by Adam Makos
Someone might report him.
—
On the ground, with their Bearcats’ massive blades at rest, Tom and Jesse slid from their planes’ wings. The Bearcat sat high on its gear and both men dropped four feet, their boots hitting the tarmac. Together they walked toward the hangar, carrying their plotting boards. Jesse was still glowing after buzzing his family and he asked Tom if he had a wife or girlfriend.
“Nope,” Tom said. “I’m all business, just focusing on my career.”
Jesse told Tom that sounded like a good plan. Tom would later realize that Jesse was just being polite. A man could have both, and Jesse was proof.
As they walked, Jesse looked over at his new wingman. “We may have gotten off on the wrong foot this morning,” Jesse said. “I apologize.” He added, “In flight school I stuck my hand out a lot of times but the other guy kept his at his side.”
Tom nodded sympathetically. “Well, you don’t have to worry about that with me,” he said.
Jesse nodded with approval.
—
Inside the hangar at the duty desk, Tom and Jesse filled out their reports. Time up, time down, hours in the air—the usual. Tom caught Jesse looking at his ring again and made a mental note to leave it at home tomorrow or else he’d never make any progress in ’32.
“Beautiful ring,” Jesse said.
Tom stopped writing and looked up, surprised. Jesse was still gazing over at the ring’s deep blue stone.
“I lost mine swimming in the pond by my house,” Jesse said, referring to his high school ring.
Tom told Jesse that he had lost his ring, too, during flight training at Pensacola. The one he was wearing was a replacement, not the original.
“You get used to it being there,” Jesse said. “It reminds you of something you can be proud of, huh?”
Tom agreed, then returned to filling out his forms, fighting a grin. Even if he was dangerous to his career, Tom felt the potential to really like this Jesse Brown.
* * *
* In reality, the Soviets had been Hitler’s ally first. Before WWII began, Hitler and Stalin signed a secret non-aggression pact that allowed German pilots to train on Soviet airfields and German warships to anchor at a Soviet base. Stalin sent oil, rubber, and minerals to Hitler, who supplied the Soviets with tank prototypes, fighter planes, and even the blueprints for the battleship Bismarck. The alliance lasted for nearly two years until Hitler turned on Stalin and attacked the Soviet Union. Only then did Stalin join the Allied cause.
CHAPTER 10
ONE FOR THE VULTURES
Nearly four months later, April 4, 1950
Warwick, Rhode Island
IT WAS MORNING and Daisy was crying on the bed in the cottage’s dark bedroom. She was dressed with makeup on and was curled up in the fetal position. She knew where Jesse had gone and what he was trying to do, and the thought nearly drove her mad.
After a while, Daisy stood, wiped her eyes, and blew her nose. She snuck down the hallway and cracked the door to the baby’s room. Pam was still asleep. At the sight of her child resting, Daisy’s lip began to quiver and her eyes again welled up with tears. She shut the door to Pam’s room, held a hand to her mouth, and hurried to the living room. A thought repeated in her mind: What will we do if something happens to him?
Daisy clutched herself and paced in front of the bookshelf. Jesse had given her a book club subscription for her birthday and she had filled the shelves with Emily Post’s etiquette books and romance stories such as Pride and Prejudice. She and Jesse were living their own romance story and all Daisy wanted was a happy ending.
Jesse had tried to prepare her for the worst. He often sat her down and reminded her: “On any day that I walk out of this house, there’s a possibility that I may not walk back in.” It was hard for Daisy to hear and harder still for her to accept.
She stepped to the front window and peered through the curtains. The green Wayfarer sat empty in the driveway. Jesse had taught her to drive on the back roads and she could manage to drive to the grocery store and back. Yet she felt stranded, even if she wasn’t.
Daisy curled up in a chair near the window and kept glancing outside, as if her longing would bring Jesse home sooner. Dangling from Daisy’s neck was a cross. She held it tightly and prayed for her husband’s safety.
That afternoon
The aircraft carrier USS Wright plowed through the dark, choppy sea. On the carrier’s tower, Tom Hudner weaved through the pilots and sailors who crowded the observation deck, a place darkly nicknamed “Vulture’s Row” because it proved the best spot to watch carrier landings, some of which ended in crashes.*
The tower sat mid-ship, so Tom had a good view across the deck. He draped his arms over the edge of the bulkhead and shielded his brow. A gust of wind nearly swept away his tent cap. The Wright was a “light carrier,” a smaller vessel and less than stable in rough seas.
Gray clouds draped the Atlantic and cracks of blue peeked through in spots. Tom’s eyes locked on a sleek dark Corsair several miles away that flew past the ship in the opposite direction. Jesse was at the controls and coming around to land.
Tom’s squadron mates shared the railing. Nearby was Ensign Carol Mohring, a lanky twenty-six-year-old with dark hair who’d recently joined the squadron. Carol clutched a mug of hot chocolate in his hand. It was no easy matter to climb the flights of stairs that led to Vulture’s Row using one hand, but somehow he always found a way. Carol’s folks were Germans who had immigrated to Pennsylvania and their son looked classically Teutonic with a cleft chin, sharp eyebrows, and wide lips that often appeared to frown.
Credit 10.1
Carol Mohring
“How’s he doing?” Tom asked Carol.
“He’s missed twice,” Carol said with the hint of an accent. “Both wave-offs, not even close.” Carol spoke matter-of-factly but not without concern—he and Jesse were close friends who carpooled to work together. “He’s coming in too hot and high.”
Tom knew why Jesse was having difficulties—the Corsair.
That winter, the navy had redesigned Fighting 32 as a ground attack squadron and replaced their lightweight Bearcats with heavyweight Corsairs. Unlike the Bearcat, the Corsair was combat-tested and capable of hauling tons of ordnance.
Despite a reputation as the navy’s iconic fighter of WWII, the Corsair had a glaring weakness—its “hog nose.” The plane’s nose was too long and its designers had placed the cockpit too far back along the fuselage. This compromised the pilot’s forward visibility exactly when he needed it most—during that heart-pounding maneuver that separated naval aviators from every other pilot on earth, the act that Jesse Brown was about to attempt: landing on an aircraft carrier.
Fighting 32 had come aboard the Wright to complete the pilots’ carrier landing certifications in the new Corsairs. To qualify, a pilot needed to land six times on the carrier. Tom had already certified on an earlier cruise, but Jesse was still trying. He had made five landings so far, but the sixth was everything. If he failed on the sixth, he’d be vectored back to dry land, an hour’s flight away, and his days of flying fighters would be in question.
Carol studied Jesse’s plane in between sips from his mug. He was always on Vulture’s Row, trying to learn by watching the others. Carol’s file back at Quonset Point held a secret—he had once crashed a Corsair in training.
The American flag flapped wildly overhead. From the back of Vulture’s Row came murmurs of excitement. Dozens of black sailors leaned across the railing like men at a ballpark hoping to snag a homer. They wore navy pea coats and white hats and had come from the mess hall or engine room or the staterooms where they made the officers’ bunks. They had come to watch the navy’s first black carrier pilot land, to see history being made, no different than a man yearning to see Jackie Robinson steal home plate. But the stakes were higher here. No one ever got killed trying to steal a base.
Tom could see Jesse sitting tall in his seat, his canopy back
. The plane’s landing gear was down and its tail hook dangled behind the tail wheel. Soon, Jesse would begin his U-turn to approach the carrier from behind. To the average sailor, everything appeared fine. But Tom knew something the average sailor didn’t—Jesse was in trouble. Each time a pilot missed a landing, the panic began to build and subsequent attempts would be more hazardous. The Corsair’s reputation didn’t help Jesse any. It wasn’t called the “Ensign Eliminator” and the “Widow Maker” for nothing.
Sailors in brightly colored shirts and skullcaps huddled on the flight deck and shouted into one another’s ears. The wind stormed across the deck, rippling their blue dungarees. Their uniforms were color-coded according to their roles: Men in yellow steered the planes around the deck; men in red formed the crash crew. Tom saw them glancing at Jesse and knew what they were saying: Be alert—this guy’s shaky!
Credit 10.2
A carrier landing approach
Far away and slightly behind the carrier, the left wing of Jesse’s plane slowly tilted toward the sea. He was beginning his U-turn to approach from behind. The ship’s loudspeaker blared, “Clear the deck!” Tom’s heartbeat spiked. The deckhands broke their huddle and ran for cover in the tower and the metal trenches that ran alongside the deck.
The wooden deck was empty but for the nine black cables that spanned the rear, each spaced ten yards apart. The cables were everything to carrier aviation. Although the Wright’s deck stretched nearly seven hundred feet, a pilot used only the back half for landing, a space about the size of a football field. There, the cables were strung five inches above the deck—low enough that a plane’s tires could roll over them, yet high enough that its tail hook could snag one and yank the plane to a stop. Jesse would need to set his twelve-thousand-pound machine down at a precise angle and speed to stand a chance.
If he overshot the cables, three tall crash barriers—cables strung from stanchions—stretched across the middle of the ship to stop him by wrapping around his propeller and wheels. If Jesse overshot the cables and crash barriers, an ominous final barricade remained. At the front of the deck, Corsairs sat parked and empty, almost asking for a collision.
As Jesse’s plane continued its turn, a solitary figure took his place on a small platform that jutted from the rear corner of the ship. He wore a silver flight suit and skullcap. He was a landing signal officer—the LSO—a veteran pilot who doubled as a sort of shipboard traffic cop. From the trench below, a sailor handed two paddles to the figure. The paddles were lined with neon pink strips of fabric. The LSO would use the paddles to steer Jesse toward the deck and signal the precise time for him to cut the engine and touch down.
Jesse’s Corsair curved fast over the frothy waves, one wing aimed like a dark slash toward the sea. The ship’s deck heaved and sighed. This is going to be tricky, Tom thought.
Jesse held steady at 110 miles per hour. Any faster and he’d overshoot the cables. Too slow and he’d stall and wing over, into the waves.
Two hundred yards behind the deck, Jesse broke his turn and snapped his wings level. With his nose high and his tail low, Jesse descended faster and faster toward the field of cables. He was flying nearly blind, barely able to see a sliver of the deck. That’s exactly how an LSO liked it. Don’t watch the ship! they were known to tell pilots. Keep your eyes on me!
The LSO spread his arms wide like a scarecrow. You’re good! he was telling Jesse. Hold steady! The black sailors leaned farther over the railing, their eyes locked in awe.
The Corsair was a hundred yards from the rear of the ship. Seventy-five yards. Fifty. The LSO flipped his right paddle across his chest—Cut the engine and land!
But something didn’t look right to Jesse. He hesitated for a split second and violated the cardinal rule of carrier aviation: “Cut” means “cut”!
Instead, he kept flying. The cables slipped toward him.
Only then did Jesse cut the throttle.
In a blur of speed, he dipped the Corsair’s nose forward and dived for the deck. At the last second he lifted the nose and dropped the tail to catch a cable. His hook passed over one cable, then another, until they all had slipped away.
The plane’s tires slammed the deck in puffs of white smoke. The tail hook slapped the wood, snagging nothing. The plane’s struts compressed and the Corsair sank low onto its landing gear like a coiled spring.
Then it sprung. Upward the Corsair leapt as its momentum carried it forward, straight toward the crash barriers.
Jesse’s engine snarled to life with a roar that shook the deck. White smoke shot from his engine’s exhaust ports. Tom’s eyes went wide. Rather than roll into the crash barrier as he should have, Jesse was compounding his mistake. He was pouring on full power.
Tom couldn’t believe his eyes.
He’s trying to take off!
Pilots gasped. Sailors covered their faces. Carol spilled his hot chocolate.
Jesse’s Corsair leapt over the first crash barrier, then the second. He was on course for a bone-crunching collision with the parked Corsairs ahead. Tom, Carol, and the others sank behind the bulkhead and braced for the sound of crumpling metal.
As the Corsair soared over the final crash barrier, its right tire clipped the wire. The wire spun the Corsair out of control, to the right. Instead of careening into the parked planes, Jesse’s plane whistled off the side of the carrier’s deck and dropped out of sight.
Across from the tower, deckhands peeked up from their trench. Only the sea could be seen, churning on the horizon. They waited for the sound of a plane punching into the waves but heard only the wailing wind.
Tom and the others rose from Vulture’s Row and leaned across the railing to see forward. The red-shirted crash crew poured from the tower with axes and fire extinguishers. On the ship’s bridge, the captain and his sailors stood and pressed their faces to the windows.
A deckhand climbed cautiously to the deck, then another and another. Together, they sprinted across the deck to the spot where the Corsair had last been seen. At the edge of the deck they stopped and looked down, scanning the waves for the wreckage.
All they saw were foaming whitecaps floating on the dark sea.
The men looked up to the horizon. Their eyes narrowed. A mile away flew a dark blue plane just skimming the waves.
The men burst into a massive cheer.
The cheers diminished into laughter and clapping as the Corsair shrank in the distance. After several tense seconds, the plane climbed skyward and slowly began turning.
Jesse Brown was coming back around.
—
Twenty minutes later, in a ready room below the flight deck, Jesse removed his flight gear in silence. The rows of leather armchairs were empty in the room behind him.
Before missions, pilots came to this theater-like room for briefings, and they suited up here, too. Soon everyone who had flown that day would gather in the room for a debriefing, to hear the LSO read his critique of each landing.
Jesse had completed the six requisite landings and was now fully qualified in the Corsair. But he dreaded what would transpire in the debriefing. A naval aviator was supposed to land correctly the first time—not the fourth—and Jesse knew how the LSO would describe his barrier bounce: “DNKUA.”
It was an acronym, pilot-speak for “Damn Near Killed Us All.”
“There he is!” an excited voice shouted.
A rush of pilots burst through the doorway. Jesse turned and saw the tall frame and curly black hair of Marty Goode. Marty’s gang of junior ensigns followed close behind. Marty threw an arm over Jesse’s shoulder to make a pronouncement. Jesse squirmed to get away, but Marty kept him close.
“They say there are two kinds of aviators in the navy,” Marty told his gang. “Those who have hit the barrier—and those who will someday hit it. But I think there’s a third—Jesse Brown. When he sees a barrier, he jumps it!”
The pilots laughed. Even Jesse had to smirk. Marty was Jewish and felt kinship with Jesse because t
hey both had endured prejudice. During flight training, a fellow cadet admitted to Marty that before he met him, he thought Jews might actually have horns.
Jesse dropped his shoulders as Marty and the others pummeled him with their questions. As they replayed his barrier bounce with their hands, Jesse’s smile faded. Despite the levity, despite the adulation, he understood the reality.
He had damn near killed himself.
* * *
* Throughout this book, the author has translated some navy terminology into civilian-friendly equivalents. Accordingly, the carrier’s “island” has become the “tower,” the “wardroom” is the “dining room,” “knots” have been converted into “miles per hour,” and so forth.
CHAPTER 11
A TIME FOR FAITH
The next evening, April 5, 1950
Warwick, Rhode Island
FROM HER SEAT ON THE COUCH, Daisy heard the car pull into the driveway and saw the headlights cut the darkness. She set her book down. A car door shut, then another. Daisy peered through a window and a smile spanned her face. In the driveway, Jesse was removing his sea bag from the trunk of Carol Mohring’s car. Both men were wearing long blue coats and white officer’s hats.
Daisy scooped up Pam as Jesse’s keys jingled in the lock. Jesse stepped inside and his eyes turned moist. He hugged his wife and daughter tightly and seemed reluctant to let go. Finally, Jesse remembered that Carol was waiting on the porch, so he took Pam into his arms and stepped aside, inviting Carol in. Carol took off his hat, greeted Daisy, and tousled Pam’s head. He had visited the family many times, but was always shy at first.