Devotion

by Adam Makos

  The children scurried to the roadside as the lead plane burst past at a blurry 250 miles per hour. The children covered their ears. Within the plane’s cockpit, a white face peered out from a helmet. One after another, seven more Corsairs roared past and bathed the valley in noise.

  The planes ripped past the farmer, who shrank but held his ground. In his lifetime he had likely seen Japanese occupiers, then Soviet “liberators,” then homegrown communists, and now the men in blue planes, whoever they were.

  The women on the bridge lowered their baskets and crouched low, fearing a strafing. In a flash, all eight Corsairs raced over them.

  Without firing a shot, the blue planes thundered up the road.

  —

  At the controls of Corsair number 200, the seventh plane in line, Tom Hudner cringed. He had seen the North Korean people below, their faces frozen in confusion or fear. These people must hate us, Tom thought. He wished he could tell the peasants that flying low was the best way to hunt for targets while avoiding anti-aircraft fire.

  Black residue from gunfire clung to the six gun barrels in Tom’s wings. His rocket rails were empty, their missiles spent on an enemy convoy that morning. Now he and the others were saving their bombs for a sizeable target.

  A week earlier, the port city of Wonsan had been liberated, then the city of Hamhung, where the South Korean army had discovered the bodies of seven hundred political prisoners executed by the North Koreans. Now the forces of democracy were pushing the North Koreans up the eastern coast, killing and capturing them with light opposition. To support the advance, the Leyte and Philippine Sea had leapfrogged ninety-three miles north to operate off the coast of Songjin, a city behind enemy lines.

  The radio crackled with sporadic chatter. “I see smoke coming out of that tunnel!” a pilot announced. “I’ve got a train up here,” said another. “Let’s knock out those sampans,” suggested another voice. Tom glanced outside his canopy for the source of the voices but the other pilots were probably a mountain or two away. An informal race had begun between the carriers and their squadrons to hit whatever targets they could find before Songjin was picked clean, as Wonsan had been.

  Tom’s eyes rose with concern to a rearview mirror along the canopy rail. His face relaxed. Good, he’s still there, he thought. One hundred yards behind him, Marty Goode flew low over the terrain. Marty was last in line, the flight’s “Tail-End Charlie.” Behind a flickering propeller, the young ensign was sitting tall in his seat, his white helmet nearly brushing the canopy. Tom was Marty’s leader for the hop because Cevoli and Jesse had the day off and Koenig was flying in the plane ahead as wingman to a senior pilot.

  Tom wished that Marty were flying in front of him so that he could keep an eye on him. Tom knew Marty as the young, unpredictable ensign who had boasted that he had once come in late to work and was ordered to wash fifteen Bearcats as punishment. When his flight leader stepped from the hangar to review his work, he saw sparkling planes. But really, Marty had only washed the sides of the planes that were facing the hangar.

  To the right, an orange light blinked at the foot of a fast-approaching mountain. Tom’s eyes narrowed—the light resembled a bonfire. The light pulsed, growing larger and larger. “What the heck?” Tom muttered.

  In a blur, a glowing sphere arced over Tom’s canopy and past his tail. Zip! Tom flinched in his seat. Zip! Another sphere curved wildly over the left wing, then one under the right. Tom’s head whipped from side to side to track the golf ball–sized projectiles. Tracers!

  Someone was shooting at him, probably a Soviet-made 37mm gun. Tom had flown five combat missions so far, but this was the first time he’d taken anti-aircraft fire.

  The enemy gun fired steadily as the flight neared. The tracers appeared to be aimed at Dad Fowler’s plane in the lead, but the inexperienced North Korean gunner wasn’t leading his target, so the shells drifted toward the formation’s rear.

  Zip!

  Another orange sphere whipped over Tom’s wing. Is anyone else seeing this? he wondered. Tom glanced in a mirror and saw Marty shifting in his seat as shells whipped around him.

  Tom pulled the lip microphone close to his mouth but stopped short of speaking. He knew the skipper’s rules: Don’t clog the airwaves! Speak only when urgent.

  Tom’s eyes shifted forward. The planes ahead were still holding course, low over the road. Dad wasn’t panicking, nor was his wingman, Wilkie, nor was Koenig or any of the others. Everyone was flying in eerie silence.

  Tom shrank in his seat. The enemy gun was nearing, about to pass by on the right. It was still blinking, brighter than ever, and was becoming unnerving. Tom remembered the words of a veteran pilot who had briefed the squadron before the first mission: “Enemy flak isn’t very accurate—however, you’ve got to call it accurate when you’re hit.”

  Tom could hold his tongue no longer.

  “Lead, this is 200!” he said. “We’re taking fire back here!”

  “Copy that 200,” Dad said calmly. “You may take evasive action if you so desire.” Boredom colored his voice. The valley was too tight for all eight planes to take evasive maneuvers, but one or two could manage.

  Tom gritted his teeth.

  If he began weaving now, he’d reveal his fear. Aviators were taught not to panic because it was unsafe—and worse, “unprofessional.”

  Tom steadied his eyes forward on Koenig’s tail as shells continued to whiz around his wings. Through the windscreen, Tom watched Dad fly past the gun without taking a hit. The other Corsairs followed without question.

  After Tom had safely cleared the gun, he glanced in the mirror. Marty was still there.

  —

  At the end of the valley, Dad broke radio silence.

  “Lead to flight,” he said, “Target spotted, twelve o’clock.”

  Tom strained his eyes, trying to see what the veteran had spotted. Ahead, the land twisted leftward into a rocky gorge between two mountains. In the gorge stood a flat concrete bridge.

  Dad’s plane peeled up into a climbing rightward bank and the others followed, one by one. At five thousand feet, Tom leveled off behind the others. Undulating mountains filled the bottom of his windshield and low-hanging clouds filled the top. The Corsair’s nose glowed as the sunlight filtered softly through the clouds.

  Dad rocked his right wing twice, the signal for the flight to break into right echelon formations. Dad held his position as three pilots nestled beside and behind his right wing, forming a diagonal line in the sky. The second formation assembled next, behind the first. Koenig cozied up to his leader, then Tom banked left and settled beside Koenig. Tom glanced past his right wing and saw that Marty had parked himself tight. The assembly was complete.

  Dad led the formations away from the bridge. An enemy soldier below would have sworn that the Americans were heading home, but Tom knew otherwise. The bridge below enabled supplies to reach the retreating North Korean troops and its destruction could possibly hasten the war’s end by minutes, hours, or days. Dad was simply positioning the flight to attack.

  Tom glanced over his left shoulder, past his fist on the throttle, past the huge white star on the wing. Beyond the wingtip, the bridge slipped perpendicular to the flight. It was narrow, probably twenty feet wide, and strung over a small stream. Black railroad tracks crossed its length and vanished into a mountainside tunnel on the right.

  Dad peeled left and dived to kick off the attack. He disappeared from sight. Five seconds later, his wingman followed. Then came the next pilot in line, then the next. In fifteen seconds the first formation was gone.

  Tom’s formation leader raised his fist and made two pumps. Prepare to attack! Tom reached with his left hand for the bank of switches to the left of the gunsight. He flicked up a switch to activate his guns and bomb, then another that made his gunsight’s rings glow.

  The formation leader patted the top of his helmet and pointed to Koenig to signal: “I’m beginning my attack and passing the lead to you.” T
he leader peeled left and dived.

  Already, Dad and his formation were dropping their bombs. Tom heard the pilots spotting one another’s results. “Did mine hit?” Dad asked. “No sir, just missed,” Wilkie replied. Deflated voices reported more failures: “No dice!” “Close one!” “No go!” The first formation had struck out.

  After five seconds, Koenig turned to Tom, tapped his helmet, and peeled away. Tom was next. His breathing quickened as he silently counted off. Tom turned to Marty and saw the young ensign’s blue eyes blinking nervously. When the count reached five, Tom patted his helmet, and Marty rapidly nodded.

  Tom racked the control stick left and pulled back. In a violent, eager rush, the Corsair peeled leftward. The world rotated clockwise in the windscreen—sky and clouds turned to autumn foliage as Tom completed the turn with his Corsair aimed in a sharp dive toward the mountains.

  Five thousand feet below, gray smoke bubbled across the bridge, obscuring portions. Koenig’s Corsair was pulling from its dive. “Near miss, Bill,” Dad called out, now in position to spot for the others. Under heavy Gs, Koenig was too busy to reply.

  Open air now lay between the bridge and Tom’s plane. Tom peered through the gunsight and maneuvered the control stick to align the crosshairs with the bridge. He floated from his seat momentarily. When the smoky bridge was an inch above his crosshairs, the estimated aiming point for the steepness of the dive, Tom stopped steering.

  Hold her steady! he thought. The needle in the airspeed indicator wound upward as the speed mounted.

  320 miles per hour, 330, 340.

  Tom nursed back the throttle. His ears popped. Keep the wings even! Fight the crosswind! The needle in the altimeter spun backward.

  4,500 feet, 4,000, 3,500.

  The bridge swelled in the shaking crosshairs.

  3,000 feet, 2,500.

  Now!

  Tom mashed the red bomb release button with his thumb.

  Clunk! The bomb released.

  Climb! Tom thought. He had to put distance between himself and the explosion. Tom hauled back on the stick and slammed the throttle forward. Climb! Climb! Climb! The altimeter reversed its spin and spiraled upward. Gravity sucked Tom’s cheeks back and pulled him into his seat. He squinted against the sun and grimaced while squeezing his neck muscles to keep from blacking out. The Corsair soared up from the valley.

  Behind Tom, the bomb exploded. Thump.

  “Tom, you missed,” came Dad’s voice over the radio.

  “Damn it!” Tom muttered.

  Tom turned against his straps and glimpsed Marty pulling from his dive. Tom watched for the explosion from Marty’s bomb. Nothing happened.

  “Marty, you didn’t drop at all,” Dad reported.

  Leveling off, Tom studied the bridge from the side. The concrete appeared untouched.

  “Join up, and let’s head for home,” Dad said. He sounded annoyed at himself. The results were an embarrassment to the squadron.

  Behind the others, Marty climbed to catch up. His black eyebrows were furrowed in frustration. The pylon beneath his plane’s belly had malfunctioned and still gripped his bomb. Mechanical malfunction or not, he couldn’t land aboard the carrier with a hung bomb.

  Marty’s face twisted as he reached to the panel beside the gunsight to disarm the bomb. With the flick of a switch he could turn the bomb inert, then jettison it. He hesitated, his finger over the switch. If he dumped the bomb, the others might assume he’d messed up or worse—he’d panicked. More than anything, Marty wanted to look good for his buddies and Dad in particular.

  Dad was the best pilot in the squadron and maybe on the entire ship. Others would line Vulture’s Row just to watch him land because he came in so smoothly, without a twitch of his landing gear, all the way to the deck.

  More than anyone, Marty wanted to win Dad’s approval. Once, during carrier landing practice, Marty’s engine quit in midair. From the carrier, an officer radioed and asked Marty if he wanted to ditch alongside the ship. But Marty knew that Dad had just landed and was watching, so he tried for the deck without power. Marty caught a hook but landed askew and nearly rolled into a trench opposite the tower. When Marty dismounted, Dad approached him. Marty expected the veteran to say, “That was a damn fine landing, considering everything.” Instead, Dad shook his head and said, “That’s about the worst landing I’ve ever seen,” and walked away.

  Now, as Marty flew with a live bomb beneath his feet, he had yet to realize that Dad’s hard-nosed manner was a veteran’s way of leading, to let a young pilot know he had room to improve and further to go.

  Marty removed his hand from the bomb arming switch and sat back in his seat.

  “This is 217 to Lead,” he said into his microphone. “I’d like to make another run on the target.”

  Silence ensued over the airwaves.

  —

  Wide-eyed, Tom orbited in formation with the others. Talk about sticking your neck out, he thought. He had heard Marty’s request.

  Dad’s voice was silent for a moment; then he said, “Okay, go ahead.”

  Tom and the others saw Marty’s Corsair rocket up past them and toward the clouds. At five thousand feet, the young ensign winged over and dived back toward the bridge.

  Tom kept his eyes fixed on his wingman—Marty had really set himself up. If his bomb released and missed, he’d look worse than if he hadn’t tried at all.

  Marty’s Corsair shrank tiny in sight as it plummeted toward the bridge. A green speck fell from its belly and punched into the smoke. The Corsair pitched upward as a flash crackled through the smoke behind it. A new plume of gray rose from the cloud, this one containing a swirl of white dust—the dust of shattered concrete.

  As the smoke and dust settled, the bridge reappeared. Stone pillars still stood—but without a concrete ceiling to connect them. Slabs of bridge lay folded into the stream. Marty had scored a direct hit.

  A grin stretched across Tom’s face. He wanted to congratulate Marty but held his tongue to respect radio silence.

  After several more orbits, Tom watched Marty slide into formation on his wing. When he caught Marty’s eye, Tom smiled and flashed a thumbs-up. Marty cracked a grin. He nodded to Tom, then returned his focus to flying formation.

  Dad wheeled the flight eastward and the sea appeared on the horizon. For several minutes, the pilots flew in silence until Dad’s voice crackled over the radio.

  “Nice job, Marty.”

  Three simple words.

  “Thanks, sir,” Marty replied. He tried not to sound too high-pitched with excitement. Coming from Dad, those words were possibly the highest compliment he had ever received.

  Tom glanced over his right shoulder and saw Marty concentrating on maintaining close formation. Tom turned forward again and didn’t glance back until the end of the flight.

  He knew Marty would be there.

  CHAPTER 26

  HE MIGHT BE A FLYER

  That evening, after the bridge attack

  THE OFFICERS DUG INTO THEIR SUPPERS in the Leyte’s dining room. Silverware clinked and savory smells filled the air. As usual, Tom sat across from Jesse and Koenig. The men wore tan slacks and shirts open at the collars, and printed menus lay between them. Conversations buzzed, as officers planned their return to civilization. In a week, the Leyte was leaving for six days of R&R in Japan.

  Behind Tom, the skipper dined at a separate table with the ship’s senior officers. At the head of the table sat the Leyte’s executive officer—the second-in-command. He was the honorary host of each meal. In adherence with naval tradition, the captain dined in the tower.

  Black stewards slipped behind the seatbacks and lowered silver trays of food in front of the officers. The stewards wore clean, high-collared jackets and their hair was neat and closely cropped. A war correspondent recorded a typical Leyte meal: “Bean soup with crackers, grilled beef steak, mashed potatoes, mushroom gravy, creamed peas and carrots, buttered cabbage, lettuce and tomato salad, peach pie, bread
, butter, and orangeade.” Only the squawk boxes on the walls and the watertight doors reminded the officers that they were aboard a warship, not at a banquet.

  Marty’s blue eyes beamed as he ate with vigor. He had received plenty of backslapping after the mission, although he hadn’t sought it. His destruction of the bridge had been recorded as a squadron victory and that was enough for him. That day, Leyte planes had claimed five bridges and five trains.*

  The day’s most triumphant moment actually came just before supper. The pilots had been relaxing in their ready rooms when the teletype machines blinked: “Enemy capital, Pyongyang, fallen to U.S. Army 1st Cavalry Division. U.N. Forces now occupying.” The pilots had cheered at the news. A glance at the map revealed that the boys on the ground had the enemy cornered in North Korea’s mountainous northwest. All that remained was to push the communists out of the country—just seventy-five more miles. Four days earlier, during a meeting with President Truman on Wake Island, General MacArthur had even predicted a timeline to the war’s end: “I believe that formal resistance will end throughout North and South Korea by Thanksgiving.”

  Tom picked at his plate and listened courteously when the conversation turned his way. In his mind, he could still envision the glowing spheres whipping past his canopy. What if the gunner had fired a split second earlier? he thought. A harsh reality jabbed at him—even if he did everything right, one lucky shot could change everything.

  —

  At first, only Jesse and Koenig noticed.

  Something was amiss in the dining room.

  As the stewards leaned plates of food in front of Jesse, they remained tense and tightlipped. Jesse quietly scooped his portions. Normally, the stewards were chatty. “Good hunting today, Ensign Brown?” they’d ask. Or, “I watched you take off this morning!” Jesse was their hero and not just because he was the only black carrier pilot. Whenever Jesse passed through the dining room in his flight gear, he always greeted them as they folded napkins and polished silverware. The steward who cleaned Jesse’s cabin had told the others how Jesse always made his own bed, did his own dusting, and left him with little work to do. The stewards knew Jesse’s full name, Jesse Leroy Brown, and behind the scenes they affectionately called him “Jesse L.”