by T. E. Cruise
She didn’t. Her Allison V-12 engine wheezed to life coughing blue smoke, and gradually built to a confident roar. Grinning with excitement, Steven waited for the revs to climb, and when she was ready, he slid shut the Plexiglas canopy and taxied out onto the runway.
Everybody else was already in the air, so he had the runway to himself. He picked up speed and took off, raising his landing gear as he climbed to join the rest of the Tiger pack, heading toward the coast to intercept the Japs.
After his last experience, Steven was itching to test his guns, but he didn’t dare. Ammo was precious. No plane carried more than a minute or so worth of firepower. His radio crackled and he heard Cappy inform the Tigers that Steven Smith was flying his plane, and that Jenkins was now the leader of Flight Two.
Clouds began to appear as they neared the coast. The Tiger pack was about fifteen miles from the field, within sight of the Rangoon waterfront, when Steven spotted the Jap formation, a flock of dark-winged specks, closing fast. He keyed his radio. “I see them!”
“We all see them, kid, over,” Jenkins said, his voice sounding calm over the static.
“Jesus, there’s a lot of them, over,” one of the other pilots said, his voice sounding tinny, his signal breaking up over the little speaker hanging by a twist of wire from Steven’s instrument panel.
“I count sixty bombers, over,” one of the others chimed in.
“I count twenty fighters, over,” another Tiger said.
“Cut the chatter,” Jenkins ordered. “Everybody stay off the radio, unless it’s an emergency. Let’s get some altitude on those suckers, over and out.”
Steven pulled back on the stick of his P-40 and climbed. The Japs were pretty close now. He could see that the fighters were open-cockpit, fixed-landing-gear, Ki-27 monoplanes. The Ki-27 was armed with just a pair of light machine guns in her nose, which were not terribly effective against the P-40’s armor-plating, and self-sealing fuel tanks, but the Jap fighter could turn on a dime, stick to your tail like glue, and eventually chew you up. In an individual duel, a Ki-27 against a P-40 was a lot like a judo expert up against a heavyweight boxer. The Ki-27 delivered lots of little stings that eventually added up, and, meanwhile, was itself hard to hit—but if the P-40 did connect, its four .30-caliber wing guns and the pair of fifty-calibers in her nose could literally explode the unarmored Ki-27 out of existence.
“All right,” Jenkins radioed. “Split up into your flights. Ross, go after those fighters, keep them off our backs; over.”
“Happy hunting.” Ross chuckled. “Over and out.”
Steven watched as the airplanes of Flight One banked away and then began to dive on the Jap fighters.
“Flight Two, follow me!” Jenkins radioed. “Let’s kill some bombers! Over.”
Steven pushed his stick forward and dived toward what looked liked an acre of Jap airplanes in the sky. Deep in concentration, feeling no fear at all, he flicked off the safety on his guns and picked out a target. The gray, twin-engine Mitsubishi bombers were heavily armed, but it was their turret cannons on top their fuselages, just behind the cockpit, that were especially dangerous to the Tigers. During training, the A.V.G. had been taught to use their .50-caliber, long-range guns to kill the turret gunners, and then open up with their close-range, .30-caliber wing guns.
As Steven dived, his target’s turret cannon swung his way and began winking fire. He resisted the instinctive impulse to veer away. He took his time framing the cannon in his cross-hair sights and let loose a burst. The drumbeat pounding of his twin fifties vibrated through the cockpit. He saw his tracer rounds impact on the turret. Shards of plexiglass went spinning off, twinkling in the sunlight. The cannon stopped firing and began to swing lazily, aiming at nothing at all.
He sighted in on the red circle painted on the bomber’s gray wing and cut loose with everything he had. Now the crackling of his quartet of wing guns almost drowned out the jackhammering fifties. Steven saw the bomber’s wing begin to smoke, and then break off. The crippled bomber, spilling oily black smoke, fell out of formation, and began cartwheeling toward the ground.
“I got one! I got one!” Steven called out excitedly as he streaked through the hole he’d carved in the bomber formation.
“Great work, kid!” Jenkins laughed. “But look sharp! This duck shoot ain’t over yet, over and out.”
“Duck shoot is right.” Steven laughed to himself as he came around in a wide sweep and began to regain altitude for another bounce. The five planes of Flight Two had knocked five bombers out of the sky on their initial pass. Steven dived on another bomber, this time concentrating all his firepower on the ball turret. He never did get the gunner, but some of his rounds must have hit a fuel tank, because the bomber erupted in an orange cloud of flame. One of its engines went spinning off, striking the starboard wing of another bomber, and that plane, leaking black smoke from its starboard engine, sunk out of the formation.
Steven unable to resist an easy kill, throttled down, to settle on the crippled bomber’s tail. He traded shots with the Jap tail gunner for a bit, until the Jap gunner got a little too good and holes began appearing in Steven’s canopy. He quickly dropped below the bomber and used his guns to stitch hits across the entire length of the Mitsubishi’s fuselage. As he peeled away he had the satisfaction of seeing his third kill of the day fall out of the sky. He happened to glance overhead. High above, Flight One was still tangling with the Jap fighters, keeping them busy and out of Flight Two’s hair.
By now, the battle had drifted over Rangoon. The ten bombers in the lead were beginning their runs, but the Jap bombardiers in those plexiglass nose compartments must have felt awfully naked, because they were too hasty. Most of their bombs fell harmlessly into the sea, sending up thunderous geisers of blue water.
Flight Two dropped five of those ten bombers as they were peeling away. That was his kill number-four. After that, the rest of the Jap formation didn’t even try to drop their bombs. They just broke up into clumps of two and three and began hightailing it in retreat. Seeing what was happening, the Ki-27 fighters that were still in the air quit their dogfight with Flight One and hurried to give escort, but the Ki-27s were not as fast as the twin-engined Mitsubishi bombers, and the latter weren’t sticking around to give the Ki-27s a chance to catch up.
Steven got on the tail of a retreating Jap fighter and blew it out of the sky with a three-second burst. Five planes, he thought to himself as the red warning light on his fuel indicator blinked on. Five planes, in one fucking battle! I’m an ace!
A Ki-27 suddenly appeared about five hundred yards directly in front of him, coming his way. Arnie simultaneously thought that the damned thing looked like a bird of prey with its fixed landing gear hanging down; that he didn’t have enough fuel to execute evasive maneuvers and still get back to base, and he wasn’t about to spoil the triumphant day by cracking up Cappy’s P-40—
“Fuck you! Tojo!” Steven screamed as the Ki-27 loomed in his cross hairs. The Jap fighter began firing at him. Steven saw the almost pretty flames twinkling from from the twin guns mounted just above the Jap’s prop. His own tracers licked out in fiery spurts, arcing above the Ki-27. He heard something that sounded like pebbles rattling against tin; he was taking hits. He flicked his stick forward, dropping the P-40’s nose, and, in the process, hosing the Jap fighter with lead. The fighter exploded in flame an instant before Steven’s guns, out of ammo, went dead. Groaning, he shut his eyes and gritted his teeth as he flew right through the oily smoke cloud that a second ago had been a very solid airplane.
Six planes, he realized as he came through the cloud in one piece.
“I guess you won’t do that again, son, over,” Jenkins’ easy voice came over the panel speaker.
Steven jabbed the radio key. “Where are you?” he gasped. “Over.”
“Right behind and above you, over.”
Steven twisted his head around and looked up. Jenkins waggled his wings in salute.
“Why
didn’t you help?” Steven demanded. He waited a bit for an answer. “Over,” he blurted.
“I would have, son, if I’d had any ammo left.” Jenkins chuckled. “Congratulations. You’ve got six confirmed kills. See you at home, over and out.”
Steven realized that he was laughing giddily, and that he was sweat-soaked, and that he had peed in his pants. His hands were shaking. He hoped he had the strength left to land.
Ah, he knew he had the strength…
Six planes. He was going to have a lot to tell Pop the next time they met, he thought as he headed back to base.
Steven landed to find that the British citizenry of Rangoon had delivered a truckload of groceries, cold beer, and scotch to the camp to show their appreciation to the Tigers for saving their city. The numbers were fantastic: the Japs had lost twenty-five planes, while only three P-40s had been shot down, and all three pilots had parachuted to safety and were now back at base.
That night there was a grand celebration in the mess tent. Steven, by now exhausted, and very drunk, sat at the head of the table in honor of his being the high-scorer.
“Here’s to beginner’s luck,” Cappy announced as he poured a bottle of beer over Steven’s head. “Since Stevie has today earned himself three grand in bonus money, I want him to know I intend to charge him for lending him my plane.”
The rest of the squad was yelling, “Speech! Speech!” as one of the radiomen came into the tent and handed Cappy a sheet of paper.
Steven, laughing, clutching a tumbler of scotch in his fist, rose a bit unsteadily to his feet, and said, “Before I pay Cappy, I’ll have to see how much Monique leaves me…”
There were whistles and catcalls. “Quiet down!” Cappy suddenly yelled. He waved the sheet of paper in the air. “This is just in, from the old man.”
“Chennault want to congratulate me?” Steven laughed.
Cappy shook his head. “Not quite, son.” Something very serious in Cappy’s tone quieted the tent. “It seems you’ve been joshing us a bit, haven’t you, Stevie?…”
“Huh?” Steven blinked.
“It seems your name isn’t Steve Smith, at all. It’s Steven Gold.”
“Oh, shit,” Steven muttered, shaking his head. “That fucking newsreel.”
“And worse yet,” Cappy said, tapping the page. “It says here you aren’t even eighteen years old.”
“It’s true,” Steven admitted.
“How’s the old man taking it?” Jenkins broke in.
“Well, let’s just say that Chennault is pissed,” Cappy said. He looked around the tent. “You all know how he feels about anything reflecting poorly on the Tigers…” He turned back to Steven. “Evidently, your old man is somebody real important.”
“Tell me about it,” he said dully.
Cappy frowned. “Whoever your father is, he’s got the muscle to threaten the existence of the A.V.G. by having the federal government cut off our supplies, and the British here in Rangoon withdraw their support, unless we get you home, pronto.”
“Stevieee, you got to go home,” one of the men taunted in a quivering falsetto. “Your mama’s calling youuu!”
“Shut up!” Cappy growled. “It’s not funny! This kid just broke the record for kills in a single day, and he’s about to get a raw deal!”
“What do you mean, Cap?” Steven asked, worried.
“I’m sorry to have to tell you this, son, but the A.V.G. is wiping their personnel records clean of you. It’ll be like you were never a part of the Tigers. There’ll be no record of your kills, and no bonus money. And I’ve got orders to restrict you to camp, until I can put you on the first freighter sailing out of Rangoon for America.” He glanced back at the paper in his hand. “According to base command, that’s in five days.”
Steven wanted to argue, to plead to be allowed to stay, but he knew there was no point. It wasn’t even up to Cappy. It looked like his father had won again… “There’ll be no record, but I still did it, right Cappy?” Steven smiled proudly. “I’ve got what it takes, right?”
“Yeah, we’ll all know you’re an ace,” Cappy solemnly said. He shook hands with Steven. “I’d be proud to fly with you as my wingman, anytime.”
“That goes for me, too.” Jenkins smiled, coming over to pat Steven’s shoulder.
Steven blushed. “Cap? If I give you my word that I’ll come right back, could I at least go and say good-bye to Monique? I’d hate for her to think something happened to me, or that I’d leave without saying good-bye.”
Cappy smiled. “Sure thing, son.” He crumpled the radio message in his hand. “Hell, what the old man doesn’t know won’t hurt him. Since you’re grounded, you might as well spend the entire five days with Monique.” He winked. “See what other kinds of records you can break—”
Chapter 18
* * *
(One)
GAT
Burbank
17 February 1942
Herman Gold was in his office when his secretary buzzed to say that Blaize Greene was waiting to see him.
“Good morning, Herman,” Blaize said, coming in a few moments later.
“Good morning.” Gold smiled, thinking what a pleasure it was to be genuinely glad to see Blaize. “That’s a nice tie you’re wearing,” Gold complimented him. “You look good, kid. You’re looking healthy. I think you’ve even put on some weight. I guess travel agrees with you.”
“I rather think that it’s marriage that agrees with me,” Blaize chuckled.
Gold nodded as Blaize took a chair in front of his desk. He had to admit it: he’d been against the marriage at first, and he’d been wrong. Not only was the relationship between his daughter and Blaize going strong, his own relationship with Blaize had improved considerably since the marriage. The kid was coming to work regularly, and was making progress on his gas-turbine project. Gold was even beginning to think that Blaize was ready to let bygones be bygones between them.
“You must be pleased over the fact that GAT has just received a large reorder on the BuzzSaw bomber…”
“Yeah,” Gold said happily. “Things are going pretty well for us. All our assembly lines are operating at full capacity. We’re building military-transport version GC-3s, BuzzSaws, and I just got word this morning that we’ve got the go-ahead on a new long-range escort version of the BearClaw fighter. It’s another joint project with Stoat-Black. We’ll be sending the redesigned fighters, sans engines, to England, where S-B will fit them with Layten-Reese Stag II power plants, and underwing fuel drop tanks. We’re predicting the modifications will allow a two-thousand-mile cruising range.”
“That’s marvelous, Herman,” Blaize murmured.
Gold watched as Blaize settled back in his chair, taking out his cigarettes and making himself comfortable. Gold didn’t want to be rude to his son-in-law, but he did have work to do…
“I understand your son will be home next week.”
“Yeah.” Gold beamed. “I thought I had him on an RAF seaplane flight departing Burma for Pearl Harbor, but there was some kind of foul-up.”
“There is a war on, I believe.” Blaize smiled.
“You mean to tell me the combined Allied air forces don’t exist to ferry my kids around?” Gold laughed. “So anyway, Steven ended up taking a boat. Talk about your slow boats from China.” He shook his head. “That freighter must have stopped at every two-bit atoll between Rangoon and here. But the wait’s almost over.”
Blaize nodded. There was a moment of silence.
“Blaize, was there something specific you wanted to talk to me about?” Gold coaxed gently.
“I’m afraid there is, Herman,” Blaize sighed. “It’s ironic. A few months ago I would have been eager to confront you with this, but now… Well, we have been getting along so well that I do want you to know, old man, that there’s nothing personal in this, but I’ve managed to persuade some rather influential friends of my family to do some lobbying on my behalf with British Air Staff…”
G
old sighed. “I guess you’ve gone and gotten yourself new orders, is that it, Captain Greene?”
“Yes, Herman. I’m to return to Britain for eight weeks of fighter training, and then it looks as if I’ll be assigned to the Mediterranean.”
“So you’ll be going up against Rommel’s Afrika Corps.” Gold frowned. “The Luftwaffe has some fine—and deadly —pilots operating in that theater.”
“The more combat I see the better,” Blaize firmly said.
“I hope you don’t see more action than you’ve bargained for.”
Blaize shrugged. “Herman, I do want to reiterate that there’s—”
“Nothing personal in it.” Gold smiled. “Yeah, I understand that.” He stood up and leaned across his desk to shake hands with Blaize. “I will miss you—”
But I’ll really miss Suzy… Gold brooded, realizing that Blaize would rightly expect his wife to accompany him back home. It frightened Gold that this man would be taking his only daughter out of the United States to Britain, where she would be within reach of Nazi bombs, but he realized that there was nothing he could do to prevent Blaize taking her. To try would just reopen old wounds.
“When are you and Suzy leaving?” Gold asked sadly.
“Actually, that’s something else I’d like to discuss with you,” Blaize began. “I’ve tried my best to convince Suze to stay here—”
“You’ve tried to convince her to stay?” Gold echoed, surprised.
“Why, yes, Herman,” Blaize said, sounding a bit miffed. “I love Suze very much. I would never willingly part from her, but at present my country is a relatively dangerous place…”
“I understand,” Gold said, relieved. “Blaize, I must admit, I’d underestimated you! You have my highest respect—”
“Hold on, old man.” Blaize laughed. “I said I’ve tried to talk her out of coming with me. I didn’t say that I’d succeeded. You know your daughter. Once she sets her mind on something she usually gets it, and she seems to have set her mind on accompanying me to Britain. I was hoping that you’d have a go at trying to convince her to stay here in California?”