by James Young
“Boys will be lucky if they get any bites,” Norah observed. “I’ve probably fished in that river two dozen times as a kid with no luck.”
“There seems to be a story behind why you were fishing as a little girl,” Adam said, drawing narrowed eyes from the young woman.
“When you’re the oldest of five daughters, your Dad often teaches you things he would normally have taught his sons,” Norah said. “Especially when it cuts down on the grocery bill.”
“Wow, that must’ve been a crowded house,” Adam said in awe.
Norah looked at him, a faint smile on her face.
“You sound like an only child, Mr. Haynes,” Norah observed.
“My parents wisely decided I was bad enough on my own, I didn’t need brothers or sisters to corrupt,” Adam said.
Norah laughed politely at Adam’s joke.
Well, fine, I guess it wasn’t all that funny, he thought.
“Well, maybe I should choose another booth to sit at after all,” she said in mock seriousness. “I thought you’d be safer since you were the only man who wasn’t looking at me like they were in the desert and I was the last oasis they’d see for days.”
Adam shrugged self-consciously.
“I guess I was just lucky to have a Mom who made me respect women,” Adam said wistfully. He took a deep breath, the wound still a bit raw. Norah picked up on his discomfort.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to dredge up any bad memories,” she said softly, putting her hand on his. Adam heard a muted comment from the booth two behind his on the other side. He turned and favored the three sailors gawking at Norah and him with a hard look whose intent was very clear. The three men quickly turned back to their acey-deucy game, not liking what they had seen in Adam’s eyes.
“So, where are you heading, Mr. Haynes?” Norah asked, pulling a small, square container out of her purse. “That is, if you can tell me.”
“Please, call me Adam, and we’re headed for the West Coast.”
“We?”
Adam nodded his head to where his flight leaders and their wingmen were busy playing poker in the booth beside them, studiously avoiding looking at their commander and his companion.
“My companions and I,” Adam said, purposefully vague. “And you?”
“Well, since I’m not in the military, I can tell you specifically I’m heading to Seattle to take a job at Bremerton Naval Yard.”
“Really? What do you do?”
“Well, up until a week ago, I was a nurse, but since I double-majored as an artist, I’m going to be doing drawing for the Navy.”
Adam sat back, impressed.
“Surprised that a woman is that adventurous, or that I have a double major in college?” Norah asked, her voice neutral.
Okay, someone has a bit of a chip on her shoulder…probably for good reason, Adam thought.
“Impressed, actually,” Adam responded amicably. “My mother was good friends with one of the few female doctors in New York, so I know a bit about nursing.”
It was Norah’s turn to be surprised, leaning back and crossing her legs. Adam noticed her hand was still on the table, not quite on his anymore but not back in her lap. Looking at her face, he guessed her to be only a couple years younger than him, and he noted that she did not have a wedding band or jewelry of any kind on.
“Well, she must be a truly impressive woman,” Norah
“Yes, she was…she passed away a few months ago,” Adam said quietly. “I never really got a chance to say goodbye.”
Norah brought her hand up to her mouth in shock.
“I’m so sorry,” she said. “I should have realized when you were uncomfortable earlier, but I didn’t realize it was that recent.”
“That’s okay, it’s not like I’m wearing a black band or anything that would give people a clue,” Adam replied, gesturing towards his arm. “She lived a full, wonderful life and was surrounded by people who loved her when she passed away.”
I’ll just leave out the part about her drowning in her own fluid, Adam thought quietly. No cancer is a pleasant way to go, and I’ll take a one way ticket down in a blazing fighter over that any day.
“If I might ask, what were you doing in the Orient? I’ve always wanted to go there, but since the Japanese have started being such barbarians I’ve decided that can be something I do when I’m old and gray.”
“What he was doing was killing said Japanese, or at least, that’s what most people seem to believe,” a voice with a soft Texas drawl said from over Adam’s shoulder. Adam turned around in his seat, recognizing the voice but thinking that he had to be imagining things. One glance told him that he was not, as the person standing by his booth seemingly had everyone’s attention.
“Well, well, that’s a look that’s not on your face that often,” Trevor Fesselier, former Eagle Squadron member, said maliciously. “Why, one would almost think you expected to never see me alive again…of course, as you can see, you weren’t far off.”
Adam felt his stomach churn as he looked at the man standing before him. The man was wearing the uniform of an Army Air Corps captain, and that was the only thing that was well put together about him.
I know Connor caught a raw deal, but Fesslier’s living proof that things could have been worse, Adam thought. Fesslier’s face was horribly disfigured, the overwhelming majority of it disfigured burn tissue to include the misshapen lump of cartilage that passed for his nose. The only clear skin was that around his pale blue eyes, the outline clearly indicating that the man had been wearing goggles when the rest of him was literally put to the torch. His once full head of hair was nothing but several large tufts and patches of pale, thin white material that looked like thin pieces of pasta.
“My God,” someone muttered, then began retching.
“Trevor,” Adam said, nodding slowly, his face emotionless.
“My, my, how civil of you, considering that I wasn’t good enough to fly with the last time you saw me,” Trevor said. “How nice of you to deign to fly with us ‘bloody colonials’ again.”
Adam could feel several of his men’s eyes upon him. Opening his mouth, he was saved by another Army officer coming up behind Trevor. Looking, he recognized the other officer as one Paul Fussner, another former Eagle Squadron member. The man was also wearing an Army Air Corps uniform, but his was decorated with several ribbons, to include the French Cross De Guerre and British Distinguished Flying Cross.
“Captain Fesselier, I thought I made it quite clear that you were not to seek out Mist…Major Haynes,” Fussner snapped, his voice harsh.
“Sir, I was just passing through to the dining car when I saw him…”
“Captain, I am giving you a direct damn order…return to our car immediately, is that clear?!” Fussner barked. Trevor snapped to attention, his scars stretching visibly as his jaw muscles clenched.
“Yes, sir!”
With that, the ruined man moved past Fussner towards the train’s engine, disappearing quickly into the next car. Fussner watched him go, then turned back towards Adam.
“Glad to see you made it out of England okay,” Fussner said quietly, extending his hand. “Heard you were in the Dutch East Indies with your Poles…surprised to see you here.”
Adam took Fussner’s hand, clasping it firmly.
“I had to come back to take care of some family business.”
“Oh. Well, I was heading back towards the dining hall if you care to join me for a soda or something, catch up on what’s happened since London.”
“Be delighted,” Adam said, standing up. He turned towards Norah.
“Save my seat?” he asked, surprised to see the woman completely unshaken.
“Actually, I think a soda would seem quite nice right now,” she replied, gathering her things. “It’s not often I get to meet a man who apparently inspires great emotion in others.”
Adam didn’t quite know how to take that, but stepped aside to let Norah pass in front of him. Feeling a
presence at his back, he turned to see Captains West and Burke filling the aisle behind him.
“I take it you guys are suddenly thirsty also?” Adam asked quietly. The two men looked at him, not knowing what to say.
“Fine, your sodas are on me. Let’s go.”
Five minutes later, after introductions were made all around, Adam turned to Fussner.
“Okay, so tell me just how Trevor makes it out of a blazing Hurricane in less than four thousand feet,” Adam said. “Because that’s the last I saw of him.”
“Uh, sir, not to interrupt, but could we start a little further back?” Captain West asked. “Because I know myself and the rest of the squadron have been curious since the first day we met Major Haynes.”
Fussner laughed as Adam gave West a baleful gaze.
“He’s got you there, Major Haynes,” Norah chimed in. “Especially since the only hurricanes I know of happen off Florida, occasionally New York.”
Adam shook his head, exhaling slowly.
“I arrived in England just after the Brits beat the Krauts the first time,” Adam started. “Let me tell you, that was a great time to be a fighter pilot.”
“I’ll bet,” Norah observed, narrowing her eyes at his tone.
Okay, not the best foot to start off on, Adam thought. She’s apparently more worldly than I thought.
“Not that Adam would know, seeing as how he never left Biggin Hill,” Fussner chimed in. Norah gave both Adam and him a skeptical look.
“No, seriously, I am telling the truth,” Fussner said, holding up his hands. “He got so bad into asking questions that the station chief started to think he was a spy.”
“I was just a little focused,” Adam admitted sheepishly. “After Spain, I had a bit of a grudge…”
“Spain?!” West and Burke asked simultaneously. “As in, the Spanish Civil War?”
Fussner looked at Adam a bit amused.
“Yes, your squadron leader’s gotten around quite a bit. Bet he didn’t tell you that he had a price on his head either.”
“What?!” Norah, West, and Burke asked simultaneously.
“You’re getting ahead of the story,” Adam snapped, glaring at Fussner.
“Okay, this is already getting a bit hard for this Kansas girl to understand,” Norah said. She reached in her purse and pulled out a case. Opening it, she pulled out a stick of chewing gum then offered pieces all around. Getting no takers, she put the gum back into her purse.
“Most women keep cigarettes in a case like that,” Adam observed.
“They stink, and they make your teeth look funny,” Norah replied. “I can’t think of a good reason to smoke, and that’s enough bad ones right there for me not to. But we’re not talking about me, are we Mr. ‘Price on His Head’?”
Adam gave Fussner another glare, then continued.
“The reason I was with the Poles was I had the good fortune to run into the former British military attache to Spain,” Adam said simply.
“Damn sir, just how old are you?” West asked, then realized he may have overstepped himself. “I mean, Spain started a while back.”
“I started flying early, Captain West,” Adam said. “It helps to be young and idealistic when going off to war, especially one as chaotic as Spain. I’ll be twenty-nine in June.”
“How many kills did you have in Spain, anyway?” Fussner asked. “Just wondering, as all the sudden it becomes crystal clear why you did so well over Britain.”
“Six confirmed, two probable,” Adam said quietly. “I got out of there just as the Condor Legion was starting to make it really dangerous to be a Republican pilot.”
“So, you weren’t just spouting from the hip when you came in that first day,” Burke said in quiet amazement.
“I am not a pretentious man, as Major Fussner can attest to,” Adam said.
“Ain’t that the truth,” Fussner said. “Most men would have mentioned that he has a total of twenty-one kills if you add the ones in Spain. More if those rumors about you in the Dutch East Indies are true.”
“Twenty-five at last count,” Adam continued, starting to blush.
“Holy sh…crap,” West said, mindful of their female companion. “You’re only one behind Rickenbacker.”
“Problem is, our government probably won’t recognize most of those kills since he was technically a mercenary for several of them,” Fussner said.
“What’s more incredible is that he had fifteen kills during the Second Battle,” Burke observed. “Everything I’ve read said that the Germans gained control of the air in the first two months.”
“Not quite,” Adam said. “Since the Eagles weren’t expected to get into action until after 1 January, and I was obviously a man of prior experience, the RAF decided for some odd reason to billet me with the Poles.”
“The Poles?” Burke asked.
“No. 303 squadron, moved up to Biggin Hill just after I arrived. Actually, I guess it was because I was fluent in French, which some of the Poles spoke.”
“They didn’t speak English?!” Norah asked. “How odd.”
“Well, let me tell you, there was nothing wrong with their fighting spirit,” Adam said. “I don’t know how the Germans rolled that country as quick as they did if all of them were that crazy.”
“Russians stabbed them in the back,” Fussner observed.
“Anyway, I had barely been there two months when Bomber Command up and killed Hitler,” Adam stated. “Bad move, that.”
“Ah, but no one knew that at the time,” Fussner said. “Of course, the British were quick to jump on the idea of a truce when Himmler offered one.”
“Churchill tried to warn people the Germans weren’t happy about Adolph getting killed,” Adam said. “Should have known better when we found out Goering committed suicide. Supposedly.”
“You had to admit, the only thing the Brits could do was fly some cross-Channel missions in order to get pilots,” Fussner said. “Not one of Sholto Douglas’s brighter ideas, God rest his soul.”
“As far as I’m concerned, I hope the man’s rotting in Hell along with Leigh-Mallory,” Adam responded, getting a shocked look from Fussner. “That ‘experience’ was not worth it, especially come Spring ’42.”
“We’ll just have to agree to disagree on that one,” Fussner replied, waving his hand dismissively. “Regardless, it was during this time that Major Haynes and I first met. A contingent of us Eagles had heard about some crazy American flying with the Poles and figured we’d ask him to come join us.”
“Of course, you guys were flying Hurricanes, so the answer was most certainly not,” Adam replied, snorting in derision.
“The Hurricane is a type of British fighter,” Fussner said, suddenly remembering that Norah didn’t know what they were talking about.
“What were you flying?” Norah asked, turning to Adam.
“Spitfires,” Adam replied.
“A Hurricane is a bit…” Fussner began.
Adam snorted at that.
“…slower than a Spitfire, but it could take more punishment,” Fussner concluded. “It was also a steadier gun platform.”
“You generally tried to avoid German fighters in a Hurricane,” Adam said. “Of course, that’s sorta hard to do when they’re all faster than you.”
“So is that the only reason you didn’t join the Americans, sir?” Burke asked, sensing something else in Adam’s tone. Fussner and Adam gave each other a short look, Adam glancing away uncomfortably.
“No, that’s not the only reason,” Fussner said finally. “But I’m not going to do Major Haynes’s talking for him.”
“Anyway, back to the original topic,” Adam said. “Trevor.”
“Yes, Trevor…well, gents, the Germans kicked off their big offensive in March,” Fussner said. “I wasn’t around for the First Battle, but what veterans there were told us the Second Battle of Britain started off worse than its predecessor was at its peak…and then it got really bad.”
“We
were all introduced to the Focke-Wulf 190, a.k.a. the ‘Butcher Bird’,” Adam said. “That and Me-109s with extended fuel tanks.”
“Yeah, that was an unfortunate shock,” Fussner said. “The intelligence boffins didn’t want to believe us on either one, not until they started dumping their tanks over shore on their way inland and someone shot one of the damn 190s down almost right on top of Fighter Command HQ.”
“But by that time things were already heading into the crapper,” Adam followed up, holding his soda as he saw the events in his mind’s eye. “Next thing you know, we can’t even fly off of any Fighter Command airfields in southern England without a good chance of meeting Luftwaffe before our wheels are up.”
“So we were forced to disperse, which is when we saw Adam again,” Fussner said.
“We were scrambled out of Eastchurch, one flight of Spitfires and two of Hurricanes,” Adam started, his jaw clenched. “For once we got the altitude advantage on the Germans, catching them as they were descending to strafe the field.”
“Quite a dustup,” Fussner said. “That’s where Trevor got clobbered, and I nearly got killed myself if not for Adam.”
“I never saw those Messerschmitts before they were all over you guys,” Adam said sadly. “If it gives Trevor any solace, the bastard who got him is no longer with us.”
“I don’t think it will. It’s his own damn fault for not flying with a damn flame hood under his helmet,” Fussner said quietly. “His Hurricane landed in a sheep pond, which is why he’s still alive.”
“Jesus,” Adam said. “Why was he flying one of the ones without self-sealing tanks anyway?”
“What are self-sealing tanks?” Norah asked Adam. “That seems a bit abnormal for putting fuel into.”
“Self-sealing tanks are lined with vulcanized rubber,” Adam said. “When they get penetrated, the rubber seals the hole, keeping the fuel from streaming out and turning the plane into a torch. It has nothing to do with how the fuel goes in.”
“The Hurricane has a fuel tank in front of the pilot,” Fussner said, seeing Norah starting to understand. “During the Battles of France and Britain, after many, many pilots were getting burned to death in their cockpits, the RAF supposedly modified all the existing Hurricanes to keep that tank from going up like a torch.”