"Fred Lord and I were sent to Bilboa to fly Breguets on coastal patrol! We're probably the two best pilots in Europe, and they made us fly something that should have been scrapped ten years ago!"
Bandy didn't say anything, figuring that Acosta's age and drinking had worked against him. He didn't know Lord.
"Frank Tinker got fighters, too. How are you supposed to get a bonus for shooting down people when you're flying Breguets?"
Augusto later indicated that the Loyalists were less than pleased with the work Acosta and Lord had done, intimating that they expected rather more from Bandy. They lived on sour red wine and bread on the train, a trip that would have been interminable if it had not been for the ever-changing panorama of beauty and pestilence that rolled by. It was as if Peru had been superimposed on California, arid browns pressed against sudden verdant foliage. Bandfield loved the closely built homes, the shrouded women walking to get a loaf of bread as secretly as if they were sneaking from a seraglio, and everywhere kids playing soldier with sticks for swords and rifles.
Augusto took him to the Air Ministry in Valencia. The processing was simple, and the next morning Bandy left for the Escuela de Caza, the fighter school at San Javier airfield.
Bordered by straight rows of stunted, moisture-starved trees, the rough flat field stretched like boring company endlessly to the horizons. The broken remains of landing crashes, sad airplanes angled into bloody junk, were strewn haphazardly around the former military parade ground. His initial check ride was in a well-maintained Caudron Aiglon. The check pilot, a dour lieutenant named Jose Torres, said nothing from start to finish. While they were walking back to the long low frame building that served as an operations shack, Torres grunted and said in English, "Report for Chato training at six in the morning."
The next day, the atmosphere thawed in the dingy flight shack. Torres helped him get fitted in a beautiful Russian-issue leather flying suit, then took him into a classroom where a cockpit from a wrecked aircraft was propped up by rough boards.
"This is from a Polikarpov I-15. We call it the Chato, because of its flat nose. I'm going to show you what all the buttons and gauges mean."
That afternoon, Bandfield had his first flight in the gullwing Russian biplane fighter. Painted a dull dark green, with red wing-tips, it handled like a Boeing P-12, but was forty miles an hour faster. To his surprise, it was powered by an American-built Wright Cyclone engine. In the next week, he flew twelve hours in the Chato, including some practice gunnery.
The instructors liked him because he was proficient, unlike the typical Spanish student. The Loyalist government was trying to lure more native pilots into service, and the carnage was devastating. In the week he was checking out, the Spaniards lost three pilots on the base and one at sea during gunnery practice. One had ripped his wings off, pulling out of a high-speed dive too close to the ground. Two others were lost when a Chato landed on top of a Caudron, a falcon raping a duck. The man at sea had become target-fixated and flew single-mindedly into the water. The Spanish instructor pilots were furious and frustrated. There were too few Spanish pilots already, and the Russians were assuming a preponderant role that would give them power at the peace table. The losses shrouded the field with gloom.
Torres called Bandy in. "You've passed your checks. I'm recommending you to the Escuadrilla de Chatos at Las Alcazares. You will be flying with American and Spanish pilots. Your commander is Andrei Lacalle. Serve him well. He is one of the loyal ones; almost all of the other officer pilots joined Franco. And remember, if you weren't flying for him, you'd have to fly for some bastard of a Russian."
Bandy received word to report to the Air Ministry in Valencia before going to Las Alcazares. When he got there, an American dead ringer for Charlie Chase was waiting. He introduced himself as Harold Lowe and made small talk until they got back to his hotel room.
"Henry Caldwell sent me, Bandy. He said everything is fine at home, and gave me these." He handed Bandy a packet of letters from Patty.
"Read them later. She's doing just fine, has even been flying once."
He saw the look on Bandy's face and hastened to add, "I haven't been reading your letters. Caldwell just passed the news along."
Bandfield nodded, and Lowe said, "I'll be your contact here. The Spanish have accepted me as the advance party for a group of Red Cross volunteers forming in New York."
"Why would they believe that?"
"I don't think they do. My impression is the Loyalists are trying to do anything to ingratiate themselves with the United States, and if we send a few spies over they expect it. They hate being so dependent on the Russians. That's probably why you're being sent to Lacalle's squadron—they hope it will have the same effect on public opinion as the Lafayette Escadrille did in the World War."
"How did you know I was going there? I just found out myself."
"You have to hand it to the British. They've had an intelligence network in Spain since Wellington, and probably have a contact in the Air Ministry itself. And they have a pretty good radio intercept service working. We don't need to know how they do it as long as they share it. Anyway, Henry will be glad that you're going to Lacalle, but he really wants to get you in a Russian unit if he can. And he wants you to try to get into the I-16 as soon as possible. It surprised the hell out of everybody."
"I haven't seen one. Torres says they're tricky devils, but fast, almost five hundred kilometers an hour."
"Look, we'll try to work a transfer if there's any way we can. In the meantime, you do the best you can in Lacalle's group, and see if there's any way you can volunteer to fly with a Russian unit. They tend to keep to themselves, so it may not be possible."
Bandy shrugged his shoulders. "Say, if I get lucky and shoot somebody down, do I get to keep the thousand dollars?"
"I don't know. Never thought about it. But knowing the good old Army, probably not. Let's wait till it happens."
"How long do I have to stay here?"
"Henry says they'll bring you back as soon as you think you know enough about the I-16, or get to fly with the Russians, or preferably both. But he also told me to tell you to be ready to leave instantly."
Lowe had popped his hand in his fist for emphasis, a laughable gesture for a man who appeared about as pugnacious as a parakeet.
"We have to assume the Russians know about your status, and are just accepting it. You have to be prepared for a change in attitude at any time. If they decided to, they might execute you on the spot."
"Jesus, great. Now you tell me."
"In any event, if I tell you to go, or if you become suspicious yourself, just go. Take an airplane and go to France, or Portugal, or fly out to sea and land by a neutral ship."
"I'm not sure a captain's pay is worth this. I'm not cut out to be a spy, and from now on everything I don't understand will worry the hell out of me. What kind of place is this?"
"We're all in the same boat. I've been surprised myself at the amount of espionage and counterintelligence going on. Spain is a war bazaar, a coming attraction. All the people are getting killed just so Europe can practice for the next world war."
Lowe looked around the shabby room, and inclined his head for Bandy to lean over.
"This may be of interest to you. Bruno Hafner has been identified as commanding a fighter unit for the Condor Legion. He's in the Madrid area right now. You may just run into him."
"Are you sure?" Bandfield was galvanized by the prospect, almost too good to be true.
"The radio-intercept teams have it pretty well nailed down. I know you have a special interest in Colonel Hafner. I'll keep you posted."
Ordinarily, Bandfield let the world spin to a halt while he read Patty's letters. This time he put them aside unread, thinking about the satisfaction he would have in nailing Hafner's ass in combat. Hell, he would pay the Spaniards $1,000 just for a shot at Hafner. There were so many things to get even for. He had been prepared to execute him in cold blood in the States, if he had ca
ught him. Now, if he shot him down here, it would be revenge sauced in patriotism, a tasty dish, cold or hot.
It might be an even fight for a change. Hafner had a lot more combat experience; Bandfield remembered too well the debacle in Peru. But he had a hole card, a big wild ace. The Russian planes Were superior to the Heinkels the Germans were flying. It would more than even things out. He would fight him, he would shoot him down, and end this ten-year-long battle.
When he turned to Patty's letters, they surprised him. After the usual expressions of love and concern, as well as the usual stern reproval for having left without telling her, she went into her own fall from faith. There was no hint of apology; she simply said that she was going to make the "big flight"—she avoided using Amelia's name, referring to her as "my friend." She was already training "her friend" intensively to teach her the techniques of taking off in a heavily loaded twin-engine airplane. "Her friend" had some sort of mental block, and they had reached an agreement that while she would always get in the left seat and taxi out from whatever terminal they were flying from, Patty would make all the heavyweight takeoffs. It was just as he had figured—Patty was going to do the work, and Amelia was going to get the credit.
Bandfield stared at the wall. What on earth had they got themselves into? They were as much in love as any two people he'd ever seen or heard of, and they seemed to spend half their time building obstacles to being together. Then the thought of Hafner hit him, the sweet prospect of revenge like hot wine in his mouth. There had to be some justice in the world. Maybe this would be worth it. And things would be different when he got back.
*
Guadalajara, Spain/March 12, 1937
Bilious gray clouds had spewed rain for four days, turning the front into a sucking sea of
brown mud and compounding the protracted depression engulfing Bandy. They were grounded, locked into the grimy field boundaries. Without the anodyne of flying, the Spanish war was more impossible than ever. Not even the rattling purr of El Rojo was comforting. The orange cat, ears tattered and skin flecked with lesions, had so far survived both the war and the hungry peasants. Bandfield had befriended him by picking out the solid pellets of fat from the sausage and feeding them to the cat. El Rojo never permitted Bandy to pet him, but always turned up in the room after Bandfield had gone to sleep, matching purr for snore.
After a breakfast of coffee and bread, Bandfield slumped in the operations room, listening to a scratchy radio playing a Russian station, convinced that Caldwell had forgotten his existence.
Absolutely nothing was going well. He hadn't heard from Patty in three weeks. There had been further news of Hafner from other sources. The German had six or seven victories now, and was apparently commanding a special unit. In contrast, Bandfield had flown in six combats without scoring and had almost been shot down twice. Captain Lacalle had given him two serious dressings-down, one public, and a more scathing one in private. He hadn't quite accused him of cowardice, but the inference was there if Bandy wished to take it.
Lacalle was wrong. Bandy had no doubts about his own courage. Twice he could have killed. He had the pretty Italian Fiat biplane fighters in his sights, at close range, and didn't shoot. Killing someone besides Hafner in a futile war like this was simply murder.
At the beginning of the month, he'd hoped he'd get some insight into the insanity thanks to some unexpected idle time when an extreme shortage of gasoline had forced a general squadron stand-down. He had gone out into the countryside to try to talk with the people, to see if he could understand how they could fight so well with so little.
He was appalled. He had not expected to find a happy countryside, but there was no song in Spain, no joy among the children, no casual look of happy indifference. Instead, there was universal guilt and fear, and an uncanny, pervasive impression of bitter sin, a feeling he'd never encountered before. The sins weren't of the flesh, not drunks in bars nor whores sitting in doorways; instead, there were the sins of torment, of ugly, unrequited hatred. Most people would not talk to him about anything political, as if they feared what he would do with their opinions. For the most part, the endemic bitterness had nothing to do with the Loyalists or the rebels. Instead, it was a deep, dolorous, fratricidal resentment of the landowners and the aristocracy. There was a curious division of feeling about the church. Even the most avowed communists spoke in terms of God and blessings, using all the usual Catholic turns of speech. He had talked to one quiet man—he gave his name only as Pablo—for an hour, asking him about the land, and the church, and what the outcome of the war would be. Pablo was reasonable and intelligent; he felt the Loyalists would win, but that it would take years, and when it was over the country would be forever impoverished. Only a few minutes later, Bandy was told that Pablo had killed at least four priests in cold blood, stabbing them to death in the street without warning, deliberately denying them the chance to cry out a last act of contrition. He had sworn to do the same to as many more as he came across.
On a tip from Harold Lowe, he had searched out Bob Merriman in Muricia. A captain in the Abraham Lincoln Brigade, Merriman was recovering in the hospital. Bandy brought him a bottle of wine and was surprised to find his pretty wife, Marion, with him. Merriman had been wounded in the left arm and shoulder while leading untrained infantry in a pointless attack. Yet Merriman was boyishly enthusiastic about the cause, about the war. Bandfield had looked to him for guidance, for reason, and found only a sophomoric idealism that had nothing to do with Spaniards killing Spaniards. He talked to him about Pablo and the priests he had killed, and Merriman just shrugged it aside as a picaresque anomaly suitable for Spain.
The fellow flyers in his flight were worse, sitting like five little Indians around the depressing, laundry-strewn hovel that they used as ready room. What a bunch! Whitey Dahl, whose passport read Hernando Diaz Evans, was Army Air Corps-trained and had flown the air mail in 1934. Something had happened—a drunk-driving rap, a scandal—and he had been thrown out of the service. He was aggressive, but Bandy thought he lacked judgment in the air. He'd been sick for weeks, some kind of dysentery, and was scheduled to go in for treatment soon. Ernie Hopper was asleep next to Dahl. Hopper was an ardent communist. Bandy had spent time talking to him when he first arrived, but the man was exhausting, always wanting a conversion to the cause on the spot. He wouldn't say where he got his pilot training; wherever it was, Bandy didn't think it was adequate to be flying combat. Next to Hopper, George Reid was carving a stick figure from a slat from a wooden crate. Reid was quiet, and inspired confidence. The story was that he had hijacked a Nationalist Cant seaplane and flown it to the harbor in Valencia. When the Loyalists came on board, they found the rebel crew, throats slit, laid neatly in a row on the floor, dressed tallest to shortest. He was their kind of man.
Then Lacalle came in. Tall and slender with a jet-black pompadour of oily hair, he was affable on the ground, a martinet in the air. Bandy shuffled to his feet as Lacalle called the group to attention; the similar scene in the Richard Barthlemess film The Dawn Patrol flickered through Bandy's mind.
"The weather is supposed to improve around eleven o'clock. All the aircraft will carry bombs. The Italians are retreating along the road from Brihuega to Trijuque. The mud is keeping them on the road, so we'll attack in trail."
The room was quiet; no one took notes, they all just stared at Lacalle. "Hopper, you'll lead the attack. I want you to drop from no higher than five hundred feet, and no lower than four hundred. Got that? Reid, you follow Hopper, and Bandfield, you go next. I'll bring up the rear, to check on how you are doing. Dahl, you stay at altitude until we recover, then make your own attack. After the drop we'll strafe as long as we have ammunition. Any questions?"
There were none. Bandy knew the attack method was devised for his benefit. Ordinarily Whitey Dahl, with his greater experience, would have led the attack, and Lacalle would have flown top cover for them. Lacalle had eleven victories, and was clearly the best shot in the unit. Hopp
er was only a fair pilot and Reid didn't have much time in the Chato. Lacalle was checking on Bandfield.
Great wet bags of clouds bullied the little spots of clear air, squeezing in and coalescing, insolently changing shape and color as they picked their way through to the front. The Chatos were sluggish with the weight and drag of the two twenty-five-pound bombs carried under each lower wing. Hopper leveled off just under the cloud base and led them directly to the line of retreat. From one thousand feet, Bandy could see derelict armored cars and light tanks pushed off into the mud, the road choked with streams of brown ants occasionally illuminated by a white upturned face. After nervous hand signals to Lacalle to make sure he was properly positioned, Hopper peeled off, his wings flashing up as his nose came down in the classic attack mode, and the rest followed at twenty-second intervals. He saw Hopper's bombs hit well to the right, and then Reid's bracket the road perfectly. He dropped, hoping that he'd miss but be close enough to satisfy Lacalle.
They formed up, watching out for Fiats and Heinkels, as Dahl made a textbook dive that tore chunks of men and rock from the roadway. Lacalle waved his hand in a circle and they dove again, Hopper leading them down to race just above the road, firing their machine guns at any target. Details swam into view, lodging in the mind and becoming distinct only long after Bandy was past. He saw a tank, hatch open, a body hanging out; a horse, down, broken, but terribly alive; two men, carrying a third between them, falling simultaneously to the side, dropping their comrade facedown in the mud. The images simply poured in, he could concentrate on nothing; oddly, no one was shooting back at them, no one at all. The long stream of fleeing Italian soldiers divided into purled lines on each side of the road, as if a comb were running through them instead of bullets.
They exhausted their ammunition and flew directly back to the field. Even before Lacalle had hoisted himself from his cockpit, his adjutant handed him a congratulatory message from the Russian commander of the counterattack. The mechanics refueled and rearmed the airplanes while the pilots ate thick sandwiches of coarse white bread and sausage and gulped scalding black coffee. Lacalle came over to Bandy. He had evidently carefully planned what he was going to say, because for once his English was flawless.
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