower and one in the upper. Rank prevailed and lieutenants generally didn’t get an upper. It didn’t matter. Sleep came easily with the clickety-clack of the old train as it labored on through the night.

  In the morning we were still in the desert, grinding our way slowly up a steep grade. One of our more creative guys suggested it would be good training to get some practice with our .45s. We filed through the cars to the head of the train, opened the door, dropped the boarding steps, and jumped off into the desert. We stood in a line popping away at cacti and rocks as the train crept past behind us. As the last car approached we jumped back aboard and repeated the exercise. It was on the third iteration that we were stopped by the group CO. He was upset. No, make that irate. How about boiling mad?

  He confiscated the pistols and ammo with the indication that we would hear more about this incident. We wondered what would happen, but soon concluded he couldn’t court-martial half his pilots en route to the war. We resumed the pattern of watching the desert, playing cards, and wondering when we would cross the Colorado River.

  Past Albuquerque and across the Great Plains into the Midwest. On the third day we encountered fresh snow. It was April, but still cold enough for an overnight blanket to fall. At a routine water stop we were allowed off to stretch our legs a bit. That was a mistake. The ensuing snowball fight was remarkable for both size and intensity. We suffered no major casualties and were herded back aboard, red-faced and roaring with laughter as snow melted down our collars.

  Eventually we chugged into Fort Dix, New Jersey. We were assigned to barracks and reunited with our bags. Here we trained for our ocean crossing. We got lectures, training films, and dry-land boat drills. We stood in line for everything: gas masks, infantry helmets, paperwork, and more. Were we ever going to get going?

  On a train again, heading for the Hoboken docks. This was almost déjà vu. I can’t say it was the same one, but we piled onto a ferryboat exactly like the one back on that 1940 summer day when a large number of brand-new plebes-to-be were ferried across from New York City to catch the train to West Point. God, that now seemed so long ago. This time I was going in the other direction, headed to war.

  The ferry docked. We formed ranks, responded to roll call, then marched down the street toward the end of the pier. The baggage seemed lighter, and I remember we all tried to look military in spite of the damned duffels banging against our legs. Someone started singing “Jolly Sixpence,” but it didn’t catch. We turned onto the pier and halted. From the dock, we gazed up at what was the monstrous side of a huge ship. A gangplank slanted upward to an opening. As did all of the guys, when it came my turn I struggled up the gangway with my bag full of dirty laundry, my Class A uniform, shirts, a tie, an extra pair of shoes, socks, and a whole case of Rewco rye whiskey that some enterprising GI had foisted off on the more gullible of us before we left California. (That vile stuff would still be on the top shelf of the closet in the mess at Wattisham when I left England over a year later.)

  We found our cabins and were told to assemble later on the A deck, wherever that was. Eight of us looked at the double-decked bunks squeezed in a cabin obviously meant for two in quieter times. No matter. We grabbed bunks, then headed topside. From the rail, we watched with fascination as the loading continued. The sun was low on the Jersey Heights when the hawsers were finally slipped and the USS Argentina slowly backed out into the Hudson. This was the best I had felt in a long time. I thought now I’d made it. It was really happening. I was on my way. All the training, waiting, and frustration were over. No one could jerk me back to an RTU now.

  As the ship cleared the docks and busy tugs took up position to get her headed down harbor, a band positioned at the end of the pier played marching music … a nice gesture they had probably done routinely every day for the last three years. We got under way and slid outward past Manhattan and Governors Island.

  We crowded the starboard rail as we passed the Statue of Liberty. The lady stood out in sharp profile against the evening sky, saying “Godspeed” to yet another shipload of young Americans headed to war. Several of us solemnly saluted.

  After the initial lifeboat drill with another lecture about life jackets, emergency procedures, and the lot, we made our way to the mess deck for the evening meal. We were to be fed twice a day, and if we missed our appointed turn, that was just too bad. Fair enough. The hardworking cooks and kitchen detail could do no more.

  The following morning was blue sky and open ocean. No land in sight and no other ships around. Suddenly someone shouted and pointed. There, right under our noses, a whale broke the surface and seemed to take forever to arc up and over as his back broke water, and an equally long time for his huge tail to flip skyward in what I fantasized was his wishing us good luck.

  Second morning, like magic, there they were, ships from horizon to horizon, filling the sea in unbroken columns: freighters, tankers, troopships, destroyers, and, like a mother hen, a stately cruiser off our port side. She kept pace with the convoy between us and the flanking column far out on the edge of the sea. We had been a lonely ship last night, when every conceivable source of light on the Argentina had been secured for the blackout. Now here we were, early in the morning, one of an armada plowing slowly northeastward under a cloudless sky. We wondered how in the world the convoy had assembled in the dark, in proper formation, all headed in the same direction, and at the same speed.

  After breakfast, a group of us sat on a cargo hatch on the topmost deck and enjoyed the spectacle. A destroyer came charging up on our port side. All eyes watched as she leaped through the seas like a terrier after a ball, her bow wave sparkling white against the gray of her hull, and her wake gleaming with the speed of her passage. As she passed the Argentina her Aldis light blinked out a rapid code. I noticed Bud Grenning busily taking notes, the bill of his ever-present leather cap pointed skyward and his tongue between his teeth in concentration. We were all trying to read the destroyer’s message with our meager knowledge of the Morse code, and argued good-naturedly about our differing interpretations. Bud continued to scribble. Our squadron armament officer, Teddy Anastos, peered over Bud’s shoulder and tried to read his notes. Turning his back, Bud shielded the pad against Teddy’s curiosity.

  “What’s he saying, Bud?” asked Teddy.

  Bud looked up in all seriousness and said, “I can’t tell you, Ted. It’s top secret. Besides, you really don’t want to know.”

  That got Teddy’s attention in a hurry. Ted was known to be a bit gullible, so we waited while Bud strung him out.

  “Come on, Bud,” he implored. “We’re all in this together. I have a right to know. Whatever happens to one of us happens to all of us. Tell me.”

  “Look, Ted, I shouldn’t do this. Remember all our lectures about keeping a zipped lip? About not starting or listening to rumors? About convoy security? You never know who’s around. Maybe there’s a spy right here on the Argentina with a radio and he’s in touch with the German U-boats waiting for us up ahead.”

  Teddy’s face fell and he twitched with worry. Bud had Teddy hooked. It was all the rest of us could do to keep straight faces. “Bud, you’ve got to tell me. It’s not fair you pilots knowing and I don’t. Maybe there’s something I should be prepared for. Maybe the others in the squadron should know.…”

  “All right Ted, all right, I’ll tell you. But you’ve got to understand this is secret stuff and only the ship’s captain should know. It’s his responsibility and his alone whether or not the rest of us hea
r it. I’m sure he’s got his crew working on the problem already, so there’s no worry. Now, promise you won’t breathe a word of this to anyone outside this group right here. Promise!”

  “I promise,” said Ted solemnly.

  This was too much. Bud had us all hanging on: Ted to hear the awful news, the rest of us to learn what Bud had up his sleeve.

  “OK, Ted, I’ll read the message. I quote, ‘SS Argentina from convoy flag. Urgent. Repeat, urgent. Top secret. Message follows: From transportation command Fort Hamilton. German saboteur apprehended last night. Confession indicates completion of his mission to wire your bilge pumps backward, repeat, backward. You are taking water in, not pumping out. Advise when situation under control and so on.’ Unquote.”

  We looked at Ted. He looked at us. His face was a study in consternation. Someone snickered. We couldn’t hold it. Then all hell broke loose. Old Ted turned out to be a good sport and finally joined in the laughter. But his was a nervous laugh, and I had the distinct impression Ted wasn’t quite sure that it was just a joke.

  Life on board assumed a steady routine. We got used to eating twice a day, and actually looked forward to the random lifeboat drills as a break in the monotony. Some of us were detailed to inspect the enlisted men’s bunk areas and report any problems to the CO. I did so in my turn and found our 434th GIs crammed chest to back in six to eight tiered bunks. The guys seemed philosophical about the crowding, and I wasn’t aware of any unusual bitching. The problem was, they had questions that I couldn’t answer, like “How much longer? Where are we going? What about U-boats?” I don’t know what anyone else said, but I pleaded ignorance. On the other hand, I didn’t tell the CO how selfish I felt comparing the troop’s living conditions to ours.

  The third day out, late in the afternoon at the second meal, a tremendous thud shook the Argentina. We could feel it through our feet, up through our chairs, and into our bodies. It was quickly followed by another, even stronger bang. Most of us jumped up, thinking TORPEDO! Some made a dash for the mess hall doors. All were stopped by a loud shout from the Transportation Corps officer.

  “Calm down, you greenhorns. They’re only depth charges dropped by our escort. There’s nothing to worry about. You’ll get used to it. The ship acts like a drum when you’re below the waterline. It’s all noise. No problem.”

  We sat, feeling sheepish, but everyone thought, Depth charges? Sure. Below the waterline? Oh, yes, everything’s just normal-normal. No problem. What a relief. But I noticed one figure slipping out the door of the mess. It was Teddy Anastos. He reappeared about ten minutes later, wearing his life jacket. None of us said anything, not even later when it was apparent Ted slept in the damned thing.

  About the sixth day out, we noticed that many of our companion ships had disappeared. The convoy had shrunk appreciably, including the number of escort vessels. We reasoned that we were close enough to our destination to have air coverage against the U-boats and would soon see land. Sure enough, later that day, a smudge on the horizon grew into dark green hills, and more seagulls joined the regulars that had followed us for the whole journey. Dark fell before we entered the harbor, and we went to sleep for our last night on board. Rumor told us we were approaching Scotland.

  Just after dawn, the Argentina, aided by tugs, slowly made her way up a narrow inlet from the sea. We eagerly gathered on deck to see what came next. Low hills, brooding lushly green in the early-morning light, lined the waterway. Small villages crowded on the banks, each with a stone pier and moored fishing boats. The river, or inlet, narrowed as we proceeded inland, and I wondered how we could possibly be headed for a major seaport. But then, the channel opened into a harbor filled with anchored vessels of all descriptions. We jumped when our ship’s anchor was released with a tremendous rattle and clank. The entire ship vibrated and rocked. It punctuated the end of our journey.

  Tugs, barges, and lighters busily plied the waters. There was an air of purpose, of hustle, of constant motion, of no-nonsense activity. We could all feel the intensity, as though an epic scene were being enacted in the fast, jerky rhythm of an old silent film. This was so different from the impression I had experienced at dockside in New York that I couldn’t define my reaction. I wondered if my imagination was heightened by excitement or by the knowledge that I was finally someplace where the war had dominated everything for over four years. Even the seagulls seemed caught up in the bustle. One sat on a stanchion close by squawking away as though he were directing traffic. We watched the activity wondering how and when we would be taken ashore. Rumors flew. Someone said we would be the first off because we were needed. Few of us believed that. Someone else said he had heard we would be stuck on board until the last debarkation. Another clairvoyant suggested our base wasn’t ready; it had been bombed. Maybe our new aircraft had been sunk on the way over. None of us believed any of that. The harbor was Gourock. We were in Scotland. All of us believed that.

  Breakfast was served, but I wasn’t hungry—I was too excited. I went below to pack. We had lived out of our B-4 bags for at least a month. I felt like tossing everything out the porthole and starting over again, but of course I couldn’t. There wasn’t much to stuff into my bag, so now all that remained was the old army game of “hurry up and wait.”

  Finally, ship’s loudspeakers squawked out, “479th Group personnel proceed to the main deck. Line up by squadrons. Personal gear hand carried. Debarkation in thirty minutes!”

  We assembled on the main deck. The cargo doors had been opened and a gangplank stretched to a waiting barge. We quickly shuffled across the plank and stood shoulder to shoulder behind the railing, as all the available space below deck was already filled. The barge cast off from the Argentina and we were towed by a tug a short distance across the harbor to a railway dock.

  A train waited, huffing and panting steam in the station building. We had just minutes to form up for roll call, and then we climbed aboard. The coach had an aisle down one side with sliding doors opening into compartments holding about eight people each. We scrambled into one and marveled at how everything was foreign and different from our American trains. The seats were incredibly comfortable; there were even curtains on the windows and little vases with artificial flowers on the wall!

  It didn’t take long to discover the outside compartment windows slid down. We crowded the opening with our heads poking out. Others up and down the length of the train had done the same. We sounded like a bunch of excited kids waiting to leave for summer camp shouting back and forth to one another. Come to think of it, I guess we were. After a shrill whistle, a cloud of steam, and a gentle bump, we were off.

  The train moved smoothly out of the harbor area, passed slowly through a small town, then chugged through the outskirts of what must have been Glasgow. We picked up speed and emerged into the countryside. New impressions crowded my head: There was no clickety-clack from the train wheels (How did they do that?); farms, villages, crossings, streams, old houses, stone walls, manicured pastures, all were so different and wonderful. How neat everything appeared. Each quaint little train station had window boxes and pots full of flowers. There was no litter, no ugliness to be seen anywhere. It was the countryside of Arthur and Camelot, Robin Hood and Sherwood Forest. The dark side of Dickens wasn’t anywhere in sight.

  We had no idea where we were going or how long it would take. The train went on and on through the day. The countryside didn’t change much. With the novelty wearing off, most of us made ourselves as comfortable as possible and dozed. We had some kind of meal, but I don’t remember eating.

  Night fell. Dark doesn’t begin to describe it. Not a light showed anywhere, not from houses, towns, stations we passed through, not from the streets, not from vehicles. This was the British blackout. It brought home the grimmer side of the journey and, as if any of us needed it, reminded us of the reality. Now we were about to be thrust into the reality of what had only been impressions gleaned from Pathé newsreels and the idle chatter of instructor pilots
, who had flown their combat tours in North Africa or the Pacific. All conversation in our railway compartment had ceased. We sat in the dark, each of us deep in thought, aware of our immediate future, and wondering how we would react. Would we face the dangers, the unknown, with courage and resolution? Perhaps some of us were worried, even frightened. In all truth, I wasn’t. I can’t explain why.

  I thought back and tried to recall my feelings leading to this point in my life. I was excited and impatient. I wanted my turn at this war and I wanted it as soon as possible. It had taken us far too long to get here through all the red tape, seemingly foolish regulations, and insensitive and uncaring administrators in a huge war system far too big to care for any individual. Yet I was an individual and I did care. I cared a lot what happened to me. Why the hell did “they” think I went to West Point? To wear that ugly gray uniform with the black stripes on the blouse and trouser legs? To march around the parade ground with feathers sticking up out of the top of an excruciatingly uncomfortable thing called a shako? I really hadn’t minded that part. It went with the territory, though all that pomp wasn’t true military training, and we knew it. What combat training we did get the first two years had to do with shooting rifles and crawling about in the mud, neither of which I had any intention of doing after graduation. I suppose the West Point tactical officers thought we were being well prepared. Well, something must have been right. After all, West Point had been doing things that way since 1802. Look at Grant and Robert E. Lee, to say nothing of MacArthur and Eisenhower!

  I must have fallen asleep, because I awoke with a start when the train stopped. Commands rang through this blackest of all nights. We were hustled out onto what must have been a station platform, told to hang on to the man in front of us, and ordered to step out. My God, it was dark! I had no idea what surrounded us or in which direction we were headed. We stopped only by bumping into the guy in front. I wondered who in hell was leading and how he knew where he was going. In spite of the dark, we found ourselves at the lowered tailgate of a large truck. We clambered up and found a bench running along each side under the canvas top and one running down the middle. I wondered when and if I would ever see that B-4 bag of mine again, but didn’t really care.