Devotion

by Adam Makos

  “You know we’ve got a Negro pilot in ’32,” Cevoli said as he eyed Tom’s ring. “First in the navy.”

  Tom said that he’d read about this pilot in Naval Aviation News.

  “You’ll be flying with me and him,” Cevoli added. “He’s a good guy.” Cevoli explained that the black pilot was an ensign and, even though Tom outranked him, he had more flight hours than Tom. “If it’s just the two of you in the air, he’ll lead. That’s how we do things here, experience over rank, okay?” Cevoli’s personality reminded Tom of a high school baseball coach.

  Tom said he was fine with the setup. He knew he had just two months of squadron experience.

  Cevoli glanced at Tom’s ring again and squirmed, like something was still bothering him. “Will you be okay taking orders from a Negro pilot?”

  Tom knew what he was hinting at. The ring. The Academy.

  The Academy lay in Annapolis, Maryland, relatively far north, but some still called it “Rebel Country.” Maryland was technically a border state during the Civil War but slavery had been legal there, and when the men of Maryland signed on to fight, most fought for the South. For one hundred years the navy elite had studied at the Academy, white males who were essentially joining the navy for life. Until that June, there had never been a black Academy graduate. Five black students who had gained admission earlier were hazed out; rumor had it that one was lashed to a buoy overnight in frigid Chesapeake Bay.

  A bead of sweat formed on Tom’s forehead. He wanted to hide the ring so that Cevoli would drop the questions. Instead, he said the first thing that came to mind.

  “At my high school we only had one colored kid and I was friends with him.”

  Cevoli nodded.

  “His name was Tom Brown,” Tom added.

  Cevoli smiled.

  “He was a good guy,” Tom concluded. He glanced away and wanted to pound his own forehead. It was the truth, but it sounded contrived.

  Cevoli saw Tom’s distress and broke the tension. “Well, that’s good. I think you’ll get along with this fellow, too—our guy’s name is Jesse Brown. And if you don’t get along with him, no shame in asking for a transfer,” Cevoli added. “We can’t have guys flying together if they don’t trust one another.”

  Tom nodded.

  He and Cevoli glanced back to the planes below, to avoid the awkwardness of further conversation.

  Several nights later

  It was dark when Tom walked through the front door and past the reception desk of the bachelor officers’ quarters. The three-story brick dormitory resembled a roadside hotel, neither fancy nor shabby, and all single pilots at Quonset Point would fondly call it home between tours at sea.

  Tom’s shoes clicked on the linoleum as he walked down the dim hallway. Between Tom and his room, a door was wide open and light poured forth, as did sounds. Tom could have sworn he heard a girl giggling and a guy whispering. Women were not allowed in the dormitory.

  At the Academy, Tom had been a “Red Mike,” the name the cadets gave classmates who were too busy to date. Tom considered turning around and waiting in the lobby but he needed to change for dinner.

  He took a deep breath, lowered his chin, and walked quickly ahead. As he passed the room, he glimpsed a tall young man with black hair wildly kissing a brunette girl. Both were clothed—barely.

  Oh Lord, Tom thought. He walked faster.

  Credit 8.2

  Marty Goode

  “Hiya!” came a voice from behind him. The black-haired young man was leaning out the door, shirtless and grinning. With that much confidence, he had to be a pilot.

  “Oh, hello,” Tom said.

  “You’re a new guy in ’32?” the pilot asked.

  Tom said he was.

  The pilot stepped from the doorway and approached, barefoot and wearing only boxer shorts. He was about six feet tall and lean cut with sharp black eyebrows and blue eyes paler than Tom’s.

  “I’m Marty Goode,” the pilot said, shaking Tom’s hand. “Not to be confused with my evil cousin, Marty the Bad!” Marty laughed at his own joke. He was from Brooklyn and had a strong accent.

  “Why, thanks for the warning,” Tom said, playing along. “I’ll keep an eye out for him.”

  Marty introduced himself as ’32’s bull ensign—the ensign in the unit with the most seniority. He was proud of his rank, having joined the navy at age sixteen and worked his way up the enlisted ranks into flying school and an officer’s commission.

  “Well, I’ll see you around,” Marty said, “I’ve got duties to attend to!” He winked and hurried back the way he had come, his bare feet slapping the floor.

  Tom walked the other way, shaking his head. He may have kept his parking space, but in Fighting 32, he was starting from scratch.

  * * *

  * During the airlift, the Soviet military shined spotlights in Allied pilots’ eyes and Soviet fighters buzzed dangerously close to transport planes during 773 documented acts of interference. Seventy-eight Allied pilots and crewmen died in crashes. Historians estimate that the airlift cost more than $2.2 billion in present-day currency.

  CHAPTER 9

  THE POND

  A few days later, December 6, 1949

  Warwick, Rhode Island

  JESSE STEPPED ONTO THE PORCH of his white clapboard cottage and glanced around the neighborhood. Frost covered the ground, and the early morning light streamed over the houses and onto a large frozen pond across the street. The pond was shaped like an hourglass and the sunlight made the ice glow golden.

  Beneath his leather flight jacket, Jesse wore green slacks and brown shoes. His hair was shaved high and tight up over his ears. When he placed his tent cap over his head, his hair completely disappeared. It was a Tuesday and cold enough that Jesse had already started his car to warm the engine. The car was a sparkling new 1949 Dodge Wayfarer coupe, forest green with a long curving roofline, whitewall tires, and flares over the rear wheels. Jesse loved the Wayfarer and had saved for years to afford this, his first car. He never worried about leaving it running in the morning; Warwick was a summer resort for New Yorkers and the neighborhood was deserted in the winter.

  Jesse walked down the cottage’s steps. This was the first home that he and Daisy rented together, 140 Glen Drive, a cottage built in 1945. The home was raised on concrete blocks because it lay on a peninsula. Gray trees leaned over the streets that paralleled the house, their branches empty and brittle.

  As Jesse reached his car, the cottage door was flung open. Daisy threw a wool coat on her shoulders and ran down the steps. Jesse looked surprised to see her again. They’d already kissed goodbye inside, as they did every morning. Daisy reached Jesse, wrapped her arms around her husband, and held him tightly.

  Jesse chuckled and hugged her back.

  Their neighbors, had they been there, might have been peeking out their windows. They had been fascinated with the young black couple and often asked Daisy to speak in her southern drawl. And when Jesse spoke without an accent, they would marvel that both of them came from the same region. The neighbors had been kind. The ones across the street would invite Jesse and his family over to swim with them in the pond. Daisy was afraid of water but Jesse loved to take dips. He would hold Pam’s hand as they waded together.

  Daisy kissed Jesse a final time and released her grip. Jesse told her he would see her soon and raised a finger to the sky. Today was a flying day. He continually tried to tell Daisy that flying was fun but Daisy wasn’t convinced. She knew a pilot could meet a swift end in peacetime, let alone the war that seemed sure to come.

  Just four months earlier, the Soviets had successfully detonated an atomic bomb on a test site and shattered America’s “atomic bomb monopoly,” the reason her citizens slept soundly. Now the U.S. military was planning for the Soviets to launch an atomic sneak attack. The papers called the scenario the “Disaster Attack” and predicted that Soviet bombers would fly over the polar ice cap—down over Greenland and over Alaska and Canada—to
atomize cities on both American coasts. The military was hurriedly building radar outposts up north to provide early warning of enemy bombers that flyers like Jesse would be called to intercept.

  Jesse slid into the Wayfarer and shut the door. Daisy remained in the driveway, her arms crossed. Their eyes met through the windshield glass and Jesse lifted his hand from the steering wheel in a small wave. Daisy broke into a guilty grin and waved meekly. Jesse backed out of the driveway and drove away past the pond.

  Inside Hangar 4, Quonset Point

  Alone in the locker room, Tom slipped on his flight suit and zipped it up. The room smelled like soap and reminded Tom of his days at Andover Academy prep school, changing for track, football, and lacrosse. He kneeled and laced his black leather boots.

  The day’s mission called for training, but even training carried new seriousness. The navy needed her pilots ready to go operational if the Soviets made a move. Tom found it hard to envision himself lining up a Soviet bomber in his gunsight; just five years earlier, the Soviets had been among the Allies of World War II.*

  The locker room door swung open. Tom looked up as he laced his boots. Jesse walked in and set his flight bag on the wooden bench that separated them.

  “Good morning,” Jesse said stiffly. He opened a locker opposite Tom’s.

  Tom returned the greeting. He knew he was looking at a figure from aviation history but didn’t know much more about his new squadron mate. Tom was, however, eager to correct that. He had long forgotten the tough Portuguese boy Manny Cabral but not Manny’s lesson—that a man would reveal his character through his actions, not his skin color.

  “I understand we’ll be flying together,” Jesse said, looking into his bag. His tone was formal. He removed his boots, then his flight suit.

  “I’m Jesse Brown, by the way.” Jesse gave an awkward half-wave and remained on his side of the bench.

  Tom finished tying his boots and stood up.

  “Good to meet you, Jesse. I’m Tom Hudner.” Tom thrust his open hand across the space between them.

  Jesse looked down at Tom’s hand, paused, then extended his hand and shook.

  Tom pretended not to notice Jesse’s reservations and made small talk about the upcoming flight. He paused when he caught Jesse glancing at his Naval Academy ring. Jesse’s eyes fixed on the deep blue stone.

  Damn it! He’s heard stories about the academy, Tom thought as he slipped his leather jacket over his shoulders. His helmet and survival gear were upstairs in the ready room. Tom told Jesse that he would see him at the preflight briefing, then shut his locker and left the room.

  Credit 9.1

  Jesse pilots an F8F Bearcat in November 1949.

  —

  In tight formation the two Bearcats raced fifty feet above the waves of Greenwich Bay. The morning sky was dotted with clouds, “seasonably cold” as the weatherman called it. With their square wings extended, the Bearcats took on a barrel shape that tapered to slender tails.

  Tom flew behind Jesse in the wingman position, a short distance behind Jesse’s right wing. Each pilot wore a tan cloth helmet with earphones and goggles on his forehead. Tom’s eyes studied Jesse’s wingtip as it rose and fell.

  The Bearcat fit tightly around Tom. When climbing into the aircraft, he needed to turn his shoulders to sit down. But once he secured the safety straps over his life preserver and leather jacket, he felt like the Bearcat was strapped to his back.

  Watch your prop, Tom thought. Four massive, twelve-foot propeller blades whirled like a translucent buzz saw from the nose of Tom’s plane. Unlike a jet, if a propeller plane flew too snugly, a pilot could chop off his buddy’s wing or tail.

  Tom snuck a glimpse at the leaping waves ahead, then back to Jesse’s wing. Flying in tight formation required faith. The wingman always watched his leader’s wingtip and only the leader looked ahead. If both pilots looked ahead, they could collide.

  A blurry pole whipped past Tom on the right. Then another flashed by on the left. The poles were the masts of fishing boats motoring across the bay; Jesse had taken them that low. Tom’s eyes narrowed with worry. They were flying due north, the wrong direction. All Jesse had said before takeoff was that he needed to make “a quick detour.”

  The Bearcat’s speed was blistering, yet Tom fought the urge to look ahead. The plane had been built to intercept kamikazes but missed fighting in WWII by just three months. From out of the corner of his eye, Tom saw seagulls whipping past the windscreen like white bowling balls, above and beneath the plane. One bird strike could shatter the canopy, or worse.

  Where is he taking me? Tom wondered. They were supposed to fly to Long Island then from landmark to landmark to hone their navigation abilities, skills they might someday use in combat. The brass predicted that the Soviets needed just two more years to mobilize for war. Already, the enemy had America outnumbered.

  A spy report published in one of America’s top magazines—Life—had revealed the enemy’s numerical superiority. Reportedly, the Soviet air force boasted 9,000 planes to America’s 3,000. The 2.6-million-man Soviet army dwarfed America’s force of 600,000. Only the U.S. Navy’s surface fleet of 164 vessels topped the Soviet’s 127 ships, but an American advantage lay within that fleet—15 aircraft carriers and 5,000 navy and Marine Corps combat planes. The Soviets had no carriers, whereas America had built so many that the navy had mothballed a number of still-operable World War II carriers. Overnight, the navy and Marine flyers had become America’s competitive advantage.

  Tom glimpsed a gray, rocky coastline racing toward him. A small peninsula reached across the bay from the west. Tom knew it was Warwick Neck because his hometown lay across the bay. The planes roared past a lighthouse and crossed the shore.

  “Harrison Tower, this is Lawcase Flight,” Jesse radioed. He was calling the civilian airfield that lay ahead, just inland. “Are your skies clear? We’re two F8Fs from Quonset Point, passing through.”

  What the heck? Tom wondered. They were supposed to make every minute of training time count, not play games.

  Jesse nosed forward and took his plane even lower, nearly scraping the gray branches of barren trees. Tom followed him down, then spotted an ice-covered pond in the center of the peninsula. The pond was shaped like an hourglass and was bordered by cottages and trees. Jesse aimed for it. Tom glanced between Jesse’s wingtip and the pond. A mile beyond the pond, a flat X appeared on the horizon. It marked Harrison Field, a civilian airfield where hobby flyers and panicky student pilots took to the sky.

  Tom scowled. He was certain that Jesse was lining up on the pond in order to buzz the airfield, low and fast to rattle the civilians. “Flat hatting,” as buzzing was called, was neither approved nor forbidden. The word was just “Don’t get caught.” Tom had not gone through the Academy to get booted in a stunt like this, but Jesse was flying lead.

  “Harrison Tower to Lawcase Flight.”

  The tower was calling Jesse.

  “Our airspace is clear, come on over.”

  Jesse thanked the controller, and Tom gritted his teeth.

  “Get ready to climb!” Jesse told Tom, his voice crackling with enthusiasm.

  The silver pond stretched in Tom’s windscreen. It looked like Jesse was going to fly them straight into it.

  —

  Daisy’s heels clunked down the wooden steps of the cottage as she carried baby Pam outside and set her feet on the cold driveway. A year old now, Pam could walk, just unsteadily. She was bundled in a small coat and a beanie hat. Between the beanie’s earflaps was a face with round eyes and chubby cheeks. Daisy kneeled and turned Pam back toward the cottage, in the direction of Quonset Point. Far over the tree line she spotted them—two black crosses zooming toward them.

  “There’s Daddy!” she shouted, pointing.

  Pam smiled at the mention of Daddy and blinked at the horizon.

  “Here he comes!” Daisy said. “Look!”

  Behind the trees, the Bearcats’ wings stretched wider and thei
r whirling propellers purred louder and louder. In a screaming roar the planes blasted over the cottage roof.

  Daisy crouched and covered Pam’s ears. Tree branches rattled. Daisy turned Pam to follow the Bearcats as the planes raced over the pond. Already far away, the planes pitched up and into a vertical climb. Their canopies glimmered.

  “There goes your daddy!” Daisy exclaimed, pointing for Pam.

  Pam bounced and cooed.

  Daisy took Pam’s little hand, and together they waved as the Bearcats shrank toward the clouds.

  —

  Stick like glue, Tom told himself as the two planes climbed in formation. He kept his eyes locked on Jesse’s wingtip and held even pressure on the stick.

  Jesse looked over to check Tom’s position. He was grinning.

  “Just saying hi to my girls!” he shouted over the radio.

  Tom’s scowl lifted.

  The Bearcat held its speed. It had so much power that it wanted to go up and up and up. Tom’s instrument panel vibrated and the engine hummed. Gray clouds slipped downward past his wings.

  A smile slowly cracked Tom’s face. When the clouds disappeared behind them, Jesse leveled out into a sky of pure blue. Jesse turned the two-ship south toward the sun, the direction they were supposed to fly.

  “Air show’s over,” Jesse said. “Let’s go find the Big Apple.”

  Tom sat back and relaxed. Jesse looked over and explained over the radio that every time he could, he did a low pass for his wife and little girl.

  Tom smiled and nodded. Why didn’t he just say so?

  “Anyone you want to buzz?” Jesse asked as an afterthought. “Now’s the chance.”

  “Nope,” Tom replied without hesitation.

  Then he gave the opportunity some thought. If he could buzz anyone, he’d buzz his dad’s country club when the golfers were there. He and Jesse were probably flying over the club at that moment. Tom imagined his dad’s friends would look like a bunch of storks from above as they walked in circles looking for a ball. The grin slipped from Tom’s face. He couldn’t bring himself to do it, no matter how much fun it would be.