Devotion

by Adam Makos

  The Marines followed footpaths over a creek and through a field of knee-high leaves. Red carried his bazooka in both hands, evenly distributing its fourteen pounds. The weight made his arms tired, and the muggy heat made him sweat. The Marines ahead suddenly veered off the path. Red found them crouched at the edge of a field of melons.

  “Hey Red!” an ammo bearer shouted. “You’re a farmer. Can we eat ’em?”

  Red studied the leaves from where he stood. “Yup, they’re watermelons! Get one for me, too!”

  The others plucked watermelons from their stems. One of Red’s buddies approached him with a melon but stopped when he noticed that Red’s hands were full.

  “Just shove it in my pack!” Red said with a grin. The Marine laughed and jammed the extra weight inside.

  —

  Atop the hill, Red and his buddies stopped at the road and ditched their backpacks on the sandy ground. Red opened his shirt and rolled up his sleeves.

  He and his assistants crouched behind scrub bushes and Red aimed his bazooka up the road that led to the hilltop fort. His assistants each held shells. The other bazooka squad set up a few yards away and platoons of riflemen took up positions along the hill. A few men scampered across the road to spread triangular marker panels on the ground—vibrant orange “road signs” that would show the pilots above how far the friendly lines stretched.

  One of Red’s buddies checked his watch. Thinking aloud, he wondered where the flyboys were.

  “Probably overslept in their floating hotel,” another man joked.

  Red removed the rockets from around his neck and tipped his helmet back. His buddies yawned. The action in Korea was far from their minds, even as friendly forces were reeling in retreat and the papers were predicting a longer war, maybe six months, maybe nine.

  Someone suggested that it was time for a snack. Red set his bazooka on a rock, the others left their ammo, and the men returned to their packs. On the edge of the hill, overlooking the sea, they drew their long Ka-Bar knives and carved into the watermelons.

  Credit 17.1

  Bob Devans (left) and Red Parkinson

  Red sank his teeth into a slice, gushing seeds. This is the life! he thought. The Marines enjoyed their feast and the view of the fleet at anchor, a few miles out.

  One of Red’s buddies lowered the slice of watermelon from his face. “Uh-oh,” he mumbled, looking downhill.

  Their platoon leader, Corporal Bob Devans, was approaching. Devans was just twenty years old and short, with an upturned nose and sleepy eyes on a square face. He had joined the Marines straight out of high school.

  Devans’s eyes settled on his men. Red and the five others didn’t even try to scamper away or hide the melons. Devans shook his head in frustration.

  “Fellas, you know better. Where’d you get ’em?” Devans asked.

  “Down by the beach, Bob,” a Marine admitted.

  “I’d tell you to put ’em back, but it’s too late for that,” Devans said.

  Red and the others nodded with watermelon seeds stuck to their chins.

  Devans scanned the hilltop and saw that everyone was in position for the mock air strikes. Everyone who knew him agreed—he had “presence.” In high school, Devans had been an actor in school plays such as Janie and The Waltz Dream.

  “Keep the melons,” Devans said. “Just get back to your positions and at least act like there’s an enemy coming.”

  Red and the others scrambled to their positions.

  —

  The clanking of wheels echoed across the quiet hilltop. Red perked up and glanced toward the fort. He saw that his buddies were starting to doze.

  “Soviet tank, T-34!” Red shouted, slapping his assistants on their helmets. Red raised his bazooka and aimed. The assistants perked up and glanced in the direction of Red’s aim.

  Up the road, two small Greek boys were pulling a rickety cart loaded with watermelons. The Marines chuckled. They watched the boys carry melons from their cart to the other Marine squads. Sometimes the boys returned without melons, counting coins in their palms.

  The youngsters worked their way down the road to Red and his buddies. They approached, presented their melons, and recited the only English they knew: “Two for dol-la!” They were deeply tanned, with mops of black hair. The youngsters’ eyes suddenly went wide, locking on the watermelon rinds scattered around the Marines. Red glanced guiltily at his buddies and asked if anyone had brought any money.

  None had.

  “We. Don’t. Have. Any. Dollars,” Red told the youngsters. The boys raised their palms in confusion.

  One of Red’s assistants hollered for Corporal Devans.

  “Oh, you’ve done it now,” Devans said as he approached from behind. He knelt in front of the youngsters, who backpedaled in fear. “Hey, hey, don’t be scared,” Devans said. He pulled a phrase book from his pocket and jabbered something in Greek. The youngsters laughed. Devans chuckled and looked at his phrase book again. In each port, Red and the others had seen Devans using the local language, like an actor practicing his lines.

  Devans tried a different phrase and the boys nodded and pointed toward the beach. They babbled an excited reply. Devans turned and addressed his platoon.

  “It’s official—you ate their livelihood,” Devans said. “They’re brothers and that’s their farm by the beach.” Devans fished a dollar from his pocket and handed it to the youngsters. The boys grinned and returned to their cart.

  Devans turned to Red and the others with a parting thought: “You owe me a slice!”

  —

  Behind the Marines, a droning sound came from the heavens above the sea. Red and his buddies turned and looked up. At eight thousand feet, four blue cross-like shapes flew in formation, followed by another formation, and another. More than forty planes were crossing the sky.

  “It’s the Ks!” a Marine shouted.

  “About time,” said another.

  The Marines could spot the Leyte’s planes by the tall, white letter K on their tails. Tom, Jesse, and Koenig were up there flying Corsairs in Cevoli’s flight. Dad Fowler had a flight of his own; so did the skipper and the other squadron leaders from the Leyte.

  The Corsairs nosed over, one after another, and flew downward at a gentle angle, their bent wings taking shape in the sunlight. Red and his buddies stood up. The planes were aiming for an imaginary target in the arid fields across the road—maybe a hill, maybe a hay pile.

  “Bring it in close!” a Marine urged the planes.

  The lead Corsair descended and stretched in size, the entire plane glimmering from nose to tail.

  A Marine made imaginary strafing sounds with his lips—“Bup! Bup! Bup!”

  The plane leveled off at three thousand feet and passed high over Red and his buddies with barely a grumble. The Corsair kept flying inland, as if striking a target miles away.

  One after another, the other three Corsairs emulated their leader’s mock attack. As each gently swooped overhead, the Marines cheered with a little less enthusiasm. “Come on, bring it in lower!” a Marine shouted at the planes. It was no use. One by one, the Corsairs pulled up at the same invisible spot then flew away. The young men groaned.

  “I want my money back,” one joked.

  “They probably don’t want to spook the goats,” Red commented.

  More Corsairs came in and made attacks so tepid that the Marines turned back to their watermelons. High over the island, the formations turned and motored back toward the sea. They had been ordered to avoid flying low over areas populated by civilians or livestock but the Marines didn’t know this.

  One young Marine was particularly peeved. He shielded his eyes and spoke for the others.

  “That was the worst air show I’ve ever seen!”

  CHAPTER 18

  AT FIRST SIGHT

  Three weeks later, August 11, 1950

  Beirut, Lebanon

  THE NIGHT WAS YOUNG and the party was in full swing around the pool of the rit
zy St. Georges Yacht Club, a six-story hotel decked in Arabic patterns.

  Mixed groups of government dignitaries, local girls from well-connected families, and naval officers stretched around the pool. The party, hosted by the American ambassador to Lebanon, was to welcome the navy to the capital city of Beirut.

  A waiter refilled Tom’s and Cevoli’s champagne glasses—not for the first time. “I think the ambassador’s trying to get us drunk!” Tom said with surprise. Cevoli chuckled and agreed. Neither had ever seen so much champagne being slung around.

  An orchestra played beneath a poolside cabana, softly enough that the buzz of refined conversation could be heard. Palm fronds swayed in the lamplight, and beyond the pool lay a staggering background: the Leyte at anchor.

  As Tom and Cevoli strolled around the pool, Tom stuck to the sidewalk. From the top of his hat to the cuffs of his pants he was dressed all in white. Tom loved the crisp perfection of the formal uniform. His jacket was punctuated by gold buttons and framed by black shoulder boards; on his chest, his golden aviator wings shone in the light. But the uniform was difficult to keep clean. On the boat ride from the Leyte to the party, Tom had been very careful where he chose to sit.

  Cevoli glanced across the pool and burst out in laughter. “Look!” he said. “He’s dragging Jesse off again!” Tom looked in time to see the ambassador, Lowell Pinkerton, lead Jesse by the arm toward a throng of local dignitaries and their wives. Wearing a sandy-colored suit, Pinkerton looked like a bald Teddy Roosevelt with a thick mustache and a similar aura of enthusiasm.

  The partygoers swarmed Jesse to shake his hand. The curious expressions on their faces suggested that they had never seen a black officer, let alone one in dress whites. The men and women leaned forward to hear Jesse’s every soft-spoken word.*

  Between yawns, Tom glanced at his watch. The party still had an hour to run before it concluded at midnight. For Tom, Jesse, and their squadron mates, the parties and glad-handing were becoming tiresome. After Crete, the Dancing Fleet had sailed to Athens, then Istanbul, before dropping anchor at Beirut the day before. Prior to now, Tom hadn’t left the ship because the crowds in Lebanon—on the eastern extreme of the Mediterranean—were unfriendly to Americans. After two more days in Beirut, the fleet was scheduled for a last stop in France and Tom was counting down the days.

  Then, out of the corner of his eye, he saw her.

  At first he caught a flash of brown hair and a pastel pink dress and he heard her high heels clattering as she walked past. Tom’s eyes followed her lithe legs upward until he came to her wavy hair. The girl glanced over her shoulder and caught him looking.

  Dark eyebrows arched over blue eyes. Her lips were red and her smile beamed all-American friendliness.

  Tom felt a rush of light-headedness.

  Is she looking at me? he thought.

  Tom glanced behind him. Only Cevoli was anywhere near him. Tom watched the girl turn away and blend in with a group of civilians at the far end of the pool.

  Cevoli shook Tom to bring him back to earth. Tom saw his flight leader grinning broadly.

  “She’s probably with one of them,” Tom said, motioning to the group the girl had joined. Cevoli disagreed. A married man, he assured his young wingman that only a single girl would emit such a look.

  Tom glanced back. The girl laughed and tossed her hair, then shot another glance in his direction.

  Cevoli looked down at Tom’s flute of champagne. “Drink up!” he said. “That’s an order.”

  Tom chuckled nervously and downed the glass. “Drink mine too,” Cevoli said, handing his glass to Tom, who threw it back in one gulp. “Good, you’re fueled.”

  Tom began to waver. He reminded Cevoli that they would be sailing from Lebanon in two days.

  Cevoli leaned close and put a hand on Tom’s shoulder. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this,” he said. “But in our line of work sometimes you only get one chance.”

  Tom nodded. Here one day, gone the next—every aviator knew the hazards.

  Cevoli took both empty glasses from Tom’s hands. “Why are you still here?” he asked.

  —

  The girl turned and stepped from her group before Tom had reached her. “About time!” she said, laughing. She was certainly American.

  Taken aback, Tom grinned. “I saw you from over there,” he said and pointed to where Cevoli stood. He told the girl he couldn’t help but wonder who she was. A bemused look spanned the girl’s face. Tom’s was probably the most honest pickup line she had ever heard.

  The two exchanged pleasantries. As they talked, Tom discovered that the girl worked for the embassy. She was well educated and knew all about the Korean War on the diplomatic front, where Britain and India were now calling on the Soviets to stop the North Korean attacks. Gosh, she’s fascinating, Tom thought.

  “Have you seen the lounge yet?” the girl asked at one point. Tom hadn’t, so she grabbed him by the hand and pulled him toward the hotel.

  —

  One level beneath the hotel sat the lounge and a view unique to the Middle East. Behind the bartender, a massive pane of glass provided an aquarium-like side view into the hotel’s swimming pool.

  In a booth, Tom and the girl sat close together at a table covered with empty champagne flutes. The party was thinning out and the lounge was dark and moody but for the waves of blue light along the walls.

  The girl studied Tom’s face as he smoked a cigarette. Tom pulled the cigarette from his lips and flicked away the ash. He had smoked it down to half its original size.

  “Okay, ready for some magic?” he asked.

  The girl nodded.

  Tom placed the cigarette between his lips and cupped his hands over his mouth. Wisps of smoke rose from the cracks between his fingers. He began making pained expressions with his eyes, as if he were being burned, but he kept his hands clasped over his mouth. Finally, the smoke stopped rising and Tom relaxed. He cupped his palms inward and lowered them from his face, as if he were hiding something. The cigarette was missing from his lips. The girl’s eyes followed Tom’s hands as he slowly slid them toward her, then fanned them open.

  His palms were empty. The cigarette was gone.

  The girl’s eyes leapt with amazement to Tom’s face.

  Tom smiled and shrugged. When he refused to tell her how he did it, she punched him playfully on the arm.

  “I want to give you something,” Tom said.

  The girl cocked her head and leaned closer. Tom unfastened his collar and began unbuttoning his jacket, one gold button after another.

  The girl sat back in confusion.

  Tom slid a hand into his jacket and fiddled inside. From the outside, he grabbed his golden flight wings and pried them from his uniform. The wings were a naval aviator’s most valuable possession.

  Tom handed his wings to the girl. “For you,” he said.

  The girl studied the wings in her palm and glanced up, her eyes glimmering. She embraced Tom tightly. When she released him, a dumbstruck grin lined Tom’s face.

  The girl gazed into Tom’s eyes. He gazed into hers.

  “This was a lovely night,” Tom said. The girl nodded, maintaining eye contact. Tom glanced down to his watch and added, “But I’ve got a boat to catch.” The girl’s face dropped. She had expected a kiss.

  As Tom gave the girl a hand and led her from the booth, he was sure he had played everything right. They’d made plans for a date the following night and Tom had already decided: He’d take bigger chances tomorrow.

  —

  All navy men were supposed to reach the docks by midnight and time was running short. Tom stumbled sloppily down the road from the hotel, his hat in his hand and his coat unbuttoned. The road led down to a small marina on the left where the Leyte’s shuttle boats idled. Whistles shrieked from the darkness.

  Tom knew that the Shore Patrol, the navy’s police, were out rounding up sailors, pilots, and Marines who appeared drunk or in danger of breaking curfew—men like h
im.

  Now you’ve done it, Tom thought. His polished dress shoes slapped the road faster.

  Entering the marina, Tom saw the docks where the Leyte’s boats were bobbing, but the Shore Patrol stood in the way. They were sailors wearing black armbands with the white letters SP on them. Batons dangled from their belts.

  The SPs had formed a human chain to steer clusters of drunken sailors and Marines toward the boats where other SPs took positions to ensure that no one fell in the water. Some of the drunken men were topless, having swapped their shirts for a final drink. Others were wearing ridiculous souvenirs—kepis, fezzes, fur shawls—and a few were carrying their incoherent buddies. During an earlier shore leave in Athens, a pilot had even brought a goat on a leash back to the docks.

  Tom stood as soberly as possible and approached the SPs’ human chain.

  “Excuse me,” he said to an SP.

  The SP turned, saw Tom, and said, “Evening, sir, you’re just in time.” The SP stepped aside.

  Tom thanked him and fell in line with the drunken sailors.

  In the officers’ launch, Tom took a seat in the middle. The vessel was nearly empty. Behind Tom stood a sailor at the helm, waiting for stragglers.

  Tom sprawled across the damp bench and felt the wood, cool against his cheek. He no longer cared if he soiled his dress whites. Another officer entered the boat, saw Tom, and laughed as he claimed a seat.

  “It’s not the booze,” Tom said, clutching his sore stomach. “I ate a cigarette.”

  The following afternoon

  A puttering noise shook the steel ceiling. Tom clutched his pounding head and sat up in his bunk, baffled at the sound. Without windows, his cabin aboard the Leyte was dark and timeless. The sound came in strokes: whomp, whomp, whomp. What in the heck? Tom thought. It was the sound of a helicopter, but flight operations were supposed to be suspended while the carrier was in port.

  Tom glanced at his watch and cursed. Noon had come and gone. It was a Saturday and he had nowhere to go until his date that night, but apprehension still nagged at him. He looked to his roommate’s bunk below but saw that his friend, a pilot named Whalen, had already left the cabin. His buddies were undoubtedly ashore already, and something was happening on deck.