"What do you mean?"
"Nothing. Go ahead." No longer worried about being accused of being the other woman, her manner changed. She preferred being in command.
"Daddy wonders if you are willing to maintain the same relationship, to keep things going as they are."
"Tell your dad that I've been running the place for Troy for years, and that of course I want to maintain the relationship."
"Will you hire Stan when he comes back from Korea?"
"Sure, why not?"
"You don't think it would be awkward—us being divorced and all?"
Elsie thought for a moment about her last tryst with Stan. She no longer needed the variety and quantity of sex that she used to, and she had just been going through the motions—the old drive was missing. Yet it might be amusing to have Stan around, for as much as she enjoyed Dick Baker as a lover, he was independent—he'd leave in a minute without a thought. That was one of the reasons she liked him.
"Look, Stan's a good man, and I can use him. But he's just an employee. He has nothing to say about the business, about policy. Why would he?"
"Well, he's hurt. He might not want to associate with the family." Her voice had quivered. Elsie looked at her with new interest. Something even worse than just being caught flagrante delicto had happened.
*
At the mouth of the Yalu River, North Korea/ September 22, 1952
Shattering pain reverberated through Marshall like a struck cymbal; it felt as if his arm were being wrenched from its socket. His scream frightened the North Korean farmers tugging at his sleeve. They leaped back and he heard the question, "Russkie?"
He had been unconscious, and now his eyes were caked with mud. He tried to pull himself together, rubbing his eyes with the back of his hand. One of the farmers plowed through the mud to a ditch at the side of the littoral where he'd crash-landed and brought back a rusted canful of water, extending it to him with a bow.
Marshall's left arm hung uselessly at his side. Even pulling the flight suit zipper with his right hand jarred the arm, causing his knees to sag with pain. He found a handkerchief and dipped it in the water. Forgetting how Korean fields were fertilized, he smeared the handkerchief over his face, the filthy water oozing into his eyes and mouth.
After a second swipe, he looked up and the group jumped back. They were expecting a blond Russian and got a black Marshall.
One of them came forward and extended his forefinger, gently touching Marshall's skin and lightly scratching at it with his knarled, dirt-encrusted nail. There was a hurried conversation and their mood changed as fast as crystal cracking.
"Amerikanski?"
Marshall nodded yes, apprehensive. He had to stall them until some military people arrived, someone who'd realize he should be questioned and not killed on the spot.
The crowd of North Koreans was growing rapidly, surrounding him, the mumbles growing louder like a lynch scene in a B-movie, but no one coming closer. Something was holding them back. Standing as still as possible to minimize the pain from his arm, he realized that he had his issue .38 pistol strapped to his left leg.
The biggest man in the crowd slowly detached himself and came forward to stand with his face close to Marshall's, his breath laden with the garlicky smell of kimchee, the fermented cabbage that was such an important part of the Korean diet.
Marshall smiled again. The man smiled back and moved away slightly, pointing politely at the holster. The gun was worse than useless to Marshall, so he nodded, and the big farmer grabbed it, and stepped back, full of bluster. Raising the pistol straight up, he pulled the trigger. The safety was on, and, embarrassed, he looked fiercely at Marshall, who used his right forefinger to push the safety off. The man repeated the act, this time firing two rounds into the sky. He had assumed control.
Almost an hour later, a North Korean Army truck pulled up, and the big man was still holding off the crowd as Marshall sat slumped on the wing, nauseated and trying to fight off shock. When the truck came into view, his guard had pocketed the gun and disappeared into the fast-dispersing crowd. Marshall saw why—the troops were indiscriminately handing out blows as if they were breaking up a riot.
A small soldier came up and stood at attention, saying in halting English, "You are a prisoner of war. We will not harm you."
A flood of relief welled over Marshall. He had no idea of how wrong the man was.
*
Suwon, Korea/September 23, 1952
The young pilot stood swaying at the door to Coleman's room in the tar paper shanty, face drawn, fists clenched, his rage as ill-contained as milk boiling over a small saucepan. Anticipating his visit. Cole-man had readied his arguments.
"Come in, Menard. I understand you really tied one on last night. I don't blame you. We'll all miss Bones."
The major ignored Menard's flight suit, filthy and still wet where he had wiped off last night's vomit.
"I just heard that you claimed two MiGs on that mission, and that Fitzpatrick confirmed them."
Coleman skittered like a water spider across the surface tension of military courtesy. "That's right; that makes six for me. It's a great feeling to be an ace at last. But I want to compliment you on the way you shook the MiGs off your tail. They were honchos, for sure."
Menard wasn't having any. "Bones Marshall got those MiGs, Major, and you know it. What the hell is going on?"
Bristling like a cardsharp questioned on his deal, Coleman shifted to his superior officer role, the last refuge of the insecure.
"Are you accusing me of making a false claim, Lieutenant?"
"Maybe I am. Can I see the gun camera film?"
"The gun camera film showed two MiGs going down. It's already been sent forward to Fifth Air Force. But you can ask Fitzpatrick."
Coleman knew that Fitzpatrick would back him up—Fitz had been the one to destroy Coleman's gun camera film immediately after landing, telling the armament troops that he had to do it because it showed they were violating Chinese territory near the Feng-Cheng air base.
"Damn convenient. I won't talk to Fitzpatrick, but I will call my buddy at Fifth headquarters and get some independent verification."
Coleman was silent for a moment. Menard had just raised the ante a lethal amount. Then he barked, "Lieutenant, that's enough of your insults. If Captain Marshall got two MiGs, we'll put in a claim for them. But you went off and got snockered last night before anybody could debrief you. How the hell am I supposed to know what went on in your flight? You were his wingman—you should have kept him from getting shot down."
It was the killer point, driving Menard's reaction. Bones's death was his fault, no question—that's why he'd gotten drunk. The young pilot was suddenly embarrassed and confused. He had no idea what had gone on in Coleman's flight. He'd seen only Bones's two MiGs go down. After he'd shaken off his own attackers, he'd made his way back to K-13 alone. Maybe Coleman had scored then.
Contrition flooded him. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Major. I've made a fool out of myself. I apologize."
Coleman quickly adopted a fatherly tone. "Don't sweat it, son. I know you are upset. It's tough losing an old friend like Bones. Tell you what, are you up to flying?"
"Yes, sir."
"Best thing to do after something like this is to go up and do a little hassling around in the sky. I'll call down and schedule a proficiency flight, just the two of us. When we come back you'll be fine. You can put in the claims for Bones then."
Twenty minutes later Coleman grabbed Menard by the arm as they walked out underneath the stylized pagoda on the flight line that was inscribed this way to mig alley. Now his voice and manner were totally different.
"This is more than a practice flight, Lieutenant. You were flying wing on one of our best men, and we lost him because of you. I need to see if you've got what it takes. I want you to stick with me, no matter what I do. If you can't hack it, maybe this isn't the place for you."
Stung by the sudden change in manner, Menard saluted and tu
rned toward his airplane, flooded again with guilt. Coleman was right—if he'd done his job, he wouldn't have lost Bones, the best friend he'd ever had. Maybe he didn't deserve to be there, after all.
Forty minutes after they were airborne, Menard conceded that Coleman was a master pilot. They had started with simple formation, then some light maneuvers, wingovers, pullups, some easy rolls all done at 2 Gs or less. Then Coleman had gotten serious, pulling 3 Gs, then 4 Gs, tightening the turns, doing quick reversals; it took all Menard's concentration to hang on, and as the level of difficulty increased, his enjoyment rose and resentment decreased. Coleman was teaching him something, he didn't know what, but the flying was therapy for him.
They were in a tight 4-G turn when Coleman swung outside, reversed, so that they were canopy to canopy, then dropped back.
Coleman, his tone still harsh, barked, "Not bad. Now let's do a little rat-racing. Stay with me."
The silver F-86 rolled and split-S'd. Menard followed, mind and body fused in concentration, Marshall and the hangover forgotten, aware only of the airplane dancing ahead of him against a revolving green background. The controls were heavy in his hands as he caressed the stick to bring the two-plane embrace even closer. The Sabre filled his windscreen; he could read Coleman's name stenciled beneath the canopy. Unable to chance a look inside his own cockpit, he was indifferent to speed or altitude as long as he stayed glued in position. He became Coleman's shadow, trusting him completely, pledging to stay tied in no matter how Coleman maneuvered.
Coleman climbed on turns to the right to give Menard ground clearance, his Sabre outlined clean against the bright blue sky. On turns to the left, Coleman's airplane was a silver blur against the flash of green, rice fields at first and then craggy scrub-covered foothills.
After a hard 360-degree turn that he spent scanning the empty sky, Coleman darted into the half-mile-wide mouth of a familiar valley, hurtling down it in a gentle climb as the floor rose and the walls narrowed, Menard tucked in tight to his right rear. Coleman led them at four hundred knots toward a ridge line where a two-hundred-foot-long catenary dip linked two gigantic rock out-croppings. In an instant, Coleman had passed through the right side of the dip, as Menard merged with the rocks.
At the debriefing, a badly shaken Coleman told Ostrowski what had happened. His voice broke as he told how Menard had been flying perfect formation when he suddenly rolled, inverted, and dove to the ground.
"It looked like he started a recovery. He"—Coleman stopped to pull himself together—"didn't quite make the pull-out."
Everyone knew that the accident investigation would be useless. All that was left at the site was the circular impression of an explosion, and a rockslide mixed with oily, burned debris. After two days of sifting they would find the only evidence of Menard, the blackened Swiss Army knife he carried on a lanyard.
Fitzpatrick dropped by Coleman's room after the debriefing session.
"What really happened?"
Coleman looked up at him, his face impassive.
"You heard me—we were in formation and he suddenly rolled over and went in, didn't say a word. Must have been hypoxia."
"You lousy fucker, you dragged that kid off like an ape peeling a banana. You murdered him."
Coleman poured a drink, his shaking hands clinking the bottle against the glass. "Bullshit, the kid couldn't hack it. He lost Bones one day, killed himself the next. Shit, it happens all the time."
"Around you it does. What the hell's happened to you, Stan?"
Coleman wearily wiped his hand across his face. "Fitz, give me a break. Haven't I always taken care of you?"
"Yeah, just like Ruddick's taken care of you."
"You're right, you've put your finger on it. I'm sick of depending on that smart-ass Ruddick. I want to make it on my own. I'm an ace now, and that'll help."
"Make it on your own? For Christ's sake, Stan, you're an ace because you claimed two victories from Marshall. You're talking nonsense."
"Don't give me that, Fitzpatrick, you confirmed those victories yourself. All that matters is that I'm an ace and Ruddick had nothing to do with it."
Fitzpatrick stared at him. It was incredible, but the man believed what he was saying. Stealing the two kills and dragging off Menard meant nothing to him; they were just means to his ends.
"Well, screw you, buddy, I'm fed up with it." Fitzpatrick whirled and left the tent, disgusted with Coleman, despising himself.
Coleman sat, heavy-lidded eyes defiant, rugged jaws working. He knew that Fitz couldn't get along without him; he'd long since have been court-martialed if he hadn't been protecting him.
Coleman really couldn't expect Fitz to understand how he felt about still taking Ruddick's help even after catching Ginny and that big black bastard in bed. He'd never told Fitz about that, or anyone else either, not even Elsie.
Fitz would come around. If not, he'd find somebody else to be his number two. He was an ace now, and his career would begin to move. On his own terms. Screw Fitzpatrick. And screw Ruddick, too!
*
North Korea/September 25, 1952
His arm aching with the same fierce intensity of a freshly broken tooth, Bones almost passed out, not sure where he was or how long he could go on. Since the North Korean Army truck had arrived, he had been shuttled from one headquarters to the next, unable to tell if it was because he was a prize or because they couldn't determine what to do with him.
Even in his pain the fundamental poverty of the country came through to him. The roads were mere graveled slits gouged out from the rocky cliffs, edged by hovels where a tin roof was a luxury. The countryside was free of debris, for at every hut the detritus of war—food cans, bits of canvas webbing—served as homemade household goods.
My God, he thought, what a colorless country—it's like a black and white film. The rough landscape, its near horizon blocked by sharply angled mountains, was a muddy shading of brown and gray, with only an occasional slash of dirty green. On rare occasions, one of the village huts would have a red tile roof, overlaid like everything else with a thick grouting of dust.
Even the people seemed made of stone, their faces impassive, overcast like their clothes with the same ugly coating that covered trees and buildings. He saw no interest in their eyes, no hope; they seemed as inanimate as the rocks and the shrubs.
He heard an explosion of rage inside the command post, and a Korean officer came roaring out.
"You, get in now!" The Korean pointed to the filthy truck and they began an agonizing ride back toward his aircraft.
Unable to understand the sudden anger, Bones tried to calm himself, arguing that if they were going to kill him, there was nothing he could do. Yet the degree of his fear bothered him; he thought he'd been frightened before, flying in combat, but it was nothing like this jellylike capitulation of strength and bowels to utter helplessness and certain punishment. At times, he almost appreciated the insistent reality of the pain that distracted him momentarily from his wild apprehensions about the future.
At the crash site they were met by Colonel Kim, a large man for a Korean. His frothing rage impaired his English, but Marshall gathered that a soldier had blown his hand off in the cockpit of the F-86.
"Sabotage! Sabotage! You did this on purpose."
Marshall realized that the poor soldier must have tried to remove the IFF box, which had a self-destruct detonator built into it.
"No, sir. Not sabotage. You must keep your people out of the airplane. The ejection seat is armed."
The colonel paid no attention to him at all, playing to the crowd that had gathered around, screaming at him in Korean. Marshall was so inexpressibly weary that tears kept forming in his eyes. He hated to show weakness, but he couldn't control himself.
An older man, a retired official of some rank, judging by the people clustered around him, detached himself from the crowd and climbed into the F-86's seat.
Marshall wearily raised his good arm and said, "Donf! Tell him to g
et out of there."
Colonel Kim was repeating a favorite phrase, "Those is not relevant," as he turned in time to see the ejection seat fire and catapult the unfortunate Korean into the air. In mid-flight, the victim separated from the seat, falling like a sack of rice into the mud. The seat's trajectory carried it through a crowd of farmers, a huge square bowling ball obliterating human pins. Marshall learned later that three had been killed and six injured.
Berserk, Kim turned and struck Marshall across the jaw, knocking him to the ground, screaming with pain. His face contorting with hate, Kim reached down and deliberately twisted Marshall's left arm. The stabbing flood of agony shocked him into unconsciousness.
He awakened hours later, delirious with pain, stretched out in a stake-bed truck, his body penned in by fuel drums, two morose guards watching him.
After a long wait, they drove into the collection of mud huts that passed for a North Korean field hospital. The largest one had a power line running to it; Marshall found out later that it was for X-ray. They took him into the examining hut first, and a short, bespectacled doctor carefully checked him over before sending him to the next hut. He was apparently getting the same care given wounded Chinese and North Korean soldiers and was grateful just to be sitting quietly and not bouncing across the primitive Korean roads.
Bandaged patients either stumbled out of the operating room or were carried slackly by their arms and legs—he hadn't seen a single stretcher. After an hour's wait he was taken into the surgery and immediately, without any preparation, given ether as an anesthetic. He knew he had to have his arm set, but as he began to fade, he wondered if they would interrogate him. He was starting to protest when the blessed night took the pain away.
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