The flight of four Phantoms in fingertip formation swung wide and gave themselves a two-mile straightaway as they flew up the ship's wake at 800 feet. The fighter on the leader's left wing slid down and under the remainder of the formation and took the number-four position in a right echelon. Over the ship the leader peeled away from the formation and made a hard turn to the downwind leg as he slowed to landing speed. This maneuver was known as the "break." Each of the other planes peeled off at eight-second intervals. As he came abeam of the ship's fantail, the fighter lead began his turn onto final approach. Had he judged it correctly? Would the ship have a ready deck when he rolled out of the turn onto the ball? Not a word had yet come over the radio: daylight recoveries in good weather were "zip-lip." As Jake watched, the familiar Phantom shape flew up the wake and stopped on the deck. The second fighter was turning final. The A-7s, all four in echelon, were approaching the ship for their break.
Jake swung wider and led Ford down. He was absorbed in watching the planes ahead and judging the intervals. A plane should cross the ramp every thirty seconds; any more seconds would be time wasted, fewer seconds would mean a wave-off because the previous plane had not yet cleared the landing area. How well you flew around the ship, where everybody could watch you, formed the keystone of a carrierpilot's reputation.
The two Intruders flew up the wake at 800 feet with their hooks down. Corey Ford was welded onto Grafton's right wing. Jake was watching the last A-7 on the downwind leg. Not yet . . almost Now!" In the right seat, Big Augie splayed the fingers of one hand
open 'n Ford's direction, the "kiss-off." Jake slammed the stick over and rolled into a sixty-degree bank as he chopped the throttles to idle and extended the speed brakes. Four Gs. The altimeter needle was glued to 600 feet. Slowing through 250 knots, he tapped the gear and flap handles down and relaxed the Gs. He let the plane slow to landing speed as the gear and flaps extended.
On the downwind leg, Jake and Big Augie chanted the liturgy of the landing checklist. The interval be tween them and the A-7 ahead looked good. On speed, 118 knots. The indexer on the glare shield matched the airspeed indicator. Jake's eyes took it all in. He turned off the abeam position ... still on speed . . turning.. descending nicely ... ninety-degrees off final altitude okay. Crossing the wake he saw the ballon final and centered ball ... watch that line-up .. coming down . looking good ... on speed with the ball centered ... crossing the ramp smash! They were thrown forward against their harness straps. Jake opened the canopy as they taxied, and the salty seawind swept through the cockpit.
SEVEN
Grafton slept until almost five P.m., when Lundeen shook him awake. "Time to go eat or you'll be awful hungry tonight, pal."
"What's for dinner?"
"Curry."
"Forget it. I'll eat popcorn at the movie. Go 'way and let me sleep."
"If you don't get up now, you'll never sleep tonight."
"Are we headed for the Philippines?"
"Yep. Headed for five glorious days and lusty nights in the sweetest spot this side of Tijuana."
Jake turned on the bunk light and sat up in bed. "I've made a big decision, Sammy. I'm going to quit the navy.'
"What're you going to do when you're out?" Lundeen asked.
"Just what every other history major does when he hits the big, wide world: sell used cars or insurance."
"Life's a bitch and then you die," Lundeen pronounced in his best man-of-the-world voice. "You need to turn your mind to something important, like getting laid this time in port."
"Sure. All I need's a good dose of the clap." Jake picked up his soap, shampoo, and towel and headed for the shower.
Son of a bitch, Jake muttered to himself as the water massaged his body. Flying's like a goddamn drug. I've centered my life around it, and when the euphoria is gone, reality is completely grim. Here I stand, feet firmly planted on the shower floor, and the only truth is that Morgan is dead and the targets are crap. Maybe some Soviet spy leaves a list of useless places on a Pentagon desk every night and the military puts it on the wires the next day. It's a wonder we haven't been ordered to attack the Haiphong garbage dump.
Someone pounded on the side of the shower stall. "Take a navy shower in there, fella."
Jake turned off the water and lathered himself all over. He turned the shower on again and rinsed. He was drying himself when Cowboy Parker strolled in, clad only in a towel.
"Jake, if that fighter pilot lets you pay for a single drink while we're in port, he doesn't have a hair on his ass."
"Old bald ass. He said he'd buy me a bottle."
"One lousy bottle. Does he think attack pilots live on milk?" Cowboy stepped into a shower stall and turned on the water. "One lousy bottle," he shouted. "Fighter pukes are such tightwads. Imagine him thinking his ass is only worth one bottle of cheap whiskey? By God, he should be buying bottles for the entire squadron."
Cowboy kept talking and the water kept running. As Jake went by, he pounded on the side of the stall. "Save some water for everyone else, Cowboy."
"Water? Why, you young twerp! I was taking navy showers when you were still in junior high school. Hell, when I was a kid down in Texas, every morning I used to take a cake of soap and go out and roll in the grass while the dew was still on. That's a Texas shower." The water continued to run. "I didn't even see rain until I was ten years old. I thought a creek was nothing but a dry ditch where rattlesnakes lived." He continued the monologue. Jake paused at a washbasin, then turned the cold water tap wide open. A scream and a cloud of steam emanated from the stall. Jake scooted out the door as a bar of soap flew through the air in his direction.
Lundeen was sitting at his desk when Jake returned to their stateroom. "I just singed Cowboy's backside in the shower."
"He'll get you for that. Sometime when you least expect it." Sammy continued to flip through a magazine.
"Got any idea who I'll get as a BNT
"Nope. Don't think any of the crews in the squadron want to shift around. Cowboy and the Skipper will make that decision. Maybe you'll get this new bombardier who's going to meet us in Cubi. I saw the message about him just an hour ago."
"What's it say? Anything about his experience?"
"Uh-uh. Actually there are two bombardiers and a pilot. The pilot and one bombardier are coming from VA-128, and one BN is coming from VA-42." Attack Squadron 128 was the A-6 replacement squadron based at NAS Whidbey Island with the responsibility of training all the A-6 crewmen bound for squadrons attached to Pacific Fleet carriers. Attack Squadron 42 performed the same function on the East Coast.
"I hope I don't get a nugget." A nugget was a new man on his first tour of duty.
"How come?"
Jake hung his towel behind the door and sat on his bunk. "Because I need a BN who's got it all in one sock."
"These BNs are all good. They're pros."
"I want a guy who really wants to fight."
Sammy tossed the magazine on the desk and laced his fingers together behind his head as he gazed at Jake speculatively. "Don't do anything crazy, Jake. Don't even think about it. You're the guy who figures every damn angle before the chips are down."
"I'm tired of bombing trees, Sammy."
"If you let the war get personal, you'll get dead real quick. What you really need is to get drunk and laid this time in port. I thought I did, but nowhere near as badly as yam
"Yeah."
"It ebbs and flows, shipmate. A hot woman and a cold beer will put all this in proper perspective."
After dinner that evening, the skipper called arn all-officers meeting in the ready room. The room soon overflowed with the squadron's forty officers. Several men sat on the duty officer's desk, and three latecomers squeezed in at the rear of the room. Commander Campaxelli, standing by the podium, asked Cowboy if everyone was present.
"No, sir. Big Augie is up checking out the evening movie." Big had been appointed movie officer after Camparelli had been required to visit with the captain of the S
hiloh concerning that young gentleman's regrettable lack of decorum in the Alameda officers' club the night before the ship had sailed. The movie officer was required to sign out a movie every day after flight quarters and to operate the projector in the ready room. Big was now a fair hand at changing reels and held what was widely believed to be the ship's record, a mere thirty-two seconds.
"Well, we can't wait on him," the skipper said.
"Tomorrow at 10D) on the flight deck there will be a memorial service for McPherson. The uniform for officers will be tropical white long." He paused, as if searching for something he should add. When the silence had gone on too long, he continued. "Enlisted evaluations E-1 through E-3 are due by the end of this month. You people will have them completed and turned in to your department heads by the time we get to Cubi Point. You guys are getting sloppy. This paperwork has to be done regardless of flying or fucking or anything else. No evil, no liberty.
"On another subject, we're going to put a couple planes on the beach this in-port period. We're getting a new pilot and one or two new BNs, so we'll do some field qualifications to get the pilot up to speed on landings. Lundeen and Greve, Grafton and Mad Jack will take the planes to Cubi. The quack has been working pretty hard, so we'll give him a ride. Launch at 0700 day after tomorrow."
A wistful sigh drifted through the room. A few extra hours on the beach were always welcome. "The ship will pull in about 10K The gangway should go over about 1030 or so." Cheers greeted this announcement. The ship had been at sea for fifty-two days.
"You fellows in the back lock the doors." The crowd murmured. Whatever was coming was going to be good.
"What I am about to say is not to go beyond this room. If my wife writes and tells me the Officers' Wives Club is discussing this, I will hang the sonuvabitch who wrote it home. None of the ladies in the `Waste a Day Club' has any business hearing what I'm about to say." Camparelli paused for effect. Silence was total.
"I spent a half hour with the other squadron skippers up on the bridge this afternoon. It seems we have a phantom shitter on board."
Most men hooted at this announcement, but a few simply looked bewildered.
Camparelli surveyed the room. "I see an explanation is required for the innocents among us. The phantom is a phenomenon that has plagued navy ships from time to time. It's been years since I heard about one, but apparently we have a phantom aboard this ship." Various people exchanged grins and nudges. "Recently members of the ship's engineering and air departments found human feces in spaces that had been unoccupied for several hours. Then the phantom started getting cute. He would put little notes in the ship's suggestion boxes to the effect, `Tonight I am going to shit in number-four catapult room,' and sign it `The Phantom.' Sure enough, the next morning there was that little brown pile."
The room rocked with laughter. Audacity toward authority always made a good joke. As the noise diminished Cowboy wanted to know, "What's feces?" More roars.
"It's that stuff you're full of," came an answer from across the room.
When the laughter subsided, the Old Man continued. "Anyway, yesterday afternoon another note was found in the suggestion box saying the Phantom would strike last night on the quarterdeck. The captain secured access and stationed marine sentries outside with orders to admit no one." The commander paused and looked about him. Not a whisper could be heard. The Old Man's eyes twinkled. "This morning they found a pile on the quarterdeck."
Men laughed so hard their eyes watered. They pounded each other on the back and stomped their feet.
All this was too much for Sammy Lundeen. He got up from his seat and tiptoed up the aisle, turning his head this way and that and peering about. The laughter subsided and all eyes were locked upon him. A few giggles rolled around. When Sammy got to the front of the room, he cast a few more surreptitious glances, then unfastened his trousers, pulled them down, and squatted. The guys in the back row stood on their chairs, craning to see better.
The skipper spoke. "Sam, if you shit on my ready room deck-o" The rest of his remark was lost in a hurricane of noise. Sammy was trying to keep a straight face but was having trouble. He stood and pulled up his trousers, took a last careful look around, then quickly tiptoed back to his seat. The storm of applause and laughter shook the walls.
"Okay. Enough. X.O., have you got that folder?"
"Uh, yessir, but, uh ... do you really think ... ?"
The Old Man held out his hand and Harvey Wilson reluctantly passed him a manila folder, then retired with a serious look to his chair. Camparelli put the folder on the podium and flipped through it, examining every document.
"Parker, front and center." Cowboy got slowly to his feet and proceeded to the front. There wasn't enough room for him to stand in front of the podium facing the skipper, so he stood beside it facing the audience.
The skipper held a sheet of paper in his hand and read it to himself. Finally he turned and looked at the operations officer. "It says here that on the 6th of October you were found by several officers whose reputations are spotless ... well, their reputations are fairly good ... average maybe ... heck, these guys drink, smoke, and cheat at cards. Anyway, they found you wandering stark raving naked through the passageways." Giggles broke out again. "What do you have to say for yourself, Mister Parker?"
"Well, Skipper, I was in the shower and somebody stole my towel."
"Mister Parker." The skipper's voice dripped contempt. "Let's not blame your perversions on a fellow officer. You were observed to be almost a hundred feet away from your stateroom, naked as a Sunday chicken, knocking on every door."
"Uh, someone locked the door to my stateroom, sir. I think I was the victim of a conspiracy." Cowboy glowered at the crowd. The audience hooted. "The party or parties unknown who plotted this foul deed were trying to besmirch my reputation, sir. As unbelievable as that sounds, it's true."
The skipper grinned at the crowd. "We have a medal for you, Mister Parker, for exhibiting perversity in the face of adversity." From an envelope he took a long ribbon and placed it around Cowboy's neck. Dangling from the ribbon was a stateroom key. "Wear this if you wear nothing else, mW boy." With a wave of his arm he sent Parker toward his seat.
When things gradually quieted down, the men in the rear of the room became aware of pounding on the door. They opened it and Big Augie walked in bearing reels of film. "What the hell's going on in here? I could hear the uproar a hundred feet down the passageway."
Everyone tried to answer. Camparelli yelled over the hubbub, "What's the show tonight, Big?"
The noise died down. "Uh, Skipper, it's called Two Lane Blacktop. "
"Never heard of it," said Frank Camparelli, who never missed a chance to rag the movie officer.
Cowboy spoke up. "I've seen it, Skipper. It's not too bat"
The commander regarded Cowboy with narrowed eyes. "Any skin?"
"Somev,
"On a scale of one to ten, how would you rate it?" Cowboy gazed at the ceiling and scratched his chin.
Finally, he looked at the skipper. "About a twelve." "Asssss!" someone hissed enthusiastically.
"Roll it, Movie Officer," the Old Man directed as he
plopped into his chair.
After the movie, Jake went to the squadron personnel office, a ten-by-twelve-foot cubbyhole against the outside skin of the ship. He signed out the service records of the two enlisted men in his division who needed evaluations done. He set off for the airframes shop located one deck above the hangar deck, on the opposite side of the ship.
Chief Eugene Styert was there, as he was every waking moment except when he was eating, which he did four times a day. "Evening, Mister Grafton."
"Hey, Chief." Jake accepted the indicated chair. Chief Styert had a padded chair with arms, and, except for the desk, there was no other furniture in the compartment. Jake looked the place over. Tools hung everywhere and spare parts jammed a set of shelves opposite the desk. The floor was filthy with grease and hydraulic fluid tracked in f
rom the hangar deck. "How's everything going?"
Chief Styert placed his hands on his ample belly and leaned back in the chair. He had worked with and for junior officers most of his twenty-five years in the navy and knew the routine. He supervised a crew responsible for solving fuselage and structural problems on all of the squadron aircraft, ensured all work was accomplished in accordance with technical directives, and kept his little band firmly on the job. Chief Styert was the navy as far as his men were concerned. He was the man to whom they introduced their parents on those rare occasions back in the States when the folks from home visited the ship.
Like every chief, he reported to a junior officer, a young college grad who might or might not make the navy a career. Chief Styert believed that the young officer was there to learn and not to make his job more difficult. He knew the officer's visits in the shop were good for the men's morale, but the less he saw of the young gentleman, the better. Except when he needed an officer to go to bat for the men, of course, and Grafton never hesitated to do that.
"Everything's fine," the chief replied. "Going to clean this place up in the morning, before the men put on their whites for that memorial service." The chief added quickly, "Real sorry about Mister McPherson. Pretty tough, going like that."
Jake nodded. He took out his cigarettes, offering one to the chief. After they lit up, Jake gestured to the files in his lap. "Eval time on the nonrated. Jones and Hardesty. Have you done a rough of their evals?"
The chief rummaged through a drawer and passed two sheets of notebook paper to Grafton, who scanned them. English composition was not one of the chief's most shining accomplishments. When Jake had finished reading, they discussed the marks each man should get. Both understood the officer would polish the evaluations and put in the numerical grade for the five specified categories, but the numbers on the paper would reflect the chief's recommendations. If the men ever thought that Chief Styert did not have a firm grip over their destinies, his ability to rule his little fiefdom would be impaired.
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