by M. L. Maki
Spike steps up to the mic to deafening cheers. She waits, smiling. “Thank you. The free world owes you all a debt of gratitude. What we were doing was so hard. We were desperate for parts. We were running out of aircraft. We were running out of aircrew. Then, the Germans invaded. The air attacks increased. The German pilots got better every single day.
“Then the jets you made arrived. They were ready to fight. They flew their first combat sorties within twenty minutes of landing. We were that desperate.” She pauses to regain her composure. The workers look up at her, smiling. “You saved our lives. All of us. You saved our lives. Thank you is entirely inadequate to express how we feel. To speak about what you have achieved…I hope the world recognizes what you did here. Your effort saved us and saved England. For our very lives we say ‘thank you.’”
The men and women of Grumman are silent, then they cheer and applaud, smiling up at her. Looking down at them, Spike’s eyes open wide as she recognizes someone. She nods to her comrades then jumps off the platform into the crowd. She shakes hands, speaking with them. When she reaches Commander Mike ‘Too Tall’ Mohr, he salutes her. She returns it. “How are you, Mike?”
“I’m fine.” He looks into her eyes, “I’m fine. Really. You can stop worrying. Okay?”
Sam smiles, “Just wanted to be sure. So, what are you doing here?”
“Testing birds so I can stand up my EA squadron. There’s someone I want you to meet.”
A short brown-haired woman walks out from behind Mohr, “Ensign Sandy McRae, ma’am.”
Sam smiles, “It’s a pleasure to meet you. So, you’re working for this galoot?”
“I am.”
“Listen to what he says. He saved my life a dozen times. He’ll save yours, too.” She looks up to Mohr, “Take care. I’ll see you later.” She continues through the crowd, talking and shaking hands.
NAVAL INTELLIGENCE, WASHINGTON, DC
1610, 24 November, 1942
LCDR Chris Hisakowa goes over the photos taken by Swede’s recon flight nearly a year ago. “These three are the dry docks where they’re building the missile submarines. Two in each dock. I’m absolutely certain.”
“Good.”
“This dry dock has a new aircraft carrier. I used some rough math. It’s over nine hundred feet, and not more than eleven hundred feet long. Width is at least two hundred feet. It has an angle deck and what seem like cross deck pennants. They’re building a carrier for jets.”
“Only one?”
“Two. One is fitting out at this pier. There could be construction elsewhere, but that’s what’s in Tokyo Bay.”
“Did you ask?”
Chris looks at the man, “You’re supposed to be an intelligence officer. What would you do if some stranger who looks like a common fisherman asks questions about an obvious classified program?”
“I see. I would detain him.”
“Right. In Japan that detainment would involve torture techniques that would surprise even the Germans. I, Asahi, and my wife would never have been seen again and you would not have this very useful intelligence. It would have died with us.”
“Okay. Okay. I get it. Sorry. Is there anything else?”
“I’m only getting started. I rarely saw more than two jets in the air at one time. They seem to be conserving fuel. That, and it speaks poorly of their training.”
PATUXENT RIVER NAS
1400, 25 November, 1942
Spike walks around her jet on the flight line. The sun is out and lighting up her bird. She smiles. ADCS Robert ‘Bobby’ Geller stands proudly at its nose. She places her hand on the hundred and fifteen flags and takes a deep breath. “She looks flawless, Bobby. Good job.”
“Boss, who will be your RIO?”
“Cooper. If he struggles with the Gs, I’ll pick someone else.” She looks back at Cooper at the hanger door, “I’m so glad you managed to join this circus. I don’t think I could deal with this mess without you.”
Cooper, “All you need to do is let me handle things and teach me what to do in the backseat. I’ve got this.”
“You’ve got what?” Major Pettigrew walks up. The enlisted sailors salute and he returns it. “I’m your escort for the tour, Commander. I’ll be handling the logistics.”
“Did you forget something, Major?”
“Oh, yes, ma’am. I’m used to dealing with civilians.” He salutes and she returns it.
Spike, “Better. Now, what were you saying about logistics?”
“I take care of the trains, planes, vehicles, etc. It’s part of my job, that, and the lodging and being liaison with the different venues.”
“That’s fine. You set up the venues, the hotels, and the transportation to and from the airfields. All the logistics involving my baby,” she pats her jet, “will be handled by my yeoman. See that C-130 on the tarmac? That will be transporting all of us and the equipment for maintaining my bird. We’ll also be handling security for the jet when it’s parked. Making sure all of this works is Chief Cooper’s job. He’s my yeoman, and my back seater.”
Pettigrew frowns, “But, how am I getting between venues? I’m not supposed to leave your side.”
“In the C-130, that’s how. I’ll do the air show, weather permitting, and land center stage. My Marines will guard the jet while people are allowed to view it. I address the crowd at the airfield. Then, you’re supposed to get me to town and give me a place to change out of my flight suit. Then you make sure I, and my people, have a place to stay and eat.” She looks at him, “Didn’t you read your instructions?”
Chagrined, Pettigrew answers, “No. I thought it was the usual stuff. I have that down cold.”
“If you’re going to work with me and my people, you’ll have to do better than that. I expect things to be done efficiently and professionally. Is that clear?”
Pettigrew’s jaw drops. He recovers and says, “Hey, I’m supposed to be in charge. Not you. You’re just the talent.”
Cooper snorts and Geller guffaws. Spike smiles, “Really? No, I’m in charge. Do your job and we’ll get along fine. You don’t know anything about the care and feeding of high-performance aircraft. Don’t pretend that you do. Chief Cooper is in charge of all naval logistics. Do you understand?”
“But he’s enlisted.”
“Yes, and so? He knows more than you do, trust me. He’s been my yeoman for a long time. He knows what needs to be done. I trust him with my life.”
“I see. We’ll be traveling with several movie stars. Will they travel in the C-130, too?”
Spike turns to Cooper, “Do we have the room?”
“Yes, ma’am, as long as they don’t bring a huge stack of luggage.”
She turns back to Pettigrew, “As I said, coordinate with Chief Cooper.” Spike turns back to her bird and watches a technician painting Cooper’s name on the fuselage. “Very nice. Thank you.” She turns back to the men, “Gentlemen, I need to sort out my uniforms. Cooper, can I have a word?” She walks away. Cooper catches up, “I’ll be spending the night at Admiral Lee’s. Where is the aircrew for the Herkie bird?”
“They needed to pack up. Is it okay to meet with them tomorrow, or do you want to see them tonight?”
“Just a sec,” She walks to a phone in the hanger, “Hi Ashley. I need to meet the pilots of my C-130. So, I’ll be having dinner here at the O-club. Okay?”
“No problem, dear. Have fun.”
“Thank you. See you tonight some time.” She turns back to Cooper. “Tell them to meet me at the O-club at five. Informal uniform.”
“Got it.”
“Thank you. Will there be room for a vehicle?”
“I’ve a Navy Chevy Suburban lined up. It’s a six passenger.”
“Okay. I’d love to bring my Packard, but it would likely violate a dozen laws.”
“Yeah, probably. I got the truck for moving security and ground crews. Major Pain-in-butt is supposed to move you.”
“Roger that. Where are my Marines?”
“They’re on the range qualifying the new ground crew.”
“Perfect. I’ll meet them tomorrow. Take care, Cooper. Thanks for volunteering for this.”
“Spike, I’m your batman. It’s my plan to follow you for your entire career.”
She stops and looks at him. After a moment, she nods, “Thank you. I would like that.”
“One other thing, Spike. We’re the Blue Angels, so, I’ve authorized, in your name, blue flight suits and flight line gear for everyone.”
Spike smiles, “You think of everything. I just want the jacket. Thank you, Radar.”
NAS MIRAMAR, NORTH OF SAN DIEGO
1320, 25 November, 1942
Gloria flares her new jet and kisses the runway. She applies the brakes, “We’re in Hanger 2.” As they taxi to the hanger, she asks, “Have you heard from William?”
“Yeah. He’s okay. A change of subject. I think we should find Buford and talk to him.”
“What are you thinking?”
“Well, Spike is coming to San Diego in a few weeks. We should scheme to get them together.”
“I like the idea, but I don’t want to meddle. It’s their life.”
“Yeah, but big Navy will crush them. That’s why I want to talk to him. I have a plan.”
“Okay. Let’s talk it through with our co-conspirators over a beer after work. Thud will be landing in a bit, and we’ve new air crew to meet.”
CHAPTER 23
OFFICER’S CLUB, NAS PATUXENT RIVER
1650, 25 NOVEMBER, 1942
Spike, in her khakis, walks into the club. A steward seats her as if she was made of porcelain. She smiles, “Thank you. Coffee, please. I’m waiting for two junior officers. I’ll order when they arrive.”
“Yes, Commander.”
A lieutenant and an ensign walk in wearing their full-dress blues. Spike smiles, watching the steward guide them to her table. She stands and shakes their hands, “Didn’t Cooper tell you it was informal?”
“Ma’am, I’m Barbara Wright and this is my co-pilot, Patricia Lord. Chief Cooper did tell us, but, ma’am, we’re reporting to our commander.”
“Relax. I don’t bite. Do either of you have call signs?”
Wright, “No, ma’am. We’re just trash haulers.”
Spike sighs, “Everyone associated with naval aviation gets a call sign. Even my yeoman. We’ll sort it out.” The steward brings her coffee and takes their order. “Where are you two from?”
Wright, “Los Angeles, California, ma’am.”
Lord, “Miami, Florida, ma’am.”
Spike sips her coffee. “Thank you. A request. Please, do not call me ma’am. I prefer Spike, Hunt, Boss, anything but ma’am.”
Wright grins, “Yes, ma’am.”
Spike smiles at her, “Besides the ‘130, what have you flown?”
Wright, “C-47, B-25, B-17, PT-22 Ryan, AT-21 Gunner, and I own a Jenny.”
“Wow. Ensign?”
“The same, except I’ve also flown the Avian, and I don’t own my own plane.”
“Are either of you married?”
Both of them nod. Wright, “I’m sorry we didn’t greet you when you arrived.”
“Relax, I don’t run that kind of ship. I should go over my expectations. First, and most important, keep me informed. Bad news is best delivered fresh. If you need to interrupt me in a meeting because you think something is time sensitive, please do so. Otherwise, notify me as soon as possible. My yeoman, Chief Cooper, is a huge asset there. He knows when it’s appropriate to interrupt my work or sleep. You will be hauling precious cargo. You’ll have my ground crew. You’ll also have some movie stars and their things. I care about them, too. Do not take chances. Do not show off trying to impress me with your skills. Good judgement impresses me a lot more than technical expertise. Lieutenant, you’ll be my XO. We’re not tyrants to the ground crew. Trust Senior Chief Geller. He came back with me on the Vinson, as did Cooper. We’ve worked together for a long time. Also, because we are putting on a show, I will require excellent hygiene and uniform appearance. Questions?”
Wright, “Ma’am, what is our aircraft call sign?”
“The Blue Angels. It was the fighter demonstration team in my time. They had an amazing history. Their C-130 was called Fat Albert. I think we’ll stick with that.”
Lord, “No number?”
“You’re the only Fat Albert. A number is unnecessary. My call sign will be Blue Angel 1.”
Wright, “But, you’re the only Angel.”
“Yes, but I’m also in charge. May I call you Barbara? Or is it Barb?”
“Either works, Spike. Ma’am.”
“Can you live with the call sign ‘Hook?’”
Barbara smiles, “Hook is fine, ma’…Spike.”
Sam smiles, “Now, Ensign, it would be too easy to play on your last name.”
“Commander, please don’t. My husband is really sensitive about his name.”
“Okay. Do you prefer Patty or Trisha?”
“Patty.”
“Then I’ll call you ‘Irish.’”
Patty grins, “My maiden name is O’Reilly.”
NAVY RECRUITING CENTER, SAN DIEGO
1600, 25 November, 1942
Abigail Jackson, wearing a conservative skirt suit, walks into the center. A first-class petty officer asks, “May I help you, miss?”
“Yes. I’m here to apply for a commission in US Navy aviation.”
He pulls a form out of his desk drawer, “Your name?”
“Abigail Jackson.”
“College degree, pilot’s license, and months of experience?”
She hands him her Australian pilot’s license, “University of Melbourne and twelve years as a pilot.”
He looks at her license and back up to her, “This is Australian. Are you a naturalized American?”
“I still need to be naturalized. I’m married to a US Naval officer.”
“May I ask who?”
“Commander Frank Jackson, commander of the White Knights.”
“Does he know you’re joining?”
“He’s waiting in the car. I have letters of recommendation.” She hands over her letters.
He reads the top one from Commander Hunt, then quickly checks the signatures on the others. “Okay, we have some paperwork to fill out. This will take a little while. If you want, invite Commander Jackson in.”
HANGER, NAS PATUXENT RIVER
0700, 26 November, 1942
Spike, wearing her flight suit, walks in front of the formation; eight Marines led by Staff Sergeant Jargon and the eighteen members of the mixed repair division led by Senior Chief Geller. In the maintenance crew are Duck and Sass, both second classes, seasoned mechanics, and warriors. Lined up next to them are the C-130 pilots and cargo masters. “Today is Thanksgiving. We don’t have the time to not train today. I’ve been assured that the galley has something special for us. So, let’s get to it. I’m pretty sure you all know who I am. When we’re done today, I want to get to know all of you.
“I’m quite aware this a pick-up unit. The Navy chose to keep my bird in Black Knights livery. But we are the Blue Angels. To most of you, that means nothing. When we are done here, it will mean a great deal. In my history, the Blue Angels were the navy fighter demonstration team. They were the absolute pinnacle of excellence. Their uniform appearance was always exceptional. Their conduct was always exceptional. Down through history, we’ll be known as the creators of that tradition and expertise. A hundred years from now, the Blue Angels will be wowing crowds because we wowed crowds. I promise that I will give you my very best. I am confident that each of you will do the same.
“Chief Cooper has ordered new flight suits and jackets for us. They will distinguish us as we work the audiences. We need to choreograph all of it. That is what the Blue Angels do. We also need to keep it simple. We don’t have six months to work out complex movements. This includes the Marines. Staff Sergeant, we haven’t talked yet. I had a Mar-
Det at my last command. We got along very well. As you’ll be guarding the birds on the ground, what rotation do you have in mind?”
The SSGT snaps to attention, “Two Marines on watch. Two on standby. Four-hour watches, Commander.”
“How will you be armed?”
“Rifles and side arms, Commander.”
“That works for me. Can you make a show of setting and turning over the watch?”
“Yes, Commander.”
“Good. We’ll work on it today and tomorrow. Some of it might feel stupid at first. But, if we get it right, people will be impressed. Now, only our people and approved ground personnel are allowed to approach closely to the birds. During the show and tell part of this, we need to figure out how close is close enough for the general public. After the show, we’ll push the boundary out.
“Marines, yours is not an easy job. I depend on you to protect the birds, but we cannot have you scaring the shit out of the public. Staff Sergeant, we’ll discuss this further after we’re done here. The rest of you will need to use an access point and present ID to the Marines when you approach the birds. I know it’s a pain in the ass, but it’s also necessary. As much as possible, we’ll keep the birds together. That will make security, and repairs easier. Questions?”
Geller raises his hand, “Will Ensign Lord be our division officer?”
“Good question, and yes. Irish, Senior Chief Geller taught me a great deal. He can teach you, too. Hook, your cargo masters will be rolled into the composite division as well. Also, everyone, Lieutenant Wright is my XO. She has my full trust and confidence.”
Duck raises his hand.
“Yes, Newburg?”
“Can we still wear the crown device with our dress uniform?”
Spike smiles, “You earned it as a Black Knight and it’s yours forever.”
“Any more questions?” She waits a beat, “Okay, let’s start the drill. Later today, we’ll do a series of test hops. For the first hop, Cooper will fly my back seat. Chief, has he completed the aviation safety training?”
“He has, Spike. Any chance we could rotate the back seat while we are practicing?”
“Sure. Draw names from a hat, maybe? You and Sergeant Jargon sort it out. Each person has to be trained in aviation safety. For the shows, Cooper will be my back seat. All other hops, we can rotate. In this month, I doubt everyone will get a ride. Sorry. Now, we learn how to make the ground part of this sharp. Let’s get started.”