Combat- Parallel Lines

by William Peter Grasso

  A voice in his head—her voice—replied, Turn left, silly. There’s plenty of open space between you and the city and nothing but flat ground if you have to belly her in off the field.

  Mon Dieu, Tommy! Keep her away from the mountains!

  He was grateful that Lieutenant Hank Roth, his young navigator, didn’t need to be told what to do. He’d already taken the initiative on the radio, calling the control tower to declare an emergency and receiving priority clearance to land in the direction of their choice. Then, command of Switchblade Green Flight was passed from Tommy to Captain Price in Green Two. As he checked that the gun, bomb, and rocket switches were all still in the safe position, Roth asked Tommy, “What else do you need me to do, sir?”

  “You can pray, Hank. And tell Bob in the back he’d better do the same.”

  The voice of the gunner, Sergeant Bob Allen, was in their headsets now, speaking a terse, “Already got that covered, gentlemen.” Sitting between two gun turrets loaded with hundreds of rounds of .50-caliber ammunition and right behind a bomb bay full of five-hundred-pounders, he’d seek help from any quarter if it got him a landing he could walk away from.

  The ship had managed the 180-degree turn back toward the field, but she’d sunk to 400 feet in the process. The left engine was only giving them half power.

  “Try to restart number two,” Tommy told Roth. “We’ve got nothing to lose.”

  “Okay, sir. Are we going straight in, downwind?”

  “That’s the plan.”

  “Roger,” Roth replied, sounding just a little relieved. He was sure Tommy had long since figured out they’d run out of sky if he tried to fly the normal pattern and land upwind. But it felt better to hear him say it. He eased the prop lever out of feather and engaged the starter.

  He watched the silver blades of the propeller begin their slow rotation. Relieved to see them come out of their streamlined feather and bite the air again, he switched on the ignition. The engine came to life reluctantly, surging and then dying with each backfire. With Tommy nursing the throttle and mixture levers, it settled into a faltering rumble.

  Still a half mile from the runway threshold, she’d sunk to two hundred feet.

  “Need more speed,” Tommy said, “or this tailwind’s going to pancake us.”

  Inching the throttles forward, he told Roth, “Give me another notch of flaps.”

  The engines still refused to cooperate. With each momentary surge of power, Tommy clawed for every inch of altitude she could hold. But when they sputtered, he had to drop her nose to maintain speed just barely above a stall. One way or another, this seesaw was going to end on contact with the ground in a few seconds; whether that ground would be the firm concrete of the runway or the muck short of it remained to be seen.

  Moon’s Menace VI was still three hundred yards from the runway’s threshold, with the altimeter reading a needle’s width from zero, when Tommy told Roth, “Gear down.” Neither man in the cockpit could quite believe the props had not yet struck the frozen marsh below them.

  They felt the first bump of tire contact with the pavement before any of the landing gear indicated down and locked. Normal landing procedure for a B-26 was to land flat on all three gear simultaneously. But this was no normal landing; with the nose slightly down to keep her speed up for one last, crucial second, the nose gear had hit first. Mercifully, it didn’t collapse, but the nonstandard attitude at touchdown tossed the ship back into the air—her nose up—inviting a stall she had little power to counteract.

  She was still in mid-bounce when Roth called out, “Main gear down and locked.”

  “Nose gear?” Tommy asked.

  “No joy,” Roth replied.

  “Oh, well…nothing to lose now,” Tommy said. He pushed the throttles to the stops.

  And just that one time, the engines responded with a reassuring burst of power. It lasted only a second, but it was enough to maintain flying speed, allowing him to control the ship to a level touchdown.

  They both expected the nose gear to fold and the airplane to slide to an undignified stop in a shower of sparks as metal scraped across concrete.

  Got to kill the engines before the props hit the ground, Tommy told himself. And if there’s a fire, maybe we can get out before she blows up.

  But despite the unsafe indication, the nose gear held. As he steered her off the runway with gentle taps of differential braking, the right engine coughed and died on its own in a cloud of white exhaust smoke.

  A few seconds later, the left engine died, too.

  Roth jotted the time down in the flight log: 0907 hours.

  He told Tommy, “You sure know how to cram a lot of excitement into a six-minute flight, sir.”

  *****

  It took the maintenance team about an hour to sort out the problems on Moon’s Menace VI. “The nose gear’s okay,” the crew chief told Tommy. “That bounce you took bent a switch bracket. It’s already replaced. We’ll swing the gear in a little bit to confirm the fix.”

  Tommy knew that the trouble with the engines had to be fuel related: There’s not too many other ways multiple engines can act up together unless you’ve got fuel problems.

  “So what’s wrong with the gas, Sarge?” Tommy asked.

  A brief smile crossed the crew chief’s face. Pilots who understood the nuts and bolts of the planes they flew were few and far between. There was a pretty good chance that Major Moon was among the ones who did, so he wouldn’t have to dumb the explanation down for him.

  “Water contamination, sir,” the chief said. “Lots of it. It’s this damn freezing weather. Some of that avgas has been sitting out in the open in barrels here at K-2 for months. Snow’s been piled up on them most of that time, and the melt off the bottom layer has been seeping in. We’re still sumping the water out of your tanks, and your fuel filters are full of ice. That’s why you were losing power…clogged them right up.”

  Tommy said, “I thought we religiously sumped the fuel trucks after they filled up. What happened today?”

  “We’re still looking into that, sir…but somebody dropped the ball real bad. When the maintenance officer figures out who it was—and there aren’t too many to choose from—that man’s going to be real sorry, I can promise you.”

  “How long until my ship’s ready to fly, Sarge?”

  “Give it a couple more hours, sir. Let us get all that water out. We’ve got to keep heating up the sump drains, because they want to keep freezing. That’s been slowing my guys down.”

  The squadron operations officer was part of this discussion, as well. Tommy asked him, “What about the other ships in the flight? Did they get fueled from the same truck I did?”

  “Apparently not. There were half a dozen fuel trucks working this morning, and yours looks like the only ship unlucky enough to get the dregs. The rest of Switchblade Green Flight took off right behind you and kept on going, headed to those rail yards on the south side of Seoul. Hell, they should be on their way back already.”

  *****

  By 1300 hours, the mechanics had completed the work on Moon’s Menace VI’s engines and were doing a retraction check of her nose gear. If that went well, she’d be rearmed and ready to fly again.

  When Tommy returned to the operations shack to prepare a new flight plan, he could tell something was wrong right away. The place had contracted the stale, almost funereal atmosphere typical of when ships didn’t return from a mission.

  “Price and Levenson went down,” the operations officer said. “Flak over the rail yard got them.”

  Tommy asked, “What about Hobart?”

  “He’s in the landing pattern now. He radioed in the bad news as soon as he was in range.”

  *****

  Tommy found Lieutenant Hobart’s debriefing sickening to hear. In his absence as flight leader, Switchblade Green Flight seemed to have done almost everything wrong, breaking nearly every rule of bombing from medium altitude.

  As the story was pieced togethe
r, it became clear that sloppy navigation caused the three bombers to not locate the target—the railroad marshaling yard at Yongdungpo—on their first approach. They had to backtrack along the Han River, exposing themselves to every anti-aircraft battery in a fifty-square-mile area. The reflection of the late morning sun off the snow-covered ground made it hard to find the tracks that led to the yard, so they’d descended to 3,000 feet for a closer view of what lay below. But the lower altitude limited the visibility of what lay ahead; they didn’t see the rail yard, which was nestled in a bowl of shallow hills, until they were right on top of it. By then, it was too late to set up for a bomb run. They’d have to climb and circle back to the target. In doing so, they became excellent targets themselves, because their objective and path had now become predictable to the gunners on the ground.

  If I’d been there as lead ship like I should’ve been, Hank would’ve gotten us to the target on a beeline. We could’ve dumped the bombs from eight thousand, like we were supposed to, and been perfectly oriented on the target area. Then we could’ve dropped down and come over the hills at low altitude for the strafing run.

  Those anti-aircraft gunners wouldn’t have had much of a chance to track us.

  As it was, it’s lucky Hobart didn’t get knocked down, too.

  The squadron commander sat in silence throughout the debrief, letting Tommy and the operations officer handle the questioning. When there was nothing more to be asked, the commander announced, “Gentlemen, the word’s come down from Fifth Air Force: due to the alarming increase in the rate of aircraft and crew loss to anti-aircraft fire, Fifty-Third Bomb Squadron will no longer conduct daylight combat missions, effective immediately. All our efforts will now be at night, in conjunction with Firefly and searchlight-equipped aircraft. That’s the main reason we repositioned our base from Japan to K-2 in the first place: so we’d have more time in the target zones to exploit the advantages those illumination ships give us. Night flying is our mission until further notice.”

  *****

  Jillian Miles sat impatiently in a San Francisco federal courtroom with her lawyer, Mark Pitney. Her deportation hearing was supposed to have convened at 9 a.m., but it was already twenty minutes past that time and Judge Riggs was still in chambers. The government prosecutor seated at the table across from them seemed just as anxious as they were. Jillian asked Pitney, “Do you take this dawdling as a good or bad sign, Mark?”

  “Well, we did give him a big pile of briefs to mull over,” Pitney replied. “It must mean he’s actually reading them, so I take that as a good sign, Mrs. Miles.”

  She forced a smile, hoping he was right.

  It took another five minutes for Judge Riggs to finally make his appearance. When the bailiff called, “All rise,” the judge shuffled from the doorway of his chambers and ascended the few steps to the bench. When he settled into his chair, Riggs nearly vanished behind the polished mahogany bulwark.

  “Elfin old bugger, isn’t he?” Jillian whispered.

  Once the court was called to order and her case announced by the clerk, Judge Riggs said, “I’ve been informed by the Monterey County District Attorney that you are a witness to a criminal prosecution currently being pursued in that county, Mrs. Miles. Is that true?”

  “Yes, My Lord,” she replied, “but I’m also the—”

  He cut her off before she could finish. “Mrs. Miles, I must remind you that we’re not in the British Commonwealth. This is the United States of America, where we address justices as Your Honor, not My Lord. Do you understand?” He sounded as if he was scolding a child.

  Unflustered and unapologetic, she replied, “Yes, Your Honor. I understand completely. My apologies…but may I finish what I was saying now?”

  Pitney jotted something on his note pad and eased it across the table toward her. He’d written, Be nicer.

  Jillian felt like telling her lawyer, I’ll bloody well NOT be nice to this petty little wanker, but decided that wouldn’t help her cause one bit. Pitney’s hand was on her arm now, as if reining her back.

  “What my client wishes to say, Your Honor, is that—”

  “I’m speaking to the woman, Mister Pitney, not you.”

  He said the word woman as if describing some inferior creature.

  Riggs continued, “It seems to me the woman is quite determined to speak for herself. Please continue, Mrs. Miles.”

  Pitney tapped his pen against the words he’d just written on the pad, a silent plea to his client.

  Jillian said, “I just wanted to point out, Your Honor, that I am not only a witness in the Monterey County trial, I am the victim of the crime being prosecuted.”

  Judge Riggs settled back in his chair, his face puckered as if he’d just smelled something foul. Then he said, “Whether you’re the victim or not makes no difference in these proceedings, Mrs. Miles. Just like it makes no difference to this court that your husband is an Army officer serving overseas in Korea.”

  Pitney jumped in, adding, “A distinguished colonel, Your Honor, leading a regiment in combat.”

  “Again, Mr. Pitney, that matters not at all to this court. It has no bearing as to whether or not Mrs. Miles violated the conditions of her visa and is, as a result, subject to deportation.”

  “I understand, Your Honor, but as our brief to this court states, there remains the fact that Mrs. Miles is not the person who signed the transaction that precipitated this case. If she took no such action, how can it be claimed she violated the terms of her visa?”

  “That’s a smoke screen, Mr. Pitney. That may be how the law works in Australia, but not in this country. Whoever signed what document is immaterial when dealing with a corporate transaction such as the one Mrs. Miles is alleged to have initiated as a foreign officer of that corporation. It’s intent that matters, and Mrs. Miles’ intent to execute such a transaction constituted a violation of her visa once that transaction was, in fact, executed. And as your brief makes clear, that transaction was executed. Money and property changed hands. Is that not correct?”

  “No, Your Honor, it is correct. The transaction was executed.”

  “I’m glad we agree, Mr. Pitney. And now we need to agree on something else. I just picked through your rather sensational yarn suggesting a conspiracy by business rivals exists to wrongly deport Mrs. Miles. Let me assure you that this court has already rejected that ridiculous and unsubstantiated suggestion out of hand.”

  “May I have a moment with my client, Your Honor?”

  “Just so it is just a moment, Mr. Pitney.”

  Their heads close together, Pitney whispered to Jillian, “We suspected he’d reject the Whitelaw conspiracy allegation. After all, we don’t have concrete proof…not yet, anyway.”

  “But all this intent rubbish has me very confused,” she said. “How the bloody hell can anybody prove that my intent was anything more than to help military families who were being victimized?”

  “That’s exactly the point I’m prepared to argue,” Pitney replied. “The only question is when to argue it. He still hasn’t told us if he’s honoring the DA’s request for postponement or not. There’s no point right now trying to refute the intent issue if this isn’t your actual hearing. We’d only be tipping our hand and giving the government time to devise counterarguments.”

  “Agreed,” Jillian said.

  Turning back to Judge Riggs, Pitney asked, “Your Honor, may I ask if the court will be honoring the request of Monterey County for a postponement of Mrs. Miles’ deportation hearing?”

  “I would have gotten to that a few minutes ago, Mr. Pitney, if you and your client hadn’t engaged in all this pointless quibbling. I’m told the trial in which Mrs. Miles has been subpoenaed as a witness is scheduled for Monday, the nineteenth of April, and is expected to take less than a week. Is that correct?”

  “Yes, Your Honor. That is correct.”

  “So you’re asking me for a four-month delay in this deportation proceeding?”

  “I believe i
t’s the district attorney of Monterey County who’s requesting the delay, Your Honor.”

  As soon as Pitney said it, he wished he hadn’t; at least not in that patronizing manner. The judge was back to looking like he’d smelled a pile of shit again. The government prosecutor was on his feet, objecting to the delay. The only person in the court who was smiling was Jillian, who’d taken delight in her lawyer’s comment…

  And Pitney wished she wasn’t doing that, either.

  But Judge Riggs surprised them all when he said, “Very well. This matter is adjourned until Monday, the twenty-sixth of April. And not a day more.” Then he asked the prosecutor, “I assume the government can live with that, Mr. Dayton?”

  “With respect, Your Honor,” Dayton replied, “the deportation case against Mrs. Miles is very straightforward. This delay seems totally unnecessary and, I suspect, intentionally exaggerated by Monterey County to stall this court. I would think a certified transcript of her testimony, which could’ve been taken down weeks ago, would serve the local prosecutor just as well as her being in court for some run-of-the-mill criminal trial.”

  “Your Honor, if I may comment?” Pitney asked.

  “Just make it quick, counselor.”

  “Certainly, Your Honor. I would suggest that Mr. Dayton, as a federal prosecutor, has no business opining on how courts in the State of California conduct their affairs.”

  “Once again, we agree, Mr. Pitney,” Judge Riggs said. “My decision to postpone remains as stated. We’ll reconvene on this matter the twenty-sixth of April 1951.”

  He then gaveled the hearing to a close.

  As they hurried out of the courthouse, Pitney said, “The DA did us one hell of a favor pushing the date of Riddle’s trial as far back as he did. He didn’t need to do that. By his own admission, the court backlog for a case like that is only about six weeks.”

  “Maybe he’s hoping that extra time will somehow allow him to indict Willis, too,” Jillian offered, “and maybe even General and Mrs. Whitelaw.”