The Fly Boys

by T. E. Cruise

  The Marines had endured a long, bloody struggle to wrestle away this pesthole of an island from the Japanese. As soon as the shooting had slowed, the Seabees had arrived to clear away the rusting wreckage of enemy fighters and bombers, and repair the ruined runways. The Seabees barely had time to finish laying down steel mesh over the first sandy airstrip when the dark blue, gull-winged Marine Corsairs began landing.

  Since then, the Seabees had branded onto the steamy rain forest a half-dozen more interlocking runways, interspersed with oases of palm trees, antiaircraft gun emplacements, and earth-banked protective revetments for parked planes. The bulldozers were still busy. The base would be a work in progress for some time to come. Everybody was still living out of tents. The only relatively substantial buildings were “Polly’s Pit,” the barracks dive where the off-duty Marine officers did their drinking, and the big, barnlike hangars for the Marine squadrons of Corsairs. Cappy Fitzpatrick’s single Army Air Force squadron of P-47 Thunderbolts was making do under open-sided canvas awnings. The squadron’s combination operations and ready room was comprised of a couple of Nissen huts shoved together wth the center walls removed.

  Steve caught a whiff of freshly brewed coffee. He listened intently, and heard the clatter of pots and pans that meant the squadron’s mess was coming to life. The Army pilots and squadron ground personnel were all bivouacked —read that, segregated from Marine personnel—in the same area of the base. The squadron had its own supplies, followed its own rules, and more or less lived in an uneasy truce with the Marines who controlled the island. There’d been a couple of brawls between the webfoot and Army enlisted men, but that was to be expected. Mixing branches of the service was like mixing cats and dogs.

  Steve stubbed out his smoke in a sand-filled ration can. He made sure that his silver first lieutenant’s bars were pinned to his shirt collar, and silver wings were affixed just above his left breast pocket flap. He put on his billed, tan cotton flight cap with a first lieutenant’s bar pinned to the crown, and grabbed his .45 in its shoulder holster off his footlocker at the end of his cot. There were still Japanese ground forces hiding out in the island’s jungle interior, and the base had experienced some trouble with enemy sappers trying to infiltrate by night and snipers during the day. Marines guarded the base perimeter, but all personnel were nevertheless required to carry sidearms.

  Steve adjusted the shoulder holster’s harness and left his tent, heading for the mess. He hadn’t gone more than a few paces before the sweat began rolling out of him, soaking his shirt. He stopped to remove his cap and mop his brow with his handkerchief, and that’s when he saw it.

  It was a large canvas tarp stretched like a billboard between two poles at the entrance to the Army encampment. Neatly painted in bright white paint on the olive green tarp was:

  Here by the lair of Army Air

  On patrol their Jugs make loud dins;

  But when it comes to a bout,

  These guys never put out;

  Marines call them the Vigilant Virgins.

  Several of the pilots and a bunch of the squadron’s ground personnel were all staring up at the thing, grumbling about it, as Steve walked over. Lousy rhyming aside, this was one hell of an insult to the squadron, Steve thought furiously.

  And it hurt all the more because it was true.

  The insult was painted on both sides of the tarp so that everyone could see it. It must have gone up sometime during the night. Steve hadn’t noticed it earlier on his way to the latrine, but he’d been pretty much walking in his sleep.

  “Anyone know if the major’s seen this?” Steve asked.

  “I don’t think so,” one of the other pilots said. He was a captain named Crawford.

  Steve nodded and turned to a corporal. “You go get the major.”

  “Jeez, Lieutenant, you know how the major likes to sleep late,” the corporal complained.

  “Get him, dammit!” Steve exploded.

  “Okay, Lieutenant, calm down,” the corporal said as he took off. “I didn’t put the thing up.”

  “Take it easy, Lieutenant,” Crawford said.

  A group of Marines were passing by. They were on their way to guard duty. They were wearing helmets, camouflage-printed jungle suits, and carrying M-1 carbines, Garands, and Thompson submachine guns. The Marines paused to read the tarp and made a point of laughing as loudly as they could, before sauntering on.

  Steve waited until the webfoots were out of earshot and then turned to Crawford. “See that, Captain? The Marines think we’re shit!” He turned to a couple of enlisted men. “You two get this tarp down, and burn it.”

  “Just hold on there.”

  Steve turned around. “But Cappy—”

  “But nothing, Steve,” Major Sam “Cappy” Fitzpatrick mumbled sleepily.

  He was in his thirties and short, but broad-shouldered and muscular. He had curly black hair, a mustache, and dark eyes. Just now those eyes were bloodshot, and he needed a shave. His olive-drab T-shirt had large, dark sweat rings under the arms, and his khaki shorts were grimy. He was wearing a cotton, peaked bill cap displaying his gold oak leaf, and a revolver slung on his hip in a tan leather, gold-tooled western-style rig that matched his cowboy boots.

  “Cappy, let’s get that thing down!” Steve insisted.

  “I told him not to get so upset,” Crawford announced smugly.

  “Everybody shut up and let me think,” Cappy sighed. He looked around, bellowing, “Where’s my coffee!”

  “Here, sir!” The corporal who Steve had sent to fetch Cappy was hurrying toward the major, carrying a tin mug.

  Cappy took the mug, sipped at it, and winced. “I wouldn’t half mind this goddamned war if I could at least have a cup of decent coffee. Who’s got a smoke?”

  Crawford leapt forward, a pack of Luckys appearing like magic in his hand. Cappy plucked a cigarette out of the pack and allowed Crawford to light it for him.

  “That’s better,” Cappy said to no one in particular. He took another sip of coffee. “Now then, Steve, what’s got you so hot under the collar?”

  “I don’t like being insulted like this,” Steve replied. “I’m fed up with taking shit from these Marines.”

  “Did you ever stop to think that by blowing your stack you’re giving the Marines exactly what they want?” Cappy asked.

  “I hear what you’re saying. They want a reaction and I’m supplying it.” Steve shrugged. “I guess I don’t care. It’s all just getting to me. I’m fed up with not getting the chance to prove to these webfoots that they’re wrong about Army Air. And I’m fed up with not being able to shoot at anything other than a towed target. We were sent here to underscore the fact these sailors and Marines aren’t single-handedly winning the war in the Pacific. Well, if Army Air is gonna be in on it, we’d better start doing our part.”

  “Soon as I think we’re ready,” Cappy declared. “I’m the one who makes that decision, and I’m not about to let a bunch of wisecracking Marines goad me into making that decision prematurely.”

  “You’re making it sound like we’re a green squadron,” Steve complained.

  “We are green,” Cappy said.

  “Every one of us is an ace!” Steve exploded. “Hell, some of us are double or triple aces—”

  “But with the exception of you and me, none of us have flown together,” Cappy pointed out. “And all of us have gotten our experience in different airplanes. I’m not risking this unit in combat until every one of us is up to speed with his Jug and with the other men.”

  “Yes, sir.” Steve sighed.

  Cappy looked at him and grinned. “Don’t worry, Steve. Don’t be so impatient. Trust me, this squadron is going to wax Tojo like he ain’t never been waxed before. Okay?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And don’t worry so much about what other people think,” Cappy added. “You’re an ace. You should have proven yourself to yourself by now.”

  “Okay, Cappy.” Steve felt uncomfortable h
aving Cappy say stuff like that to him with other guys listening.

  Cappy must have sensed his embarrassment. “Good.” He nodded and then abruptly turned away to study the tarp. “Vigilant Virgins they called us, huh?” he chuckled heartily. “I kind of like it.”

  “That insult?” Steve asked in disbelief.

  Cappy nodded. “You know what? I believe that we’re gonna leave that up.”

  “You can’t be serious.” Steve was appalled.

  “I’m never serious, kiddo, but I always mean what I say. Vigilant Virgins … Vee Vee … the Vee Vees—No!” Cappy snapped his fingers. “The Double Vees ….” He grinned triumphantly. “I like it.” He looked around. “Anyone seen Sergeant Wallis this morning?”

  “Sir, I saw him in the mess when I went to get your coffee,” the corporal volunteered.

  Cappy nodded. “See if he’s still there. Tell him I want to see him pronto.”

  “What do you want with Wallis?” Steve asked. Sergeant Wallis was Captain Crawford’s crew chief. He was a burly, balding guy who was always chewing on the butt end of an unlit stogie.

  “He worked in an automobile body shop before the war,” Cappy said. “He knows about painting vehicles and stuff like that. He and I have been knocking around a few ideas for a squadron insignia, but we haven’t been able to come up with anything good.” He paused. “Until now.”

  Steve’s eyes flicked to the tarp and then back to Cappy. “Oh, no….” he murmured sorrowfully.

  “The Double Vees, the Vigilant Virgins,” Cappy repeated. “Yeah…. Thanks to our web-footed friends, I think we’ve finally found our squadron insignia.”

  “Aw, Cappy,” Steve implored.

  “Hey, Wallis!” Cappy yelled as the sergeant approached. “I finally figured out what I want for a squadron nose marking!” The major sketched his ideas in the air for Walli’s benefit. “Picture this: we paint the cowling a solid color. On both sides we put a sort of shield shape with a big vee in the upper left- and a big vee in the lower right-hand corners. In between the vees, going on a diagonal from upper left to lower right, I want a lightning bolt. Got that?”

  Wallis nodded. “Whatcha want for colors, Major?”

  Cappy shrugged. “I haven’t gotten that far.” He glanced at Steve. “You once told me about how your old man was a German ace during the last war. What’d you say his colors were?”

  Steve stalled. “Cappy, don’t you have to get group’s approval for something like this?” he asked hopefully.

  “Group will go along with anything I fucking well say,” Cappy replied impatiently. “If they don’t, I’ll take it up with wing, or Hap Arnold, or fucking FDR if I have to. Got it, Lieutenant?”

  “Got it, Major,” Steve replied quickly. Cappy may have looked like a black sheep, but he was a bona fide war hero. He had twenty-seven confirmed kills, for which he’d been awarded a Silver Star and the Distinguished Service Cross. The brass had already sent Cappy home to take part in a highly publicized cross-country war bond tour. Cappy had friends in high places, and had earned himself a shitload of favors when he’d agreed to head up this squadron.

  “My pop’s personal colors were turquoise and yellow,” Steve said. “But all the airplanes in his squadron had to incorporate some of Richthofen’s signature scarlet into their markings.”

  “Hey, if it was good enough for the fucking Red Baron, it’s good enough for us,” Cappy said. He turned to Wallis. “Paint the nose cowlings yellow. Make the shields turquoise. The vees and lightning bolts are scarlet. Got it?”

  “Whatever you say, Major,” Wallis replied. “The design ain’t too complicated. I’ll start on it right away. The job should be done in a couple of days.”

  “Cappy, at least take down the fucking tarp,” Steve fumed.

  “Nope, it’s staying up.”

  “But they’re laughing at us.”

  “Let them,” Cappy said. “Pretty soon these webfoots are gonna realize that what they’ve given us is a flag of honor, and then the laugh will be on them. Like I said before, you’re too thin-skinned, Steve. It’s a bad trait to have generally, but it’s especially bad in our trade. You want to survive, you’re going to have to learn to be cool and collected under pressure.”

  “Cappy, you know that I don’t lose my nerve when the chips are down,” Steve said hotly.

  Cappy laughed, shaking his head. “You’re proving my point right now by not listening to me, kiddo. What I’m saying is that courage and grace under pressure are two different things. You were born with balls, Steve, but grace is something everybody has to learn.” The major studied him a second and then turned back to Wallis. “Tell you what, Sarge. You hand paint Lieutenant Gold’s airplane first thing.”

  Wallis nodded. “Like a sample, huh? No problem, Major.”

  Steve winced. “Cappy, give me a break.”

  “Someday you’ll thank me for this,” Cappy said. “Then again, maybe not….” His grin was evil. “Sarge, I want the lieutenant’s plane done in time for this afternoon’s practice.”

  “Yes, sir!” Wallis hurried away, muttering to himself.

  Cappy looked around. “Who’s got a smoke?”

  (Two)

  That afternoon Steve’s freshly painted airplane was waiting for him as he left the ready room. He was wearing his Mae West and pistol over his khaki uniform. His goggles and rubber oxygen mask were dangling around his neck, and he was carrying his helmet.

  Sergeant Wallis was standing in front of Steve’s Jug, chatting with Steve’s crew. Wallis looked proud as a new papa. He was obviously hanging around in order to get Steve’s reaction to his handiwork.

  “What do you think, Lieutenant?” Wallis demanded. “Looks good, huh? And she’s all dry. I had one of the spare Jugs backed into position and kept its engine going so that the prop wash could help dry the paint.”

  “It looks good, all right,” Steve said grudgingly. Wallis looked crestfallen at his reaction. Fuck, Steve thought. The guy worked his ass off to get it done, and get it done right.

  “Sarge, you did a great job.” He forced the enthusiasm into his voice. “And I’m proud of the fact that my old man’s colors are going to grace the squadron.” The vibrant hues of yellow, turquoise, and scarlet did look swell against the Thunderbolt’s burnished silver skin.

  “The shields turned out real sharp on both sides of the cowling, I think,” Wallis said. “They’re so bold and ballsy they suit this big mother.”

  Steve nodded. The Jug was big. She had a forty-foot wingspan, but it was her thirty-six-foot-long, fifteen-foot-high fuselage that won her the title as the biggest single-engine fighter. The Thunderbolt was nicknamed the Jug because of its profile. Most fighters had a streamlined, sharklike fuselage, but the Thunderbolt’s nose was stubby, rounded, and blunt, like that of a sperm whale.

  Wallis’s eyes were narrowed. “Lieutenant, I gotta ask. Is there something about the paint job that’s bothering you?”

  “Nothing, Sarge,” Steve sighed. He reached up to pat the turquoise shield embossed with those scarlet vees and the lightning bolt. No way anyone could miss those shields on both sides of the cowling which framed the ram scoop air intake for the high-altitude turbosupercharger. If only the vees stood for something other than Vigilant Virgins. “Like I said, you did great.” He clapped Wallis on the shoulder. “I gotta get airborn.”

  Steve climbed up onto the wing, and then hoisted himself into the spacious cockpit. What a pleasure! Every other fighter that Steve had flown had a tiny, cramped cockpit that made him feel like a pretzel, but the Jug’s fuselage was so deep that even a six-footer had room to stretch his legs.

  He waited for his crew to stand clear, and then started up the air-cooled, 2,100 horsepower Pratt & Whitney. The four yellow tips of the twelve-foot-diameter paddle-blade prop began to spin. Steve tested out his oxygen mask as he waited for the ops officer to signal him takeoff permission. Once he’d received it, he lowered the electrically operated teardrop canopy, locked it
down, and moved the Jug out.

  The heavy Thunderbolt needed a lot of runway to get off the ground. As he was rolling along, building up speed, he passed a group of Marines in the midst of a softball game on an unused airstrip. The webfoots broke off playing to point and laugh at Steve’s gaudy Jug as it rumbled past.

  Fuck them, Steve thought savagely. Grace under pressure, Cappy had said. The Marines would eat crow once the Double Vee Squadron had proven themselves in battle.

  He pulled back on the stick, luxuriating in that special instant when his wheels left the ground. He retracted his landing gear as he climbed, his spirits lifting along with his airplane. Any day spent flying was a wonderful day.

  Steve was especially pleased with the Thunderbolt’s performance. He thought the Jug was an outstanding airplane. A lot of the pilots in the squadron didn’t agree with him, but they were pilots who’d gained their experience flying much smaller fighters. The chief complaint was that the Jug handled like a truck. Next on the list of gripes was the fact that the Jug was so big. The concern among many of the guys was not how they were going to shoot down the enemy, but how the Japs could ever miss them.

  It was true that it took a steady hand to show the muscle-bound Thunderbolt who was boss. Steve guessed that it made sense that a pilot would feel nervous riding such a headstrong mount into battle if all his experience had been in lighter, more nimble fighters like the Bell Aircobra or the BearClaw fighter designed and built by his father’s company. Steve wasn’t worried about the Jug’s size or its lack of maneuverability, but then he’d been happy flying his twin-engined, twin-boomed P-38 Lightning, which was even bigger than the Jug, and also something of a truck. Also, he’d found that what counted over maneuverability was speed, stability, the ability to deliver a knockout blow, and if need be, to take a few punches in return.

  The Jug could do all that, in spades. She had an outstanding top speed, and a 42,000-foot ceiling. It was true that she presented the enemy with a big target, but her air-cooled engine allowed her to shrug off the kinds of hits that might sever the coolant line of a liquid-cooled power plant, causing it to overheat and seize up. When it came time to hit back, the Jug’s eight .50-caliber guns could literally blow out of existence Tojo’s lightweight, unarmored airplanes.