The Fly Boys

by T. E. Cruise

  CHAPTER 5

  * * *

  (One)

  Santa Belle Airfield

  Solomon Islands

  22 June 1944

  It was around nine that night when Steven Gold, feeling restless, left his tent to go for a walk. It was a beautiful evening. A refreshing sea breeze had blown away the gnats and banished the clouds, revealing a vast array of stars flying escort for a fat crescent of pink moon.

  There were no runway lights on Santa Belle, and the carriage-mounted searchlights set up to guide AA fire in case of a Jap air attack had never been used. The occasional lantern spilled lemony light through a partially open tent flap, and here and there a passerby’s cigarette tip glowed cherry red, but mostly there was only the silvery starlight and the pastel glow of the tropical moon.

  As Steve walked, he thought back on all the action the squadron had seen. Months ago he’d celebrated his twentieth birthday by shooting down a “Val” dive bomber off Bougainville. That had been his tenth kill. Since then he’d shot down two more Japs—both of them Zekes—during the struggle to conquer the peripheral island enemy bases that ringed the main Jap base at Rabaul. That enemy stronghold had been isolated, making an actual invasion unnecessary. Word had come down from the brass that the stranded enemy forces on Rabaul would be left to wither on the vine.

  Around March, things had begun to quiet down. The daily air patrols had become milk runs. The opinion was that the Japs bottled up on Rabaul and the other pestholes in this part of the world had no airplanes left, and that the fighter squadrons on Santa Belle were just marking time until the brass decided what to do with them.

  Steve hoped that the brass would decide soon. He needed action; needed it the way a hophead needed dope. Combat absorbed all of his energy and concentration. It made his problems go away.

  He stopped walking, to listen to the distant, soothing crash of waves against the shore and the rhythmic sawing of the nocturnal insects. The sounds of nature played counterpoint to the low murmur of voices punctuated by bursts of laughter carrying across the quiet dark compound.

  The noise was coming from Cappy’s big tent, where the squadron’s nightly poker game was going on. Steve approached the tent, and watched silently from the shadows just beyond the outer reach of the light spilling out from the gathering. The tent looked crowded, as if all the pilots were in there. The men’s silhouettes loomed larger than life through the lit canvas interior.

  He backed off, away from the circle of light, and continued walking beyond the Army encampment, into the larger, Marine portion of the base. He walked with his shoulders hunched, his hands in his pockets, a lit cigarette stuck between his lips.

  He’d guessed that it was that stupid confrontation with Detkin that was to blame. He’d replayed that damn October day countless times while lying on his cot, tossing and turning his way through the sweltering, sleepless nights. Right now, as he listened to the waves, he could again taste the sweet triumph of chasing down those four Marine Corsairs, and his bitter anger as he watched Detkin steal his last “kill.”

  Later that same day, Steve and the rest of the squadron had assembled in the ops-ready room to view his—and Detkin’s—gun camera film. Everyone had enjoyed a good laugh over the way Steve had waxed the three Corsairs, and Cappy had promised to send the film over to Marine Group HQ, just to rub a little salt into the webfoots’ blistered tails.

  The guys in the squadron had gone through the motions of congratulating Steve, but by then the news about how Steve had slugged Detkin had gotten around. Maybe if he’d taken the lecture Cappy had given him to heart and apologized to Detkin right away things would have turned out differently, but at the same time Steve was still all puffed up with righteous rage over the “theft” of his kill.

  So he’d never apologized, and the breach with the rest of the squadron was never properly healed. Now that breach was like the scar tissue puckered around that old bullet wound in his leg: it would always be slightly painful to the touch, and it would never completely go away.

  Steve lit another cigarette, amused and a little disturbed by the way his fingers were trembling as he brought up his lighter. Hell, by now he ought to be used to being a loner. What the hell did he need friends for? Friends were just a liability in his line of work.

  “Back off, you guys—”

  “Fuck you, pal! You’re not going anywhere!”

  The angry shouts distracted Steve from his brooding thoughts. They were coming from behind Polly’s Pit, the Marine officers’ club. A bunch of Marines were congregated out in front, drinking and making a lot of noise on their own, but the shouts that had caught Steve’s attention were coming from around the back, where it was dark. Steve thought he could see some people milling around back there among the shadows and the garbage cans, but he was too far away to make out anything more than vague shapes in the dark.

  He sure as hell wasn’t going any closer. It was one thing to take a stroll around the base, something else entirely to try and barge into a webfoot watering hole. Cappy had put the club off-limits—needlessly, because any Army man with half a brain knew enough to give the Pit a wide berth. Steve was turning to head back the way he’d come when the shouting began again.

  “I said take your hands of me, you putz!”

  Putz? Steve stopped in his tracks.

  “What the fuck did you just call me?” another voice demanded from behind the building. “And what are you gonna do about it anyway if I don’t get my hands off you, you asshole?”

  “I’ll kick your Marine ass right now.”

  Steve, crouched low, began to move toward the confrontation. As he got closer he could see four guys—by their uniforms he could tell that they were Marine pilots—in a semicircle around one guy who had his back up against the wall. The cornered guy was rocking on the balls of his feet, nervously shifting his position as if he was considering trying to make a run for it, which was a smart idea, considering the odds he was facing. A shaft of moonlight fell on the guy’s face.

  It was Detkin, all right.

  What the hell do I do now? Steve wondered. He was only a few feet away, but he was hidden by the darkness. He was crouched behind a parked truck, peering over the hood like Kilroy in the drawing.

  He wasn’t wearing his gun. The island had been cleared of Japanese some time ago, so the general order requiring Army personnel to wear sidearms had been lifted. Not that he would have flashed a pistol if he’d had one. The Marines and the Army were supposed to be on the same side, for chrissake.

  Steve watched as Detkin abruptly tried to run. One of the Marines stepped into his path and punched him in the stomach.

  Oh shit, Steve thought. He heard the air whooshing out of Detkin and watched the guy’s knees sag as he bent over double. Detkin might have crumpled to the ground, but two of the Marine pilots grabbed him under his arms, hauling him up to straighten him, and then slammed him against the wall.

  “That’s enough,” Steve said firmly, standing up.

  The Marines turned to stare as he stepped out from behind the truck. Detkin tried to make another break for it, but one of the Marines put a hand against his throat, shoving him back up against the wall and pinning him there.

  The other webfoots, looking around, began to smile. “That’s it?” one of them grinned. “Just you?”

  Steve nodded. He gestured toward Detkin. “He didn’t do anything to you, did he?”

  “He walked into the Pit like he owned the place,” the Marine pilot said. “It’s our territory and he invaded it. Marines aren’t in the habit of allowing the enemy to make a beachhead.”

  “All right, so he’s a jerk,” Steve laughed, trying to make a joke out of the whole thing. “You proved your point. Now let him go, and you can watch him run.”

  “No, pal, I don’t think so,” the pilot said. “We’re gonna keep him, and you.”

  Two Marines remained where they were, bracketing Detkin, while two came toward Steve. One was kind of pudgy
and had a nervous look about him. The other guy looked hard as nails. He had a flattened nose and scar tissue around his eyes. Probably the kind of guy who laughed when he felt pain, Steve thought, feeling sick to his stomach.

  “Hey, fellas …” Steve forced a grin. “Come on, let’s talk about it—we’re all on the same side, right?”

  “Against the Japs? Sure,” scar tissue said, “but right now I don’t see any Japs around, do you, dogface?”

  “Just wait a minute!” Steve brought up both his hands, palms out, as if in surrender. Both Marines were distracted by the movement. Steve used the opportunity to kick pudgy in the balls. The webfoot opened his mouth to scream, but no sound came out. He bent over, clutching his groin, and began to vomit. The smell of sour beer filled the sultry night.

  Out of the corner of his eye Steve saw Detkin take a swing at one of his two Marines. Detkin was fast and light on his feet, and managed to get in a couple of good shots, but up against that wall he didn’t have anywhere to go. One of the webfoots hit him in the kidneys, taking the fight right out of him.

  Steve took a wild swing at scar tissue, who expertly dodged with a minimum of movement. He let Steve’s momentum carry him around, and then delivered a crisp right, catching Steve just beneath the ribs. Steve gasped, letting his hands drop for a second. The Marine stepped in fast, snapping out a pair of jabs to the face that rocked Steve. His ears began to ring, and hot, salty blood began to fill his mouth. He backpedaled, desperately windmilling his fists, trying to hold off the guy.

  Can’t fall down, Steve thought groggily. If I fall down they’ll stomp the shit out of me.

  He caught a glimpse of Detkin taking a punch in the face, but right now he had his own problems. The pudgy webfoot he’d kicked in the balls had straightened up and was coming toward Steve on bowed legs, scuttling like a crab. The guy definitely looked like he wanted to get even. Steve lashed out a backhand left that caught pudgy on the nose, but it didn’t slow him down.

  Steve saw Detkin topple sideways into the garbage cans, knocking them over. The cans rolled back and forth as Detkin lay still. The two Marines were standing over him, looking satisfied.

  Pudgy got behind Steve and made a grab at Steve’s shirt collar, trying to lock him in a bear hug. Steve drove his elbow into the man’s gut and twisted away—directly into scar tissue’s solid right cross.

  The punch caught Steve on the side of his neck, sending an electric jolt down his spine that turned his arms and legs to rubber. He closed his eyes as a reddish haze descended and all sound seemed to recede. His head lolled forward until his chin touched his chest. Steve felt himself falling. It seemed to take a long time to hit bottom.

  “That’s enough,” one of the Marines said, from what sounded like a great distance.

  “You guys had enough, huh?” Steve mumbled thickly. The cool ground pressing against his face felt as inviting as a mattress.

  “What’d he say?”

  “Who knows? He’s out cold and he doesn’t even now it. Let’s get out of here.”

  Steve struggled to open one eye and saw several pairs of black shoes walking quickly away.

  “Detkin?” he murmured into the dirt. He planted his palms against the earth and did a push-up that rolled him onto his side. Good enough, he thought as he closed his eyes, curling up into a fetal position. “Detkin … you alive?”

  “Yeah, Gold.” Steve heard the hollow, metallic clanking of a toppled garbage can being rolled away. “Can you get up?”

  “Maybe later,” Steve muttered. “Now I just want to lay here and bleed.”

  “You mean lie.”

  “What?”

  “Lie, not lay,” Detkin reiterated, grunting as he stood up and stumbled over. He sank down to the ground next to Gold and patted him on the shoulder. “The Marines laid you out, but you’re lying there.”

  “Son of a bitch,” Steve laughed weakly. “Oh, my ribs—” he gasped. “I can’t believe I saved you, you son of a bitch.”

  “Some save,” Detkin said.

  “You’re just lucky I was here. Otherwise they would have stomped you once they knocked you out, you pussy,” Steve said.

  “What luck? And who’s a pussy?” Detkin bristled. “You never heard of playing possum, you putz?”

  “Oh, I can’t believe I saved you.” Steve opened his eyes and looked up at Detkin. “Christ, you’re a mess!” Detkin’s right eye was swelling shut, his nose was dripping blood, and his lower lip was split. Steve wrinkled his nose. “Plus you smell like garbage.”

  “I was lying in garbage, so what should I smell like?” Detkin said, sounding disgusted. “Anyway, you think I look bad, you should see what they did to you.”

  “I believe you.” His jaw felt like he’d been slugged with a baseball bat. His side ached each time he took a breath, and his mouth kept filling up with blood. He ran his tongue around the inside of his mouth. At least he hadn’t lost any teeth.

  “Hey,” Detkin began, and then paused. “Why did you help me, anyway?”

  Steve thought about it. “I’m not sure. I mean, it never occurred to me not to help. I mean, Army oughta stick together, right?”

  “Sure,” Detkin murmured. “Listen, if you can walk, I think we should get out of here.”

  “All right. Okay.” Steve tentatively began to get to his feet. His ribs were still killing him. He took a few hobbling steps and began to get dizzy.

  “Lean on me,” Detkin said, moving quickly to put a supporting arm around Steve.

  “Ow! Watch out for my side, Detkin!”

  “Call me Benny.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Steve nodded. “Anything to keep your big mitts off my ribs. Go slow, Benny,” he cautioned. “Or I’m not gonna make it—”

  “Like I said, lean on me.”

  With Benny Detkin’s help, Steve made it to the Army encampment. They went directly to the latrine, where they cleaned themselves up.

  It was a little after eleven by the time the two of them began slowly and painfully toward their tents. Their hair was still wet from the showers. They were wearing just their boxer shorts, T-shirts, and service caps. Their unlaced boots were flapping around their ankles, and their soiled, bloody khakis were rolled up and tucked under their arms.

  “Maybe you should have a doctor take a look at those ribs,” Benny suggested.

  “Nah, I don’t want any medics poking at me, and maybe grounding me,” Steve said. “I’m on the roster to fly patrol tomorrow.”

  “Yeah, me too,” Benny said.

  “Anyway, I’m feeling better now that I’m up and around.” Steve glanced at Benny. “But you don’t sound so good. You’re talking funny. You think maybe your nose is broken?”

  “Nah, it’s just my sinus condition,” Benny muttered. “I’ve got adenoids, allergies—you name it, I got it. I’ve been to the top nose-and-throat men in New York, but they couldn’t do a thing for me.” He sounded as if he was boasting.

  “You probably didn’t shut up long enough to give them the chance,” Steve said wearily. “I’m surprised they took you into the Army in the first place, considering all your health problems.”

  “They took me because I never told them, and believe me, those horse doctors who looked me over, they didn’t ask.” Benny gingerly massaged his nose. “That poke in the shnoz I took from those Marines didn’t help matters any.”

  “Shnoz is more of that Yiddish, right?” Steve asked. When Benny nodded, he said, “Jimmy Durante is always saying shnoz. I guess that’s how I know it.”

  “So you really don’t know Yiddish?” Benny shook his head. “I’m surprised. I seem to remember reading that your father is a Jew.”

  “He is,” Steve shrugged. “But I guess he’s not religious.”

  “You guess?” Benny asked, amused. “Your own father and you have to guess if he’s religious?”

  “We’re just not that close,” Steve said evasively.

  “But he is German, right? I mean a lot of Yiddish is based on
German, so I’d think that you—”

  “I don’t know any German either, okay?” Steve interrupted, feeling angry and uncomfortable at the way Detkin was trying to corner him. “And my father is American; that’s what he is. And we speak English in our house, okay? Anyway, I don’t want to talk about my dad anymore.”

  “Yeah, sure,” Benny said warily. “Sorry … I didn’t mean to pry.”

  “You don’t have to be sorry. Just drop it,” Steve crossly muttered.

  There were a few seconds of awkward silence.

  “Anyway,” Steve began, “you asked for that punch in the shnoz by sticking it where it didn’t belong in the first place.”

  “I’m in the habit of going where people tell me I don’t belong,” Benny replied. “I’ve been doing it all my life. You weren’t raised as a Jew, so you don’t know.”

  “I guess,” Steve remarked.

  “That’s right. You guess, but I know,” Benny said. “I grew up in a small factory town in New Jersey. We were stuck in that town until after the worst of the depression. Jobs were hard to come by, and my old man had a steady one there, so we stayed. No matter where I went in that damn burg—the school, the library, the corner store—it was always the same. Somebody would call me a name, and I’d get into a fight. Pretty soon I went out of my way to get into a fight, just to show I couldn’t be intimidated.”

  “Like tonight?” Steve asked.

  Benny didn’t say anything for a moment. “Yeah, I guess,” he finally sighed. “I don’t know why I do it. Stupid, huh?”

  “Having all those brawls, I would have figured that by now you would have picked up some decent boxing techniques,” Steve chuckled.

  “I did pick up a boxing technique.” Benny laughed. “I learned how to take a dive, remember?”

  “Yeah, right,” Steve nodded, smiling. “I’m surprised you lived long enough to grow up.”

  “I probably wouldn’t have,” Benny replied. “But when the economy got better my dad got a job in Brooklyn, so we moved there into a Jewish neighborhood, thank God. Things there were okay, as long as you didn’t wander too far off your own turf.” He scowled. “Just like this goddamned base.”