The pilots came back out to the line, some still chomping down toast or slurping coffee. They looked very young and cocky, much like motorcycle racers I had covered in the past. Those dirt and board track racers had been a ballsy lot. They had to have been. Those bikes didn’t even have brakes, just a kill switch on the magnetos to shut the engines off to slow down. “If it don’t make it go faster, chop it the fuck off,” had been their motto. These guys and girls were laughing, playing grab-ass, generally being punk kids. Like Billy the Kid, or young mobsters. Killers. Ready to die or to kill. No difference. Assholes, but useful assholes.
They didn’t have long to wait. An officer, a mere captain, came out with more clipboards, maps and orders, gave them a very short talking-to, they loaded up, the props were thrown, off they buzzed, headed east.
>>>>>>>
Almost as soon as they were gone, the heavies showed up. A flight, four flights of five Fives, twenty in all. They didn’t buzz, they thundered. And once they landed and taxied to the side, I could see that the lower wing connecting the two fuselages was bristling with armament. Three machine guns, two, count them two, 37mm cannon and an over-sized bundle of those new rockets. I saw my drinking buddies from last night, Bets and Chasbo and Prudence and the others, all in their best flying togs, at ease, but drooling almost visibly. I was laughing at them when Major Walker appeared like a genie, walked up and said, “Kapusta, your records show you are qualified as Co-pilot on Trimotors, and indeed instigated the creation of the Gunships.”
I was too chicken shit to scream and run, like a sane person would have, so I just said, “Yes, sir. That is correct.”
“I doubt we have flying gear to fit you. I can have a side-hack run you back to your car, if you have heavier clothes. You will need more film, too, with luck.”
I slapped my pockets. “I have five rolls with me, sir. Will that do?”
“Probably. Come with me.” We walked over to the Control Tower, Walker gathered up the seven pilots with a gesture. A Colonel came down the ladder out of the closest Five to meet us. “Colonel Collins. Here are eight co-pilots. These seven…” He gestured, “Are yours to keep. Major Kapusta here is a War Correspondent, and qualified Co-pilot on Trimotors. Do try to bring him back in one piece, more or less.”
Collins was a sandy little guy, typical pilot type. “I might singe him a little around the edges, but I’ll do my best.” He turned toward us, bright blue eyes classifying us in a single sweep. “Okay. You Transport guys are now in the Zepp Busters. You have one chance to chicken out. That chance is now over. Mount up. Kapusta, come with me. We have enough fuel for this familiarization flight.” He didn’t have to say “move.” We moved.
There was a little delay while other co-pilots were bumped and sent to BOQ, and with no more fuss than that, we were airborne. The cockpit was the same, the only difference was more gauges and two more throttles between the two seats. Collins was a laconic sort, gave me no guidance, but no shit either. Fuck it. I’m supposed to be qualified, right? He just looked me over, said, “All you do is get us back if I get hurt. This switch transfers control of the armament to you.” He touched a big red switch on the overhead. “The left button on the center spoke of the wheel is the rockets, they all go at once, the one on the right is the guns. You flip up the red cover with your thumb, and press the button. That key in the center of the dash arms the rocket. I will arm it, as soon as we are in enemy airspace. Clear?”
“Clear.”
We kept climbing in a mile-wide spiral, at some point Collins said, “We are not supposed to go over twelve thousand feet, it gets hard to breathe. The Zepps go up to sixteen, even twenty, but maybe we will get lucky.” He reached over and turned the key to arm the rocket. In business now.
We didn’t get lucky, no gasbags in sight. But after an hour of aimless circling, we saw something below us, a triple vee of those big Gotha bombers, heading to Kindersley to fuck us up a little more. Fifteen targets. Collins waggled his wings, and laid that big bitch over in a near-vertical dive, that had me worrying if the wings were going to come right off.
They never saw us coming. Fifteen planes, and all of them were looking down for Curtiss Pursuits. We pounced the living shit out of them, and never fired one rocket. Twenty of us, fifteen of them, and it was over in less time that it takes to write about it. The Gothas just disintegrated in the streams of 37mm shells. One of the Fives behind us must have detonated a bomb, a big one on one of the Gothas. I couldn’t see anything behind us, we didn’t have a top gunner, but we sure heard it. I had burned up a roll of film, ratcheting that little lever as fast as I could, then tried to set a world record for changing film. Obviously, this son of a bitch Collins was nobody to waste a breath on photogs.
Collins just led us down and down to where we could see the battle line on Route 7. It had spread out for miles across the fields, but we could easily see where the dark blue of Pacifica ran into the field gray of the Germans. Collins led us right down the road, right into the thick of them, leveled out a little, pushed the magic button.
There was a little delay, I didn’t know if it was engineered in or not, but the rockets took a few seconds to all fire, which just spread the destruction down the road a more. Collins didn’t stay to shake hands, he swooped up and around, and headed back to the barn. I didn’t even have time to flinch, I just shot that roll almost blind. If something came out, fine. Shit was flying everywhere, and I had been to this movie before. I had almost been blinded once when some piece of crap busted the windshield and baptized me with broken glass. Fuck that noise. Collins did not bother coming back to the road, he just screwed for home, but he had turned right, so I had a good view of the shit-storm we had laid on that road, past the nose of the right-hand fuselage. A mess. The last of the twenty Fives was working Route 7 over as we fled, and it was a sight. Black smoke and red flames everywhere, secondary explosions as shit cooked off, soldiers hadn’t even had time to jump out and run for it yet, you could see doors pop open and men flailing their arms in pain.
Collins swept wide, then made another right bank to come back over the highway and strafe them again. That was how my first wife had been killed, going back for one more pass, I wanted to yell at him, but I restrained myself. A second later and I wished I hadn’t. Something, an ammo truck, exploded in our faces, the world turned black with lumps in it for a split second, which is a very long time in cases like that. Something came through his side of the windshield and pinned him to his seat. He screamed, “Take over!” and slumped down. I couldn’t spare more than a quick glance, suddenly I was flying this big bitch. Our shoulders were almost touching, but he might as well have been in China for all the help I could give him.
I hauled back on the wheel, the throttles were already wide open and held it until the Five got that logy feeling that told me I was going to stall. I only had eyes for the airspeed indicator dial. Then I leveled out a bit, watched the airspeed start to climb, banked around until the compass said due west, and went for that. I could take a quick look at Collins, he was out cold or dead, a big spike of something black kept him sort of upright, but that was all he had.
I didn’t have rear view mirrors, I had no idea if anybody was following me, I had only a vague idea where I was, and the air was getting thick with AA bursts. I didn’t even know if they were ours or theirs, and could care less. All I cared about was that I had never landed even a regular Trimotor, and this was a lot bigger. I did reach up and flick the red switch that gave my wheel control of the guns, if I needed them I would have no time to fuck with it. But the air was clear of krauts. I kept going west, aimed a little north, hoping for Route Seven. Damn. There it was, full of flames and smoke from the battle. I just climbed a little more, stuck a “I’m harmless” look on the front of the Five, and kept going. They didn’t believe me, but I was too busy to care.
There was a clipboard full of maps, but I needed another hand to look at them. The Five was dragging to the left, needed a constant corr
ection on the wheel to keep it straight. I finally looked at the tachs, and the left engine, Number One, was dead. I should have figured that out already. The Tris had the gauges on the engines, but Fives had them on the dashboard. I pulled the throttle for Number Five all the way back, and it got easier to keep straight. We lost a little speed and therefore altitude, but fuck it. I wanted to go down, not up. But I wanted to do it some place where I would not mow down a couple hundred soldiers if I could manage that little detail.
Just as I was getting really sweaty, another Five roared overhead, so close I felt his prop-wash jostle my plane. He fell into line in front of me, waggled his wings, and sped up to leave me in clean air. Thanks, buddy. He dropped speed a little more, I did the same, remembered to shut the fuel off to the two shut-down engines, and relaxed a little. He led me right to the field, dropped a red flare, and led me to the right approach path. I tried to remember what I had learned landing single engine planes, shut the fuel off to the bastard bellowing at my feet on the other side of the firewall, and kept the nose up as I settled in down the runway. I should have not shut off Number Three, and I should have kept the nose level, but fuck it. That big bastard landed at fifty miles an hour, or less. I knew that much and was willing to take my lumps from a crash at that speed. I was strapped in, anyway.
I got the main landing gear on the tarmac, shut down the last two engines, and held her steady with the rudder pedals until she coasted to a stop. I didn’t hit anything real hard, clipped a parked monoplane with a wingtip when I got off the centerline, but double fuck it. They wanted to take away my pilot’s license and make me walk everywhere? Fine with me.
A fire truck caught up with me, I got a good cussing from the fireman for not following procedures. I had forgotten that there was a hand-operated Johnston brake for the wheels. Who knew? Any crash you can walk away from is a landing, and this was a lot better than that. I just smiled in his face, and told him to get the fuck out of my way, I had to piss like a wounded Russian race horse. They got busy with Collins, he was alive enough to moan a little, and I headed down the ladder. I didn’t kiss the ground, but I did anoint it with urine. It’s the thought that counts.
They didn’t know whether to chew my ass out or give me a medal, that seems to happen a lot in my aviation career. I didn’t tell them of the time I landed on a mess tent in Vladivostok, I didn’t think that would help. Eventually they let me go, I found out who had guided me in, it was a couple of women, Emily Rawson and that Chasbo I had met already. Thanks very kindly. They had figured out I didn’t know what the fuck I was doing, they deduced the probable reason, and took the correct action. I bought them the best bottle of Scotch they had at the Officers Club, and helped them demolish it. One thing for sure, I didn’t have much trouble falling asleep that night.
>>>>>>>>>
Sidney woke me up too damn early the next morning, the battle seemed to have gotten more intense overnight, but it was a long way away; our Wagon was parked well back from the Line. “Sir, they want you at HQ ASAP.”
“They? Who are they?”
“It didn’t say, sir, they just want you at the BOQ Mess as soon as you can get there.”
“Well, that doesn’t sound like an ass-chewing. Seen my toilet kit?”
“Right here, sir.” Fuck you kid. I found the latrine, they had water, even if it was cold. No shower, shit and shave, and hitch a ride to HQ. Lots of traffic anyway. I walked in, the place was pretty big, asked an orderly, was directed to a table in the rear. Surprise, it was Frankie on her third cup of coffee.
“How they hanging, Miles?”
“I could ask you the same. I need coffee. I think a booze hound bit me.”
“I thought you were cutting down on the hooch?”
“I seem to have become a hero, by accident. The celebration got a little out of hand. Stress relief. You know how it goes.” I waved at the waiter, he had a coffee pot in one hand, cup in the other. Obviously, a good judge of character. Once I got my eyes open, I looked her over. “The beard is coming along nicely, and you made captain? Signal Corps? Congratulations.”
“I have been ordered to set up a mobile radio station, just waiting for them to finish equipping the trailer and get it to me. A couple more days. I guess I’ll have to be on the air. Me and Justine.”
“She’s here?”
“No, she is back in Coquitlam, recovering. She got plenty beat up.”
“She’s not used to this level of crap, that’s a fact. Good luck.”
“She will need it. But they sent me out in a nice travel trailer, what they call a caravan, it’s pretty plush. Need a rack?”
“They gave me an Estate Wagon. A Lincoln with a bed in the back. We could camp together. You got a shower?”
“Barely. It’s tiny, but you are welcome to it. You might fit.”
“The story of my life. I’ll jam in somehow.”
“That’s what she said.” And spoiled the joke by laughing like a drill sergeant. Same old Frankie. A pisser with bells on.
“You want to be a story? In the Express? Let me get a few shots, I have my camera right here. A little advance publicity?” I slapped my forehead. “I completely forgot. I didn’t file my story last night. I can do both, but I better get on the case.”
“Sounds like a good idea. I have a few things I want to say anyway. That’s why I sent for you. And to buy you breakfast, of course.”
“Thanks, captain, but I’m the major around here. Shoot. I want ham and eggs and ham. And bacon. And a stack of toast that high.”
“Your wish is my command, your majorship.”
>>>>>>>>>>
We commandeered a desk and a typewriter in the office, set right to it. The usual, but the nub was that Frankie was making an issue of not being either a male or a female, not living up to anybody else’s idea of who she was supposed to be; “The whole world has been turned upside down, and the Pacifica brass have a lot more on their plates than telling people whether they can wear lipstick or not. Like your buddy General Earhart.”
“She like girls? I never could be sure.”
“She seems to be close to James Arbuthnot, the Prime Minister, but on the QT, of course. She is beautiful enough, she does not need makeup. Why make life complicated?”
“Why indeed?”
“My point is, that I was born with a penis, I grow a beard. I’m a redhead. It’s all who I am. Fine. I don’t feel like a man. I used to think I felt like a woman, but I don’t. Not really. I feel like me. I used to be Alphonse Riordan. Now I’m just Frankie. Lots of people know me, count on me for a job of work. Nobody ever even asks my last name. I’m Frankie, Frances Riordan, Captain Frances A. Riordan, it says on my ID. If I have to put down a sex, I write ‘F’, but nobody gives a damn. There are a lot stranger people than me in Pacifica. I yam what I yam, like fucking Popeye the sailor. And so be it.” How can you argue with that?
We got a good thousand words, half a roll of film, she buzzed off to find Sidney and have the Lincoln moved to her spot. I finished off the thrilling adventures of Cabbage Head, Boy Aviator, found Major Walker’s mail slot to have all that shit sent off to the Express. Which counted as a good morning’s work in anybody’s book.
>>>>>>>>>>
Lunch time. Walker found me, over pie. My second piece. “Good work. You want a medal?”
“I’d just as soon have another piece of pie, if it’s all the same to you. How’s Collins?”
“He’ll live. He won’t be singing opera for a while, but he will be back on the flight line in a week, if he doesn’t get infected. He got tagged with a piece of boxcar, wood is dirty, but he is young. It just missed his lung, and he bled like a stuck pig, so he’s probably okay.”
“Good news. Now what can I do for you? I really the fuck do not want to play Johnny Ace, Air Pirate any more. It’s not my job.”
“I hear you. Why don’t you go up to the front, take a look at the HQ, and file another story? Take it easy, we owe you one.”
&nbs
p; “Can you get me a flivver? I have been hitching around, and it’s slow. The Lincoln makes a better bedroom than runabout.”
“Wait here, I’ll see what I can do. We have lots of civvie cars, but I will have to fill out a gas card, a few other items.” He bustled off, but I had to buy my own pie. I suffer a lot.
He came back within the hour with the keys to a Chevy, gas card, and a road pass marked “No Restrictions.” I had a scribbled bit of paper with a map to Frankie’s camp, so that was my first stop. All in order there, so asked Sidney if he could round up a tarp of some kind and some poles, to make us a little tent deal so we could sleep in if we needed to. Off he went. Frankie was off someplace, so I took the Chevy and headed to the Front like a good little boy.
>>>>>>>
I couldn’t get too close, I didn’t want to, being old and cowardly. The action was all in the air, a conveyor belt of Teals and Fives and our regular Curtiss dive bombers pounding the shit out of Route 7. Dry as hell out here, it was reminding me more and more of Mongolia, except for the lakes. What little wind we had was coming from the northwest, looked like a chance of a thunderstorm, the smoke and crap was blowing away from the battle, leaving good visibility for the pilots. I wished I could see more, for all the good wishing ever does. I found a place to park, grabbed my tin hat and camera, and set out on foot. There was a lot of traffic, but the eastbound was not moving in more than fits and starts. Lots of wreckers and ambulances coming back, the usual coping with carnage.
I came up on a double line of tanks, waiting to go someplace, the Captain told me they had been there for a day and a half, making time, he was worried about dive bombers. “We have the Rocket Clusters, but we have never used them in action.”
Brown Bear Blues Page 19