Despite the balmy weather, the barrack was uncomfortable. Small windows provided little ventilation. With perspiration dripping down his back, Preston couldn’t imagine what the conditions were like in the buildings erected on the asphalt parking lot.
“The Nazis used their Nuremberg laws to strip Jews of their citizenship and property and to move them into ghettos,” the man said as he moved his son to his own lap. “Here, my government does the same, but uses the excuse of national security.”
Preston didn’t reply, turned on his heels and walked back into the sunshine to put on his shoes. The MP, standing with his arms crossed, looked amused. “What’s over there?” Preston asked, pointing to a low row of buildings.
“The horse stables,” the MP replied. “The troublemakers are housed there.”
Preston was looking at the rear of the structures. He walked a well beaten path that cut through an opening in the center of the red painted buildings. Preston counted thirty stalls. Half of the rolling doors were open. Toddlers, chased by their older siblings, ran stall to stall. A menu of disparate music coalesced into a cacophony noise. Preston stood in disbelief. The outline of a man resting against the doorway ten stalls away looked familiar. Preston walked toward the compact figure leisurely puffing on a pipe.
“Lieutenant, be careful. That one’s trouble,” the MP warned.
“Tommy Shikiro,” Preston called out. He hadn’t seen the Princeton debating club member and engineering honors student for four years.
Shikiro smiled with his toothy grin. “Preston Swedge or should I say Lieutenant Swedge.” He hopped to attention and gave Preston a comical salute. A plum colored bruise extended from beneath his right eye to the middle of his cheek.
Inching his hand onto the handle of his nightstick, the MP ordered, “Shikiro, have some respect. Lieutenant, he’s one of the organizers of several demonstrations we’ve needed to break up.”
Preston turned to the MP. “I want some privacy with Mr. Shikiro.”
“I’ll wait at the cut through,” the MP snorted as he walked away.
“Ben-son,” Shikiro yelled in an exaggerated Japanese accent. “Fuck you!”
Preston suppressed a laugh. “Still the same old Tommy.” He examined Shikiro’s bruised face. “Slip on a bar of soap?”
“Benson and I had a difference of opinion,” Shikiro said, relighting his pipe. “Come into my humble abode.”
Preston took his place in the doorway. The space intended to house a fourteen hundred pound horse had two beds. Sunshine coming through a barred window spotlighted a vase with a single wilted rose atop an orange crate serving as a night table. A bright yellow dress was hung on a nail. “Wife?”
“Married two years ago,” Shikiro said. “Nancy is at the showers. She should be back any minute.”
“Cozy,” Preston said as he swung at several flies dancing around his head.
“Don’t hurt our pets,” Shikiro quipped. He moved a book on Constitutional law and sat on one of the beds. “Make yourself comfortable. I’d offer you a cup of coffee, but my kitchen appliances are back in L.A.” He re-lit his pipe. “Sent from D.C. to evaluate the Fifth Column threat?”
“Something like that,” Preston said. He remained close to the door. “I thought you were in Massachusetts?”
Shikiro sighed. “I was until I married Nancy. Decided to move back to California to be near our families. I got a job at Boeing. That was back in the day when being Japanese American wasn’t a liability.”
Preston didn’t have an encouraging answer. “I’ll try to get you out of here.”
“Preston, your debating skills were less than mediocre. They haven’t improved. Most of the inmates…”
“Residents,” Preston interrupted.
“As I said,” Shikiro continued, “most of the inmates are being shipped north to Manzanar. A prison camp is still a prison camp, but as Benson said, I’m a troublemaker, and troublemakers are being segregated from the subservient. Nancy and I could be here for the duration.”
“I wasn’t bullshitting about trying to get you and your wife out,” Preston said, extending his hand. “I’ve got to go.”
“The oath of a Princeton man,” Shikiro said as he stood and shook hands. “I forgot to ask, how’s that piece of shit roommate of yours?”
“That piece of shit is learning to be a pilot,” Preston said.
“If there’s a god,” Shikiro said pensively, “the bastard will fly into the side of a mountain.”
Preston laughed. “That would make a lot of Princetonians happy. I’ll be seeing you.” He walked toward the stone-like Benson standing in the cut through. “If I hear that Shikiro is harmed in anyway, you’ll be shoveling shit in Louisiana.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about Lieutenant,” Benson said.
“Take me to DeWitt.”
They returned to the guardhouse. Preston retrieved his leather satchel from Shawn and followed Benson through the jockeys’ locker room to a flight of steps. “To the left are the offices,” Benson said.
“Remember what I said about Shikiro,” Preston said. Benson gave him a halfhearted salute then turned on his heels. Preston took the steps two-at-a-time. He entered the camp’s administration office where twenty bureaucrats tried to maintain essential services.
A strawberry blonde, Lana Turner look-alike manned the reception desk. Her white sweater could’ve been painted on. She raised an eyebrow as she looked at the clock. The lieutenant was due by 11:00 a.m. It was approaching 12:30. “If you’re Lieutenant Swedge,” she said in her best casting couch voice, “go right in.”
Preston checked her left hand for a wedding band, but doubted it would make any difference if she did. The brass nameplate still said “Owen Richardson.” McCloy hinted that Richardson was making five times the yearly net profit for the time that the track was closed. He rapped twice and entered. “Lieutenant Preston Swedge,” he said as he came to attention and saluted.
“You’re an hour and a half late,” General DeWitt fumed.
A bank of glass overlooked a sea of canvas tents setup on the racing oval. Richardson’s desk was moved against the opposite wall to make room for a conference table and six chairs.
Preston took a chair at the opposite end of the table from DeWitt. The general, long past retirement age, made the introductions. Preston didn’t need any. From the files McCoy provided, he recognized Milton Eisenhower, head of the War Relocation Authority and Colonel Karl Bendetsen, who was attached to the staff of Provost Marshal Allen Gullion. Eisenhower bore the striking resemblance to his brother, General Dwight Eisenhower.
The air was thick with cigarette and cigar smoke and burnt coffee. Preston removed a manila folder from his satchel. “Mr. McCloy,” he said, passing three identical letters to Eisenhower who in turn passed them to DeWitt and Bendetsen, “wants this place closed down. The fifteen permanent sites were scheduled for completion three months ago.”
Eisenhower paled. “In his last trip, Mr. McCloy said he understood the obstacles we face.”
Preston placed both hands on the table and leaned forward. “No longer. He’s lost his patience.”
Chapter 22
NEW YORK, NY AUGUST 1943
PENN STATION WAS WALL-TO-WALL with servicemen waiting for trains. Sleeping bodies formed an obstacle course on the waiting area floor. The railroads’ adherence to a timetable had become a joke. As the volume of military people increased, the percentage of trains on schedule decreased in direct proportion. It simply took too long to get the throngs on and off the trains.
For nearly two hours Paul had been waiting with his brother for the train to Chicago where he would change and continue to the state of Washington. On a ten day furlough, the days passed in a blur. Paul hadn’t seen his wife and the rest of the family for nine months. He managed to spend a few days alone with Sarah, who had become more and more despondent by his absence. Paul promised that he would try to bring her to his next base if accommodations p
ermitted. Sarah couldn’t bear the sight of her husband boarding another train and chose to say her goodbyes at home. Rachel stayed with her daughter-in-law to console her.
“Don’t worry about Sarah, she’ll be okay in a few days,’ Jake said. “Ma will get her back to her normal, smiling self. You don’t look so chipper either. What’s biting you?”
“I’m afraid that I’ll wash out of the next phase of training. Dave got me in, but if I stink, there’s not a soul who can keep me there. I don’t know how to fly anything more sophisticated than a single engine cub,” Paul said, moving behind an overflowing garbage bin to get some privacy.
Jake kicked at a candy wrapper on the floor. “What are you worried about? You passed through the elementary and transition schools with top marks. Our problem isn’t with you, but with Cohen. I have my doubts about what he’s made of. His indecision drives me crazy.” He checked the surroundings for prying eyes. Paul followed Jake’s eyes. “You’ve been looking over your shoulder since we got here. What’s going on?”
“I’m becoming paranoid. I have the feeling we’re being watched. I didn’t want to say anything, but it started before the Garden protest.”
“I haven’t seen anyone who might be tailing us. Too much coffee,” Paul joked half-heartedly. “Just because Goodman swung Dave to Langley, doesn’t give him free reign. Besides, he doesn’t curry favor with the brass by being a Jew. Why don’t you stop breaking his balls and give him some credit. He got me into advanced training and managed to get Abramowitz into chief of operations.”
Annoyed, Jake waved his hand in the air. “You don’t know what I had to do to get him to cut your orders. The guy was afraid he was going to get caught. Maybe he just needs a little more time, but for Christ’s sake, it’s almost a year that he’s been at Langley.”
Paul walked to the arrivals board. Nothing had changed in the last hour. “What about Abramowitz? How many times did you want to kill him despite the fact he can smell when something is going to happen? If it weren’t for him, I wouldn’t be waiting a train to the end of the earth.”
Sheldon Abramowitz had picked up a delectable tidbit. A new air force was being created for the Mediterranean Theatre. It would be responsible for strategic bombing from Italy to targets in Poland and surrounding areas. Assembly of new pilots and crews was to commence immediately. The time frame fit perfectly with Paul’s graduation from transition flying school. Abramowitz notified Dave, and Paul’s orders were completed to transfer to the new Fifteenth Air Force.
Traveling across the breadth of the country was a series of detours to sidings waiting for traffic to pass in the opposite direction. For a kid from Brooklyn, the backwater towns were an eye-opener. Outside of the large cities, the rural population was still battling the Depression and towns were clamoring for the training grounds that would bring thousands of troops and needed dollars.
Ephrata, Washington was tailor-made for a military base. Land was cheap and plentiful. The location was remote to spies and saboteurs, and for pilots in training, the probability of causing damage to private property was low. The population had hovered around 1,000 in 1941, doubled with the establishment of Ephrata Army Air Field.
The trainman walking car to car boomed, “Ephrata! Ephrata Air Base!”
Paul silently said a prayer of thanks as three days of shaking starts and fits, and waiting on line for malfunctioning toilet facilities was ending. His back and neck ached. His gut began rumbling crossing the Rockies, something he attributed to eating a ham sandwich outside of Denver. Limiting meals to kosher food ended when he reported to basic training in Mississippi and stuck a fork into a plate of pork and beans after not eating for three days. Eating was vital to life, and the Torah teachings made dispensations for it, but his digestive track still objected.
He put Richard Tregaskis’ Guadalcanal Diary into his duffle. The best seller painted a harrowing picture of heroism in the country’s first victory on the ground against the Japanese. Unable to concentrate, Paul fought to finish two chapters of his purchase in Chicago.
The train shuddered to a halt. With his duffle bag in hand, Paul waited for a young woman to negotiate the aisle. A battered suitcase twisted in one hand as she held an infant to her chest. Paul had watched her for two hours since she got on at Sprague. With each mile, her beaming smile dissipated. The wedding band told a recurring story of a bride following her officer husband, traveling into the unknown. His stomach churned with each step. Maybe it wasn’t the ham sandwich. Washing out of B-17 training would be worse than flunking out of N.Y.U.
Paul stepped onto a platform constructed to receive the ever lengthening troop and supply trains. The old station wasn’t more than a lean-to shed that handled the once-a-week three car train from Spokane. Dirt, blowing off unpaved roads, stung his eyes. Preston tasted the brown film on his lips. All that was missing were tumbleweeds he’d seen in the five cent Saturday matinees.
Before the construction of the air base, Ephrata’s main street consisted of Lou’s All American Bar, Millie’s Family Café, and a no-name barbershop with a red striped pole. The population explosion brought a bowling alley and movie theater.
The woman with the baby stood alone fifty feet from the platform, using her cardigan sweater as a shield against the wind. A Jeep approached. Running a hand through her hair, she found her smile. The Jeep passed, stopping at the far end of the platform. She returned to her suitcase.
Two and a half ton trucks backed up to the train’s cargo containers as a contingent of black enlisted men scrambled to unload supplies for the base. Paul slung the duffle over his shoulder and took a set of wood plank stairs to the street. Unlike former postings where he arrived with other trainees, this time Paul was responsible for arranging his own transportation. The prospect of walking three miles held little appeal. Reporting to the command post on arrival, where billeting arrangements and group assignments would be found, was standard procedure.
A solitary deuce and a half, outfitted with benches in the cargo area, was parked at the end of the platform. Paul closed the distance. A staff sergeant, wearing flight overalls, rested against the rear tailgate as a dozen men loaded their gear and took seats.
Bent over in a fit of laughter, the sergeant snapped to attention. “Any chance you can tell me where I can get a lift to the CP?” Paul asked.
“That be me,” the sergeant said, adjusting his cap. “Hey one of you mugs,” he called to the guys already seated, “take the lieutenant’s bag. Lieutenant, you can ride upfront.”
“Cochrane, take it easy on the way back. I don’t want to spend the war in a hospital recuperating from a broken back like Davis,” one of the enlisted men called out.
The five-five Cochrane spit into the dirt, wiping his hands on his flight overalls. “He shouldn’t have been standing.”
Paul climbed into the cab. The sergeant depressed the clutch and turned the key. After a few choice muted curses and grinding gears, the behemoth moved off. A cloud of dirt trailed the truck as it made its way along three miles of unpaved road. “You cut it close with school starting tomorrow,” Cochrane said with a wink.
A squadron of B-17s approached a runway running parallel to the road. Their landing gears were down. “That’s right sergeant. It starts tomorrow,” Paul said.
“Your competition got in two days ago. The colonel remembers the brown-nosers who get in early and the stragglers who get in at the end,” Cochrane said. “Pilots who end up as navigators and bombardiers ask themselves why me?”
“I bet it’s because they cut it close,” Paul answered.
“That’s the first choice, but wrong,” Cochrane said, looking at Paul. “It’s because they fly like shit.”
Paul laughed. Cochrane took great pleasure in using the same routine with all the rookies. The truck caught a deep rut, dragging it toward a culvert on that side of the road. Cochrane fought to bring the truck back to the center of the road as unhappy passengers in the rear beat on the roof of the cab.<
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“Sergeant, did you learn how to drive in the army?” Paul asked as he held onto the seat.
Cochrane ground the gears as he shifted. “I’m a gunner on a Seventeen. Just doing the guys a favor by giving them a lift.” He was having fun rocking the truck side to side.
The lead B-17 decelerated over the runway, touched the asphalt with its wheels, then powered up and climbed. “They’re practicing touch and go,” Cochrane said. “Looks like fun, but nothings done for nothing. A pilot could save his crew and ship if he learns it right.”
“Amazing machines,” Paul said in awe of the B-17. The Flying Fortress was the next generation heavy bomber that replaced the B-24 Liberator as the main air weapon against Nazi Germany. A B-17 carried a crew of ten, 14 machine guns, 6,000 pounds of bombs, and enough fuel for a maximum range of 2,880 miles.
“You’re pretty…” The roar of the massive four engines powering the B-17s drowned out Cochrane as they flew over the truck.
“Didn’t catch what you were saying,” Paul yelled over the continuing roar.
The last plane in the group passed. “I said you guys are lucky being allowed to fly the prettiest girls in the air,” Cochrane yelled.
The squadron circled the base and prepared to repeat the exercise. Cochrane blew the horn three times as he approached the base’s main gate. Stepping out of a guardhouse, an MP waved the truck through. Cochrane smashed the accelerator, passed the command post, making a hard left turn. Catcalls from the rear of the truck brought a grin to his face.
Cochrane slammed on the breaks as they drew even with the mess hall. He yelled out of the window, “End of the line. Tips would be appreciated.”
A chorus of “Fuck you and your mother” was returned. Cochrane waited for the customary rap on the tailgate to signal everyone was off. He made a series of right turns between the clapboard barracks and returned to the command center. Sticking out his hand, he said, “Sorry I won’t be around to see you get a ship. My group is getting ready to shove off to England.”
House of Ghosts Page 21