by Kim Newman
B
Back in the USSA
"But you don't have to get in that plane tomorrow," said Patsy.
"Howie needs a bombardier. This is my trip as much as it is his."
"Aren't you frightened, Mr. Jack?" asked Peggy Sue.
"Sure I'm frightened. But I'm frightened every time I climb into the Spruce Goose with that old hipster. It's not a biplane, you know; it's a bop-plane. She has her own ways, and just goes along however she wants. Besides, what else could a no-account deadbeat like me do? Any ideas?"
"You could be a real writer," suggested Peggy Sue.
"Or a newspaperman. That's writing too," added Patsy.
Jack laughed. "Sure, I could write anything the Party lets me write. Or I could be a garbage collector, or a farm hand, or a short order cook, or a soldier...I could be lots of things, but, dig, the only thing that feels right is doing what I do now. Maybe I'll grow out of it. Most people spend their lives not really knowing what they should do."
"I know what I want to do," said Charlie, "I want to be a pilot."
"And end up like Howie?" giggled Patsy.
"I think I'd sooner be Lindbergh," smiled Charlie. "Even Howie reckons he's all right."
"The thing about Howie," said Jack, "is that he's a better cat than I am. He's crazy, but he's true to his heartbeat. Flying's about the only thing he's good at. Everything else he touches, he screws up. Flying's what he lives for. As long as he can fly it doesn't matter. That's his heartbeat. Everyone is born with a heartbeat, a rhythm inside that tells them what to do. Some have a heartbeat that says President of the USSA, some get a heartbeat that says hobo. It doesn't matter. Just so long as you follow your heartbeat."
"I'm going to follow mine," said Charlie, arms out like wings.
"But are you one hundred per cent sure it's what you're supposed to do?" asked Jack.
"Yeah, sure. That is, I guess so."
Jack picked up his guitar and played a few folk songs he'd learned on his travels. After a song about a hundred men losing their lives in a mine disaster, he decided to lighten the mood a little and began to improvise, strumming a few chords, making up words as he went along...
"Heartbeat," he said, looking at Patsy, "why do you miss when my
sses mer
baby ki
He tried to make up a tune, but wasn't very sure about it. "My thing is words," he said, "not chords."
"Heartbeat," Charlie said, hearing a tune.
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
"You know," said Peggy Sue, "there's a song for every girl in my class except me. Clementine Carter, Susannah Hickling, Genevieve Dieudonne, Adeline Williams, all of them. But no Peggy Sue song."
"My Darling Peggy Sue," said Patsy, laughing.
"Oh Peggy Sue, don't you cry for me," sang Jack, off-key.
"Peggy Sue," crooned Charlie to notes that came his way, "if you knew..."
Jack reached over, put a hand on Patsy's neck, and they were kissing.
Charlie ran out of words. Jack's mouth was working away, and Patsy wasn't resisting. He and Peggy Sue were surplus personnel.
Peggy Sue turned to Charlie, eyes a liquid in the dark. "I guess it's time I went home. Want to walk me back, Charlie?"
"Walk you back? You only live next door."
The girl's eyes narrowed, and Charlie decided to go along with her. Somehow, it took a long time to get next door.
As they walked slowly away from Jack and Patsy, towards the line of dimly-lit tin and weatherboard shacks, Peggy Sue slipped her hand into Charlie's. Her palm was already as rough as a cowboy's from hard work in the junior auxiliary at the tractor plant on Sunday mornings.
Charlie couldn't forget the music the band had played, and the tunes Jack had tried to wring out of his guitar.
Peggy Sue, Peggy Sue, if you knew...
"Well..." said Peggy Sue as they arrived at her gate.
"See you tomorrow?" said Charlie.
"Yes. Tomorrow. Yes, see you then," she said, looking him straight in the face, smiling.
Charlie felt nervous. He didn't want to leave her. Not just yet.
Next thing he knew, he was kissing her. Or she was kissing him. Not the sort of peck on the cheek his mother had made him perform in party games when he was a kid. This was the big-league thing. They were holding one another tight, and grinding their lips together, like people did in the kind of movies that Charlie didn't really enjoy, like Jack and Patsy back in the field. They said nothing. Just took time out every once in a while to look at each other before they got back to it again.
Finally. "Peggy Sue...uh, chicklet...there's something I'd like to ask you...
Peggy Sue smiled, expecting. Then, they heard a girl, screaming. The moment was gone.
m
Back in the USSA
They ran to the back of Charlie's house and could see a number of moonlit figures moving around. The girl screamed again. It was Patsy.
"Stay here, Peggy Sue," said Charlie, running off towards the ruckus.
"That'll be the day," she shouted, running after him. "That's my sister they're hurting."
As Charlie got nearer the noise, he could see that it was not Patsy they were hurting at all. Three men with pickaxe handles or baseball bats were hitting a figure curled up on the ground. The victim had his arms over his head. It was Jack.
Charlie pulled his glasses off and handed them to Peggy Sue. "Look after these," he said, "and don't come an inch nearer."
Hell, Charlie though to himself as he ran towards the men. Three of them, pickaxe handles. I'm going to get killed. Still he ran on...
He couldn't see so well without his glasses, but he could tell who the thugs were. Chick Willis, Philly Winspear and Melvin Yandell. That was predictable. If anyone was going to be beating anyone else up in Roseville, Murderous Melvin and his buddies would elect themselves.
"Patsy!" he shouted, "get away before the bastards try and hurt you!"
Melvin turned from belabouring Jack. "Look what we got here, guys? It's Chocolate Soldier Charlie. Come to join in the fun, Texas limpdick?"
Charlie stopped. He knew he was going to get killed. He took a deep breath, tried to remember some of his Pioneer unarmed combat training, and charged straight at Melvin.
He wasn't moving.
With all that adrenalin pumping, it took him a moment to realise arms were holding him back. He struggled, but couldn't move forward. Melvin laughed, turned back to Jack, fetched him one final, savage swipe and started to walk away. Willis and Winspear also got in their last licks, and scurried after Melvin, hooting and laughing.
Still the arms held Charlie back as the sobbing Patsy was joined by Peggy Sue and the two women went over to Jack. He was on the ground, groaning, mumbling in French.
"Pauvre Ti-Jack, pauvre. .."
Charlie tried to twist his head and see who was holding him. It was no good. He looked down at the arms. Uniformed arms. In the moonlight, three cuff-bars glinted in the moonlight. He knew who it was.
"What you so scared of, Colonel Lindbergh?" screamed Charlie. "That the Party brats you bought to beat up Jack are going to beat me up too?"
H
Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
Lindbergh let go of him, and turned to walk in silence back towards town. Charlie watched the Lone Eagle go, and spat at his shadow.
"Chicken," he yelled.
Jack was groaning, and the girls were sniffling.
Someone else came out of the dark. Charlie waited for another attack, but it never came.
"So here the hell you all are," said Howie. "I wondered where you'd gotten to...Cheezis, what happened to my bombardier?"
"I had it all at once, Mr. Lowe, in two days. I met Jack and Howie, very deeply interesting people who were to be more of an influence on my life than I'd realise. Second, I kissed a girl for the first time. Third, I was starting to question the Pioneer ideal. Plus, I was starting to think about music. Yes sir, it was quite a weekend. Here, have another d
rink...
"We got Jack back to my place, and woke up my Mom, who dug out her First Aid stuff. She did a quick diagnosis, and told us he wasn't going to die. He was suffering from concussion, half a dozen cracked ribs, a couple of broken fingers and a fracture in his right arm. She spent almost two hours setting bones and taping on makeshift splints. Then, she went back to bed, leaving us all—Howie, Jack, me, Peggy Sue, Patsy—drinking coffee. That wasn't like her. She said Jack should rest up, but she didn't tell us to stop bothering him, she didn't kick the girls out, and, most particularly, she didn't tell me to get off to bed double-quick. Thinking about it, I guess she had a fair idea what we were going to discuss, and how it would turn out..."
"You're in no fit state to fly with me tomorrow," Howie said to Jack.
"Course I am. I can just about move my left hand."
"Howie's right," said Patsy, "you can't possibly fly. You'd be a danger to the pair of you."
"I'll take your place," said Charlie.
"What?!" said Jack. "Non, Charlie-cat, you don't dig how that plane works. You might get cooled. Even if you don't, the Party skulls will blacklist you for succouring a hooligan. They're going to shoot Howie tomorrow. Lord knows what the evils will do to you, but it won't be
.
"I don't care," said Charlie. "Those people were my heroes. Now I realise what a bunch of yellow-bellied creeps they are. If Howie's going to take them down, I'd like to help."
Back in the USSA
"Hell, kid," said Howie, "look at me. I'm a burned out coot. I got nothing left to lose. You've got everything coming up ahead of you. Don't throw it away."
Charlie was unmoved. "You need a co-pilot. I've had 22 hours in planes, over 50 hours on gliders. I've got Pioneer badges in navigation and dive bombing. If you're going to show those pudknockers who's best tomorrow, I want to be part of it."
"Charlie-cat," sighed Jack. "It's your play. If you're going to do it, let me give you some advice. Hold tight, go to the crapper first and take a lump of leather to bite on."
"Fine, I'll remember that."
"Attaboy, Charlie," said Howie. "If you're so determined to put your ass on the line, then it's fine by me. Just don't let it be said that we didn't try to talk you out of it. I can't say what'll happen to you afterwards, but you've got no problems in the air. You're nearly 16, you must be a better pilot than Curtis LeMay. And I need someone to drop the bombs and watch my ass and light the cigars and pass the bottle."
"I didn't sleep too well, for the second night running. Early next morning, I followed Jack's advice and spent a good half an hour in the outhouse.
"I snuck out and found Peggy Sue waiting for me. She gave me a wet kiss and a rabbit's foot and asked me, somewhat unromantically I thought, if I'd been to the privy.
"Off we walked to Baxter Field. By now word had gotten round, and there were plenty of folks turning up to see the show. Most of town, in fact. About half an hour after I arrived, Mom and Dad showed. I kept my head low because I hadn't told them that I was going to be part of it. There were a lot of soldiers about, and the motor-pool sergeant was rumoured to be taking bets on the big contest, offering long odds on Crazy Howie and the Flying Deathtrap against the RFS.
"I got up to the Spruce Goose, and Howie was fooling around with the engine, drunk as a skunk of course. He even offered me a pull on the bottle. "Want some breakfast, kid?" he said. He also stated as Gospel that he'd never flown sober in his life and doubted he ever could.
"Scary stuff, huh? But the hand-on-heart truth is that I wasn't scared. This was my big chance to pay off Lindbergh and McCarthy and the others for letting me down, for destroying my illusions. I couldn't give the steam off a cow flop for the consequences. I suppose every
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Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
sixteen-year-old thinks he's immortal. I wasn't worried about the flying, I wasn't worried what might happen to me afterward. Worst of all, I wasn't worried for what might happen to my parents, or Patsy or Peggy Sue. What can I say? I was a self-righteous little bastard."
The heroes of the RFS strode out across the tarmac. Hubbard and McCarthy looked hung-over. LeMay, who hadn't bothered to shave, tossed another cigar-butt to one side and started pulling on his flying-jacket. Morrison strode coolly along, bringing up the rear.
Lindbergh saw Charlie fitting Jack's flying-helmet over his head.
"Keep out of this, son. This isn't your fight."
"With respect, Comrade Colonel Lindbergh, sir," Charlie replied, "this is my fight. You used to be my hero. I wanted to grow up to be just like you. But last night I saw you acting like a sneaky two-faced yellow bastard. So even if the man you had beaten up wasn't a friend of mine, I have to take you on. I'm doing it on behalf of every kid in America who looks up to you without realising what an asshole you are. Sir."
"From cringing geek to pompous numbskull in one overnight step, eh?" said McCarthy. "Where's your ripe girlfriend?"
Lindbergh's face closed as McCarthy breathed fumes.
"We can call this off right now," said the Lone Eagle.
"Yes sir," replied Charlie. "We can...if you let Howie here go and promise not to harm him."
"Hell, no!" snapped LeMay. "Lindy, cut out the whining and fly."
LeMay proposed stunts, and Howie agreed to everything with a nod.
"Might as well put on a show for the folks who turned out to see this dogfight," said LeMay.
Lindbergh muttered something about Helldivers being built for killing Japs not barnstorming, and walked away to one of the huge blue craft to get into his flying jacket before climbing into the cockpit. He was joined by Morrison who took the back seat of the plane.
LeMay tossed Charlie two small wooden practise bombs and said "you know what to do with these, four-eyes?" Charlie nodded, and LeMay and McCarthy climbed into the other Helldiver.
Hubbard stayed behind as ground crew. He would, he had said, do as he usually did at RFS air displays and take the microphone on the grandstand and provide the public with a running commentary.
"Enough hot air for a Montgolfier balloon," Howie spat as Hubbard test-woofed into the mike.
El
Back in the USSA
The air-cooled engines of the powerful Navy planes coughed, then roared into life, spewing huge gobs of unhealthy black smoke from the engine-cowl exhausts.
Charlie climbed into the front cockpit of the Spruce Goose and belted himself in securely. From behind, Howie shouted "connnnnn-tacttt!!" and the engine turned over. It spluttered into action, shaking the plane so badly that Charlie was worried it would fall apart long before they got airborne.
The four-bladed props of the Helldivers, each as long as a full-grown man, spun smoothly. Charlie looked behind him at the stocky planes. The difference between them and the H-l was like that between a healthy 20-year-old quarterback and an infirm, wheezing old man.
The Helldivers taxied out to the main part of the asphalt runway, pulled even more power from their engines and in an instant were airborne, just a few feet from the ground as they started retracting undercarriages.
Howie started moving the biplane out towards the runway. Charlie felt a tap on his shoulder. He looked behind to see Howie making a universal gesture at him. Charlie got the message, searched down by his feet, found a full bottle and passed it to the old man. Howie grinned and gave a thumbs-up sign, spat the cork away and drained half the bottle. At least he acted like a daredevil pilot.
The plane moved forward.
Above the howling of the engine, he could just about hear Howie whooping. Charlie joined in as the Spruce Goose left the ground. He stopped as it hit the ground again.
"Damn the torpedoes!" he yelled, for want of anything more appropriate or exuberant, as the plane left the ground decisively and the grey scar of the runway became highlighted against the green of Baxter Field below.
At the end of the runway, he could see three stick figures waving. Patsy and Peggy Sue had been joined by a third p
erson, whose skull was swathed in greying bandage and whose left arm was stiff.
Charlie pulled the helmet's goggles down and fixed them over his glasses, feeling like Audie Murphy being catapulted off the aircraft carrier Robert La Follette to do battle with the Japanese in Twelve O'Clock High.
Ahead, he could see the Helldivers against the clouds. The planes circled the field at 500 feet, pulling a wide lazy arc as they went in for the first stunt.
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Eugene Byrne & Kim Newman
LeMay's ship got in there impatiently. Charlie recognised it as LeMay's because he could just make out the yellow blur of the names of the Japanese and German cities the General was supposed to have bombed painted next to the cockpit. It executed three loops in succession without stalling. Charlie could imagine the people down below applauding.
LeMay's Helldiver made height to circle out of the way as Lindbergh's plane swooped down to repeat the trick. Again, Charlie felt Howie tapping his shoulder. He looked back to see a ferocious leer on the old man's face. "Strapped in boy?" shouted Howie. Charlie checked, and pulled the buckles tighter.
Lindbergh put his plane into an elegant descending arc, ready to loop a few loops. Charlie felt himself being pushed backwards in his seat as the Spruce Goose gathered speed and headed into a collision course for Lindbergh's port side.
Charlie tensed. The Helldiver seemed less than a hundred yards off. He could make out Morrison's face at the back of the cockpit, looking at them in what he was sure was horror. The Curtiss started pulling up at the beginning of its first loop. Something howled in Charlie's ear as they passed the plane. It was right above them. Then the world turned upside-down and the Helldiver was below them and the harness was straining on his shoulders.
The world turned again, and again, and again, and again.
Howie had flown his first loop through Lindbergh's first loop, and had gone on to execute four more loops himself.