Air Force Eagles

by Walter J. Boyne

  "Don't knock Hadley, he's all right." Elsie stubbed her cigarette out. "Do you really mean this? I didn't think you were interested in anything but siphoning off dough from the subcontractors."

  He didn't even blink at the charge. "No, I've been thinking about this a lot, reading the trade papers. Martin's laying off a bunch of guys, and so is Curtiss-Wright. We could have our pick."

  She stood up, wrapping the robe tightly about her. She could do what the doctor said, but maybe just reverse the order. "That might be fun. They'd probably have some ideas about what to build, and maybe some contacts, too. That's the big problem."

  "And you're still in bed with Ruddick, aren't you, so to speak? You got him on the payroll still?"

  "Yeah, so to speak. And he'll be as interested as we are in digging something up. I'll call our personnel guy in tomorrow, and get started."

  Baker reached across and gave her an affectionate hug; it was unlike him and she moved away, suddenly wary. Maybe this is a way but, she thought. I'll get some new projects going, bring some decent people in, and rid myself of this man.

  Baker sensed her movement and smiled. "Getting touchy, eh? I think it must be that weed—you always act funny after you've smoked a little. Never mind. Call the personnel guy on Monday. Right now, it's time to watch 'Ozzie and Harriet.' "

  She knew that beneath his coarse manner, Baker was lonely, too: he had a strong domestic streak, and she liked that. Snuggling closer to him, she thought; I'll miss this more than the sex.

  *

  San Francisco, California/October 15, 1953

  He'd been able to pick out Saundra's upturned face from the crowd even before his ship docked that morning. Except for a long interrogation about his confession, the Air Force had kept the entry problems to a minimum. There had been a very short briefing for the press, and then they'd brought the two of them to the VIP quarters in Fort Mason. Now he lay deep in a tortured sleep, Saundra watching over him.

  Marshall rolled over and groaned, eyes fluttering open.

  "It's all right honey, I'm right here." Saundra's voice was soothing, warm. He lay still as the comfort hit him, the clean sheets, the smell of her perfume.

  "Sorry—just a nightmare, a dream within a dream. I thought I was back in my cell, dreaming about you."

  He rolled into her arms and felt her hands glide over his body, her fingers gently following the contours of his wounds. "My poor baby, they treated you so badly."

  "You should have seen me before—I gained twenty pounds on the trip over."

  Marshall brought her hands to his face and kissed them. "I'm sorry about this afternoon—I was just too eager."

  "Me, too, baby. Don't worry about it, we've got a long time to get readjusted."

  They'd fallen into each other's arms as soon as the door had closed behind them, tearing their clothes off" as they struggled toward the bed. It had been frustrating—Marshall had ejaculated almost immediately, even before he was fully erect, and he hadn't been able to make love since.

  "I'm wide awake now—want to talk some more?" She snapped on the light and nodded. "Where was I? I told you about going down to Panmunjom? The Chinese gave us haircuts and a shave and issued us new towels, new clothes, everything, even candy, some kind of rice paper sweet—it was delicious. Then they drove us down to Freedom Village."

  Marshall closed his eyes and felt once again the tension of the trip, the sense of disbelief that the long imprisonment was actually ending, the fear that it was just another ploy, like the mock executions, the beatings, the solitary, just a trick to make him talk.

  "The Reds had motion picture cameramen all the way; I thumbed my nose at them every time. Then I heard it—American music from a military band. I started crying. I never used to cry. Now I do it all the time—when I see the flag, or hear the national anthem. I bawled when I saw you on the dock. Nerves, I guess."

  She stroked his head. "After what you've been through, you deserve to cry. Being a prisoner was bad enough, then losing your parents on top of it. You can cry all you want, and I'll join you.

  He kissed her and went on. "The truck came to a stop, and I stepped down. All of a sudden a crowd of Air Force guys surrounded me, shaking my hand, slapping me on the back. They hustled me into an ambulance. I was free."

  His voice broke as he repeated, "I was free."

  "You don't have to go on . . . we can talk tomorrow."

  "No, I want to tell you everything." He lay on his back, and the memories spilled out—the first hot shower, the first American food, the clean sheets in the hospital. "That's where I wrote my first letter to you." He gulped and said, "Then there were the reporters, wanting to know what they fed us, how they beat us. Nobody asked anything about the confession, and I was glad."

  "Why did they send you home by ship? You rated a flight back home after all you went through."

  "They said it was to give us a chance to get our health back. They were right, and it gave me a chance to get used to the idea of Mom and Dad being gone. But things changed on board ship. The nearer we got to the States, the cooler everybody was. The last day out they really grilled me about my confession—it was almost like being a prisoner again. I told them how I'd faked it, made it ridiculous, but it didn't seem to matter. I think I may be in real trouble."

  "Oh, Bones, don't say that! They know how they tortured you, and you didn't tell them anything that made sense."

  "I know, but I can't get that across. Tomorrow I've got to write out another complete statement. I already gave them one on the ship. It's like they're comparing it, to see where I'm lying. I wouldn't be surprised to see Colonel Choi tomorrow, threatening me."

  She felt him shiver in her embrace.

  "Honey, they're just trying to find out what happened; the problem is you feel guilty and you shouldn't. Nobody could have put up with all you did. Nobody."

  "I don't know. I really didn't break, I thought I was making fools of them; I thought anyone back here could see that."

  "They'll see it, sweetheart."

  "Did you hear that Dave Menard crashed the day after I was shot down?"

  "Yes, they told me."

  "Well, you can be damn sure that wasn't an accident. He was flying with Coleman, rat-racing. Coleman probably flew him into the ground to keep him from talking."

  She looked at him with pity. This was more than anxiety, it was paranoia. "Oh, honey, I don't think that could be true. You're just overstressed."

  He was upset for a moment, then realized that she couldn't know how well Menard flew, how careful he was with his equipment—nor how evil Coleman could be. She spoke to him again. "Now you try to get some sleep."

  "In a minute. Come here, let me see if I can't do a little better than this afternoon."

  They kissed for a long while, until he fell asleep again. She lay with her hand on his chest, trying to will strength into him, uncomfortable in the role. She had always found her strength in him; it was strange to have their roles reversed.

  *

  Frederick Air Force Base, California/October 23, 1953

  “Colonel Coleman's compliments, sir. He regrets that he's unable to be with you this morning—had to go to sick call with a touch of the flu. But he's asked me to give you a demonstration flight."

  Bandfield reached out to shake the major's hand; he was short and chunky, a fireplug in a flight suit.

  "Haven't we met before?"

  "Yes, sir, at the McNaughton plant once—I was just visiting with Stan, and you and I had some coffee together."

  They walked down to the personal equipment section, where technicians were standing by with an array of flight suits, oxygen masks, and helmets. After they fitted him up, Fitz took him to another room.

  "We've got an ejection-seat trainer in here, sir."

  "Call me Bandy. Think we'll need it?"

  "No, the B-47's a good bird, but there's a local regulation that requires that we use it. It's just a procedure trainer, just to give you confidence i
n the seat in the airplane."

  "Doesn't give you much confidence in the plane, though. How long have you been flying B-47s?"

  "Not quite a year—but I've got three hundred hours time. Stan's been working me hard as an instructor." He checked Bandfield's expression and grinned. "I think you'll be safe."

  Bandfield grinned back. "I'm not worried about you, Fitz, but I'm a little spooked by all the stories on the airplane. You know, the jazz about critical approach speeds, getting into the 'coffin corner,' where there's only a couple of knots difference between a high-speed stall and a low-speed stall—stuff like that."

  "The coffin corner is just bullshit—you'd really have to work to get yourself in a pickle like that. The B-47's like any airplane. If you fly it right, it'll treat you right; if you abuse it, it'll bite you. The approach speed is critical, but it's easy to be precise with this airplane, and hell, that's what they pay us for."

  They spent the morning flight planning, then drove in a staff car out to the flight line, past the long rows of B-47Es. Coleman and Williams were waiting at the airplane, along with Birch Matthews, the radar observer.

  After the usual courtesies, Coleman said, "The wing commander and I pre-flighted it for you, Fitz—pretty good service. Colonel Bandfield, how much time do you have?"

  Bandfield looked at him closely; Coleman might have the flu, but it looked more like a hangover to him. Williams didn't look much better.

  "I'm at your disposal—all the time in the world."

  "Fitz, I know you've flight-planned to go over to Tonopah. Why don't you show Colonel Bandfield the new toss-bombing delivery technique we've been working on?"

  Fitzpatrick flushed. "This is just a demonstration flight, Stan—I'm not sure we want to overload the colonel."

  "No, I know this man, Fitz. Give him the works." He turned to Bandy. "You won't actually be dropping a bomb—it's electronically scored."

  Once he'd gotten used to the tricky ground handling of the bicycle gear layout, Bandfield began to enjoy himself. The takeoff was long, but climbing at 310 knots was exhilarating—not many airplanes could go that fast in level flight. At altitude, the airplane handled beautifully. In the backseat Fitz was a perfect instructor, anticipating Bandfield's questions, talking him through the fuel management routines and demonstrating how the airplane flew in various configurations.

  "This thing could grow on you, Fitz."

  "Yeah, I'd go to war in it tomorrow, if I had to. We've burned off enough fuel now, Bandy; let's go down and let me demonstrate the bomb drop Stan was talking about."

  Fitz got clearance from the Tonopah range—the controller was clearly unhappy about being worked on a Saturday. Fitz called, "I got it," and dumped the drag gear; the B-47 began a four-thousand-foot-per-minute descent at 290 knots.

  Bandfield watched the earth rushing up to him, heard Fitz and Matthews run the checklist and call the range.

  "Tonopah, this is Nectar Two One, we're approaching the initial point." Then, to Bandfield, "Okay, you got it, we're level five hundred feet above the ground. Bring the speed up to four hundred twenty-five knots."

  Bandfield shook the wheel and advanced the six throttles. The airspeed stabilized at 425 as the desert floor whipped past, the sagebrush turning into long blue-green blurs.

  "Bandy, maintain this heading. When I say 'now' start a two and one-half G pull-up and stay with it. Keep positive Gs and do an Immelmann turn off the top and then I'll take it."

  Wondering what he'd got himself into, Bandfield concentrated on course and heading as he heard the bomb release system tone button come on. The airspeed was surprisingly easy to maintain; only the ailerons were stiff, locked tight by the speed.

  "Now, pull back, not too hard, just two and one-half Gs, nice and steady."

  Bandfield checked the G-meter as he pulled back on the wheel and advanced the throttles; the B-47 eased back into the first half of a loop; there was a sharp crack of the quick-opening bomb bay doors, and Fitz called "Bombs away!" as the tone signal cut off.

  The airspeed bled away in their high, arcing zoom that flattened on the top so that Bandfield saw the ground beneath his canopy and the horizon as a crazy inverted line ahead of them. He rolled the airplane level.

  Yelling, "I got it!" Fitz pulled back on the power and lowered the nose. Within minutes they were roaring across the desert floor in the opposite direction of the bomb run, airspeed nudging 450 knots, wings stiff as a board.

  "That's it, Bandy—we just lobbed an H-bomb in on Moscow."

  Fitz called Tonopah. "Ah, Roger, Tonopah, how did you score that last run?"

  "Nectar Two One, that was a shack, right on the target. Will you be wanting another?"

  "No, thank you, Tonopah, don't want to press my luck."

  That night Bandfield called Riley from the BOQ.

  "Bear, the airplane's a jewel, but I'm not too sure about this toss-bombing idea."

  "LeMay isn't crazy about it, either, but it's about the only way to get a B-47 in with an H-bomb and not fry the crew with the radiation."

  "Yeah, but you're flying the airplane right at its limits—if the pilot got a little nervous, or if he hits some turbulence, he could exceed the G limits easy. What then?"

  "Well, then the fucking wings fall off—you know that. The crews will just have to practice enough to get proficient."

  "Easy to say, especially with new airplanes. What happens in five years when they begin to wear out, when fatigue and corrosion gets to them?"

  "We'll just have to watch it. You got any better ideas?"

  Bandfield's voice went up a notch. "I sure as hell have. It'd be a lot better to put a parachute on the bomb, let it float down and let the B-47 just make a normal bomb run."

  "LeMay doesn't like the idea. Not accurate enough—it's been tried."

  "That's just bullshit, Riley. We're not dropping darts, you know, we're dropping H-bombs that can flatten a city. How accurate do you have to be?"

  "You want to work up a test program on it?"

  "Absolutely. Talk to you tomorrow; I'm going to do some figures tonight."

  "I warn you, Bandy, LeMay probably won't okay it."

  Bandfield slapped his forehead with his hand, Goddamn it, he may have four stars but he doesn't have all the answers. If the wings start falling off B-47s all over the place, he'll be the first one screaming for a solution.

  "Tell you what—I'm going to L.A. next week to talk with Schriever about systems management. I'll be going to Dayton from there to the B-47 weapons systems office. Why don't you meet me there, and we'll get some people working on a parachute-retarded system?"

  "Can we get any dough to fund it?"

  "Trust me, Bandy. If I can't get a million or two squirreled away for this, I've lost my touch."

  "See you in Dayton."

  *

  Los Angeles, California/October 30, 1953

  Patience had never been Saundra's long suit, and John's suspicious attitude was beginning to wear on her.

  "Look, honey, I asked you to come along; I won't be gone for more than an hour."

  "All I know is my wife is going off to meet some strangers from Georgia. How am I supposed to react?"

  "Two of them are ministers; one is a woman lawyer, or so I'm told, from the NAACP. You ought to just come along to see for yourself."

  "How come it's not NAABP, National Association for the Advancement of Black People, now? How come Peterson can't just give them the money himself?"

  She ignored the first question; he'd asked it a dozen times before. "John, don't be like this, I've told you why three times—he's afraid he'll lose business if his advertisers know he's backing the civil rights activists. And if he loses business, he won't be able to help them anymore. Come along, see for yourself."

  "No. I disapprove of what you're doing."

  "How can you disapprove when you've been treated worse than most Black men?"

  He thought she was using the term deliberately, knowing he hated it. For
most of Marshall's life the worst insults a white man could give a Negro involved the word black—"you black bastard" or "you black bitch" were fighting words. Now Saundra and her friends insisted on using Black as a term of honor—they wouldn't use Negro or colored anymore.

  He snapped the television set on and she stood, clutching the big purse in her arms. It was filled with money; she didn't know how much, but it made her nervous to have it.

  "I'm your wife, and I'm carrying a lot of money. Don't you want to come along to protect me?"

  They were exactly the right words. He sprang to his feet.

  "Honey, you're right. I'm coming along."

  On the way over she told him what she was supposed to do. "We'll attend the prayer service. Afterwards, they'll meet us in the children's Bible-study room."

  "Sounds crazy. How do we know if they're the right people? You could be handing it over to a total stranger."

  "No, Fred's arranged a little code." She saw him wince at the name Fred.

  "What is it?"

  "They'll say 'Judge not' and I'll say 'Be not judged.' I'll give them the money, and we'll leave."

  "Honey, this is just stupid. What else would anybody answer to an opener like that? Peterson's being theatrical, that's all. Did you look in the purse?"

  "No, why?"

  "Are you sure it's money? Maybe it's dope. We might be running heroin for your friend."

  "Don't be silly. Look for yourself—it's not locked."