by Adam Makos
Halley smiled. He took the wine and told Elizabeth he hoped that they would reunite again. She gave him a hug.
Halley returned to the table and handed Jesse the bottle of wine. “A gift from Elizabeth Taylor,” he said.
Jesse took the bottle in his hands.
“Did you really go to school with her?” he asked.
A guilty grin stretched across Halley’s face. “Nah,” he said. “Unless she was in the same orphanage!” Jesse chuckled and told Halley that he was something else.
Jesse examined the label and noticed that Elizabeth was glancing in his direction. He gave her a small salute. She smiled and lifted her glass in return.
—
Tom and Koenig saw Jesse approaching the dock with a bottle of wine in one hand and shopping bags in the other.
Tom smiled. “Since when do you drink?” he asked.
“Oh, I don’t,” Jesse said.
Koenig raised an eyebrow. “You know you can’t bring that aboard ship, right?”
Jesse nodded. He saw a group of Marines stepping from a boat and stood. When they walked past, Jesse handed them the bottle and jokingly welcomed them to Cannes.
“Gee, thanks, sir,” a Marine said, looking confused as he and his buddies examined the bottle.
Jesse told Koenig and Tom the story about meeting Elizabeth Taylor.
“You mean she got married?” Tom asked, faking dismay. “And here I was saving myself just for her.”
The men laughed, unaware that Tom’s dreams were actually far from dashed.
CHAPTER 16
ONLY IN FRANCE
Four days later, July 7, 1950
Off the coast of Cannes
THE MORNING SUN STREAKED across the flight deck and over the Corsairs that were parked mid-ship.
Beside the nose of a plane, Tom jotted notes on a clipboard while Marty crouched with a flashlight near the landing gear. Flight operations were on hold while the Leyte was at Cannes, but maintenance work continued.
“So sloppy,” Tom muttered. He frowned at the clipboard, where blocks of numbers were missing from a chart.
Marty called out a string of serial numbers and Tom recorded them. Every pilot in the squadron had a side job; Tom and Marty were “assistant maintenance officers.” Their role was to review the squadron mechanics’ work and keep tabs on aircraft readiness.
“Man, you should have seen her, Tom,” Marty exclaimed as he searched for a serial number. “Blonde with green eyes, long legs, a real doll!” Marty’s mind was ashore on Cannes where he had met a French girl.
“Sounds nice,” Tom murmured.
Marty was going ashore to see her that night and he had invited Tom along. “If you aren’t having a fling in this place, there’s something wrong with you,” Marty added.
Tom grunted. The stay in Cannes was already a third of the way over, yet Tom had more pressing concerns—namely, the planes’ logs. Some weeks earlier he had spotted a problem: Each Corsair was issued with a maintenance log, similar to a person’s file in a doctor’s office. The planes’ manufacturer, Chance Vought, often sent maintenance orders to squadrons, and when mechanics changed parts they were supposed to notate their work in the logs. But Fighting 32 got its Corsairs from a Marine reserve squadron where the mechanics had been lazy.
Tom had alerted the skipper and volunteered to bring the logs up to date by gathering serial numbers from the planes and cross-checking them with the manufacturer’s catalogues. The job fell to Marty to help him. It was tedious work, but Tom wanted the mechanics to know what parts were due to wear out so that no one would crash—himself included.
—
The sound of airy conversation and slapping flip-flops came from across the deck. Tom looked up from his clipboard.
Past the Corsair’s wing walked a girl in a short white sundress with an officer in dress whites by her side. Tom’s and Marty’s eyes both went wide. It was Elizabeth Taylor.
Some distance behind the starlet an entourage followed—men and women, young and old, some officers and some of her friends. Her husband, Nicky Hilton, was among them. He looked like a typical youth in a red polo shirt as he chatted with his escorts.
Elizabeth spotted Marty and Tom and strolled over.
“Well, what are you doing down there?” she asked Marty. Her sundress was decorated with colorful beads and her handbag was made of white leather.
“Just making sure I don’t get a flat tire,” Marty joked.
Elizabeth flashed a smile. Marty stood, wiped his hands on his slacks, and introduced himself.
Tom kept his distance, happy to let Marty do the talking. He had seen one of Elizabeth’s movies and thought that her acting was good but not great. Still, she was stunning.
“Are you mechanics?” Elizabeth asked.
“Us? No,” Marty said with a laugh. He explained that they were pilots, but checking the planes was part of their job. Tom nodded in agreement as he held the clipboard to his chest.
Elizabeth apologized and added that she couldn’t imagine flying one of those planes. Marty offered to show her the cockpit and her eyes lit up—but the officer interceded and said they needed to move along in order to see the entire ship.
Before the officer could steer Elizabeth away, she invited Marty and Tom to visit a casino with her and Nicky that night, and she told them to bring their friends. Marty said he would be there and Tom agreed too. The sound of the flip-flops faded as Elizabeth’s escorts led her toward the rear of the ship to pose for a photo with the rescue helicopter.
Marty looked at Tom with glee. “I guess you’ll be meeting my girl now!”
That night, in nearby Monaco
Big band music floated through the Monte Carlo Casino as Tom slid his chips onto the green velvet of the roulette table.
“Put one here, one here, and one there!” Elizabeth said. Sitting by Tom’s left side, the starlet pointed to the table’s numbered grid. An orchid was nestled in her black hair and her strapless white dress fit elegantly. Tom happily obeyed. Across the table, Marty grinned at the sight.
Before this night, Tom had never been inside a casino, let alone the world’s most famous one in Monaco, a short train ride from Cannes. The parlor was stately, with high ceilings, ornate chandeliers, and walls flourished with gold. The music reminded Tom of smooth jazz, his favorite.
Tom leaned back, pleased with his gambling partner’s advice. Elizabeth knew all the rules, even though she was too young to gamble legally in France or the United States. Her husband, Nicky, had taught her, but tonight he was absent, supposedly away with friends.
Around the table, navy pilots and their girls placed their bets. Some of the girls were pilots’ wives—young, childless “ship chasers” who came to Europe on vacation. Elizabeth had invited them all. The starlet glanced eagerly up the table and waited for the dealer to spin the wheel. She’s far too beautiful and too young to be married, Tom thought.
Elizabeth’s blue eyes narrowed when an elegant blonde took her place across the table and cozied up to Marty’s side. Tom’s eyes, the pilots’ eyes, all eyes immediately locked on the blonde. She curled her arm around Marty’s waist. Her nose was small and sharp, her eyes green and sultry. She was Marty’s French girlfriend and she’d just stolen the spotlight from Elizabeth Taylor.
Tom looked at Marty, cocked his head in amazement, and thought, Maybe he’s some sort of Casanova after all?
The dealer spun the wheel and called out, “Mesdames and messieurs, no more bets!” Shaken from their daze, Tom, Elizabeth, and the others began cheering and clapping. The ball landed and the dealer placed the marker on the winning number. A combination of laughter and groans erupted.
From the other tables, sophisticated women in pearls and men in tuxedos turned toward the pilots’ table, perturbed. They looked down their noses at the young military men in blazers and the women in simple dresses.
The pilots couldn’t have cared less. As the game continued, several of the wives congreg
ated around Elizabeth, who chatted away, seemingly “one of the girls.” Earlier that week, the wives had found Elizabeth alone and depressed and had welcomed her into their group. They then spent the ensuing days together at the wives’ hotel, gossiping and sharing clothes. Elizabeth even told her new friends that she was secretly jealous of them because of the men they’d married. She admitted that her new husband was having an affair and she was already planning to get divorced but couldn’t leave Cannes without Nicky because they had come to Europe on a shared passport.
During a change of dealers, Tom stood to stretch his legs. Marty approached and whispered into his ear, “I feel like I’ve stepped into the middle of an unspoken competition!” He was talking about the rivalry between his girl and Elizabeth. Tom complimented his friend’s eye for beauty. Grinning broadly, Marty rushed away to refill his drink.
Tom nursed his scotch and flipped a chip in his hand as he waited for the game to resume. He was already running low on money and the night was still young.
Someone bumped Tom in passing and knocked the chip from his hand. It tumbled end over end and down the wooden seatback of Elizabeth’s chair.
Oh, brother! Tom thought.
Elizabeth didn’t notice. Her back was to him as she conversed with the wives.
Tom slowly leaned over Elizabeth’s seat and glanced down. The chip had come to rest between the seatback and the starlet’s shapely behind. Tom reeled backward and looked away. Fortunately no one had caught him looking.
Of all the places! he thought.
The others were returning with full drinks and Tom knew that the group wasn’t going anywhere anytime soon. He needed that chip to keep playing. Tom flexed the fingers of his left hand. He slid his hand across the top of Elizabeth’s chair as if he was resting his arm. Swiftly he plunged his hand downward, snatched the chip, and pulled it out. He dropped his arm to his side and stood still like a soldier, his eyes fixed straight ahead.
Elizabeth must have felt the rustle of Tom’s sleeve. She turned and looked up at him, her eyebrows raised, her blue eyes sparkling. She cocked her head playfully.
She thinks I tried to grope her! Tom thought. He glanced down at her, blushed, and sheepishly held up the chip so that she could see it.
Elizabeth laughed, slapped Tom on the arm, and turned back to her conversation.
—
Several pilots claimed they saw him there in the casino, the pilot who resembled Clark Gable.
The skipper.
They said that he drifted in through the smoke and wandered the room with his hands in the pockets of the plainest civilian clothes, as if he had come from a lowbrow bar. How he got past the casino’s doormen was a mystery.
He must have seen Marty playing roulette with his French girlfriend.
He must have seen Marty kissing the girl.
He must have seen the young pilot look like he was head over heels in love, a dangerous cocktail that could cloud an aviator’s mind on the ground—and in the air.
There could be no other explanation for his reaction to come.
The next morning
Tom looked up from a paper-strewn desk inside one of the Leyte’s cavernous hangars at the tail of the ship. Across from him, Marty hummed as he cross-checked serial numbers with the catalogues.
Behind Marty, planes filled the hangar deck. Situated one level below the flight deck, the hangar deck stretched the length of the ship. Lights dangled from beams and sliding walls in the ship’s sides allowed the breeze from Cannes to drift through the massive chambers.
Tom had never seen Marty this cheerful and knew exactly who his friend was thinking about. The sound of approaching footsteps drew Tom’s attention upward. The skipper was coming. Tom began to stand but the skipper stopped him: “As you were.”
“Hiya, skipper,” Marty said. The skipper nodded in return.
“Boys, we’ve got a heck of a problem.” He told them that the mechanics were having trouble starting a plane and suspected that there could be water in its gas tank. “Could be sabotage,” he added. Tom and Marty glanced at each other with concern.
The skipper’s eyes settled on Marty. “Ensign Goode, I’ve got a job for you and it’s important.”
Marty nodded, eager to please.
“I want you to inspect every airplane and fuel tank to figure out if there’s water in the gas and how it got there,” the skipper said.
Marty’s smile disappeared.
“No going ashore until it’s done,” the skipper added.
Tom could see Marty’s mind churning, calculating his predicament. The squadron had fifteen planes, each with a main fuel tank and an underbelly drop tank. Thirty tanks, Tom thought. It would take Marty forever and the Leyte was due to leave Cannes in seven days.*
Tom raised his hand a bit. “Sir, I can assist Ensign Goode?”
Marty’s face lifted with hope. He grinned from Tom to the skipper.
“Nope,” the skipper said. “I’ve got other tasks for you.”
Tom nodded and Marty’s face fell in despair.
“Carry on,” the skipper said and walked away.
“This is a bad dream,” Marty muttered. He could not call his girlfriend—there were no ship-to-shore phones. He needed to get ashore to see her, to give her his address, at least. His only hope was to work fast.
Over the ensuing days, Marty rushed around the ship carrying glass test tubes to the ship’s lab. When the report came back, the news wasn’t good. Water had found its way into the tanks of all the aircraft.
With just a few days remaining in Cannes, Marty reported to the skipper’s office to explain the situation. He had even built a wooden box to display the test tubes. Marty concluded that the ship had taken on contaminated gas at Livorno.
“Fine work, Ensign Goode,” said the skipper from his desk. “Now you can supervise the removal of the contaminated fuel from all our planes.”
When Marty stepped from the skipper’s office, he buried his face in his hands.
—
Several days later, Marty and an assortment of wistful sailors and pilots leaned over the railing of the Leyte’s fantail and watched Cannes shrink in the distance. In the morning light, the carrier’s wake bubbled a golden V on the sea, like two arms reaching out.
Marty’s eyes hung low with despair. He hadn’t made it ashore to see his girlfriend again and now the Leyte was steaming east for war games on the island of Crete. Other men had French girlfriends, so why the skipper had singled him out for punishment, Marty didn’t know.
It was all too late. Up and down the coast, destroyers and tenders of the Dancing Fleet were pulling out from their ports to rendezvous in open waters.
Beneath the horizon, the Leyte’s wake surrendered its reach and became blue with the sea.
* * *
* Elizabeth Taylor visited the Leyte several more times in Cannes. She dined in the wardroom with the pilots, attended a dance in the hangar deck, and dropped by the sick bay when Halley was on duty to give him autographed photos for his friends. To this day, Halley regrets that he gave them all away and forgot to keep one for himself.
CHAPTER 17
THE FRIENDLY INVASION
Four days later, July 19, 1950
The Island of Crete
THE MARINES BRACED in the landing craft’s belly as the boat scraped the sandy bottom of the shallow water. The engine surged, the propeller gurgled. In the middle of the men, Red Parkinson grinned while cradling a bazooka almost as tall as he was. It was 7 A.M. and shadows filled the craft.
Red looked between the camouflaged helmets of the Marines in front as the ramp dropped. Golden light rushed inside and Red squinted. Before the men lay a glimpse of heaven—a Mediterranean beach and beyond it, green fields against a backdrop of scrubby hills.
“Hit the beach!” the boat driver shouted.
“Weapons Company, move out!” an officer yelled and the Marines surged forward. “Let’s get ’em!” joked a Marine. His buddies l
aughed. Red followed the others off the boat and into the shin-deep water. The Marines stepped toward the beach, every splash darkening their tan leggings and baggy green pants.
Besides the M20 Super Bazooka that Red carried, he wore a full backpack and a carbine rifle slung across his shoulder. He carried two bazooka rockets in a bag around his neck and a pistol, canteen, and knife on his hips. His chinstrap was loose and the brim of his helmet kept sliding over his eyes. Keep going! he told himself. Uncle Anton would be proud!
In the center of the beach stood an officer with arms outstretched. Red slowed to a trot as he passed. “Don’t crap in the bushes!” the officer shouted. “Use the slit trenches! Stick to footpaths—this is borrowed property!” Red grinned and kept charging. To his left, he could see the village of Kalives.
Red’s legs grew rubbery as he scaled a bluff. On the other side he found his five buddies, who had stopped to catch their breath. Red happily took a knee. Now assembled, the boys comprised an antitank platoon. They were separated into two squads. In his squad, Red carried the rocket launcher, another Marine served as his loader, and another carried extra ammo.
Ahead, beyond the fields, lay their objective—a wide hill where Red and his buddies were ordered to set up a roadblock to intercept imaginary Soviet tanks. To the far right of the hill stood a fort built in the time of Napoleon.
Two Greek soldiers paced past Red and the others. They wore dark green uniforms and tipped their small brimmed caps in greeting. The Greeks were allies who had come to observe. Just nine months earlier, they had fought a bloody civil war against Greek communists that produced more casualties among their people than WWII had. Among the losses were twenty-eight thousand children abducted by Greek communists and dispersed across communist lands to be raised under political indoctrination, in lives of manual labor.
“We gotta get moving, or we’ll miss the air show!” said one of Red’s buddies. The men moved out, eager to scale the hill to get the best view of the Leyte’s planes flying over.