On Wings Of The Morning

by Marie Bostwick

  The major squinted at the clipboard and smiled. “Let’s see. For all you bookworms, I’ve got a note here from the morale officer. We have recently received a complete set of the Hardy Boys Mystery series, a donation from the Ladies Benevolent Committee of the First Presbyterian Church of Warren, Ohio, which is the hometown of our own Airman William Jennings.” A wave of laughter swelled in the room as the major nodded to acknowledge Airman Jennings, the newest and youngest pilot of the 475th, who sat blushing on the front row.

  A taunting voice from the back of the room yelled out, “What? They didn’t send any Nancy Drew?” and drew a fresh rumble of convivial mirth.

  “All right. All right, you clowns. Settle down. And Jennings,” the major said to the embarrassed airman, “when you write home, please thank your mother and the ladies of the church for their generous donation. And let them know that Collingsworth back there would appreciate it if they could send some copies of Nancy Drew as soon as possible.” Hatch smirked and waited a minute as the jokester, Collingsworth, endured a round of raucous whistles and catcalls.

  “Also!” he boomed again, in a voice that demanded and received the full attention of the squadron, “we will be entertaining a special guest for the next few days. Mr. Charles A. Lindbergh.” As soon as he said this, the room started buzzing with a ripple of whispered comments. Keeping his eyes on the clipboard, Major Hatch raised his hand to demand quiet and continued reading.

  “In addition to being a retired colonel in the Army Air Corps, Mr. Lindbergh was the first man to fly across the Atlantic Ocean and holds countless other records and firsts in aviation. He has been making a tour of bases in the Pacific in his capacity as a civilian technical assistant. He will be accorded officer’s privileges. However, you will refer to him as Mr. Lindbergh. He will be here for the next few days, to give you gentlemen some valuable instruction and insights on flying the P-38.”

  The murmuring resumed, but this time murmurs were liberally sprinkled with griping. Next to me, an airman whispered to his buddy, “He’s going to tell us how to fly the P-38 better? I’ve got one hundred and sixty hours in my plane so some old codger who used to fly biplanes in the olden days is going to tell me how to fly my aircraft? What’s he going to tell me about my ship that I don’t already know. He must be forty years old!” The major shouted the men back to order.

  “Hey! Listen up!” The men settled back down. “As I was saying, Mr. Lindbergh will be speaking to us about this subject of vital interest in this room tomorrow at nineteen hundred hours. I have no doubt that you will all give him your complete attention and utmost respect. Your attendance is mandatory.” The room was silent as the major looked around the room, scanning the faces of the crowd to make sure he had been understood. He was.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. That is all.” Hatch lowered his clipboard. The room erupted with the sound of chairs scraping on floors as the squadron rose respectfully to their feet again, but the second the major was out of earshot, the gripe session resumed.

  “So whose bright idea do you think it was to bring some old codger in to lecture us on the latest in aviation technology? What a waste of time!”

  “Yeah. What’s Lindbergh supposed to know about aerial warfare that we don’t? When’s the last time he was in a dogfight?”

  “He’s got some nerve coming here after all that America First business, traipsing around the country and going on the radio to tell everybody we should stay out of the war because if we didn’t, we’d get our butts kicked by the Germans!”

  “You got that right! Why should I listen to some guy who thought the Krauts were better pilots than the boys in his own country? You know, he lived over there for a while, too. The German government even gave him some kind of medal. Whose side is he on, anyway?”

  “Yeah. My old man said that Lindbergh was just a coward, and that’s why he wanted to stay out of the war.”

  The rumble of complaints continued. Somebody finally said, “What do you think, Morgan?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know. Maybe he’s got something worth saying and maybe not. But since it’s a mandatory meeting, my opinion doesn’t matter a whole lot one way or the other. I figure I’ll give him a chance. The man flew across the ocean alone, with no radio, in a plane that, today, you and I wouldn’t want to rely on to get us to Port Mooresby and back. And he did it after he’d seen scores of other pilots die trying to do the same thing. Whatever he is, he’s no coward. And I’ll bet half of you decided to become pilots because of Lindbergh. I know I did.”

  The guys were quiet. Maybe they were remembering sitting in a darkened theater as they watched the Movietone newsreel of a small, lonely plane with Spirit of St. Louis emblazoned on the nose, loaded so heavy with gasoline that it bounced as it lumbered down the runway, lifting unsteadily from the ground, barely clearing the telephone wires before flying off to a future that was very uncertain at the time. Maybe they remembered the anxious waiting for word of the young flier’s fate or reading Will Rogers’ column while they waited: “No attempt at jokes today. A ... slim, tall, bashful, smiling American boy is somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, where no lone human being has ever ventured before. He is being prayed for to every kind of Supreme Being that has a following. If he is lost, it will be the most universally regretted loss we’ve ever had.” Maybe after reading that, they’d knelt down next to their beds that night and asked God to take care of Charles Lindbergh. Maybe they remembered the conclusion of those nail-biting thirty-three-and-a-half-hours, lying on their stomachs in front of the radio with chins resting in their hands as they stared at the glowing dial of the Zenith and heard the ecstatic reporters telling the world that the Lone Eagle had landed, or the solemn conversations of grown-ups as they discussed the wonder of it and how the world would never be the same, or seeing the morning editions with a three-banner headline trumpeting “Lindbergh Does It!”

  Maybe they’d even gotten to see him in person as he rode through the streets of New York City, sitting tall in the back of an open car, showered by ticker tape and adulation. Maybe they had been part of the crowds that came to greet “Lucky Lindy” during his eighty-two-city victory tour, sitting on a strong pair of adult shoulders so they could catch a glimpse of their hero in the middle of the throng. Or maybe, like me, they’d actually been lucky enough to meet him in person, even if it was only for a few minutes.

  But one thing was certain, in one way or another, every pilot in that room was connected to Charles Lindbergh. He’d filled our dreams and our imaginations and inspired us with visions of what a man could achieve if he was willing to put everything on the line. He might be against the war. He might be over the hill, but he was still the Lone Eagle, the hero we’d all dreamed about when we were kids, and in a few hours we would be sitting in the same room with him.

  We stood there with our hands in our pockets, the atmosphere silent and thick with memory until finally one of the guys blew out a long, low whistle and said what we were all thinking. “Damn! Can you believe it? Lindbergh is coming here! Ain’t that something?”

  It sure was.

  My wing had to fly recon that day, so I wasn’t around when Lindbergh landed, but by the time we returned from our mission, the base was buzzing with news. Lindbergh had actually flown a mission to Jefman Island. They didn’t see any action on the island, but on the return trip they had shot up a few Japanese barges. Jefman had uneven terrain, which made good cover for the boats. Spotting a barge hidden between two hills near the coastline, Lindbergh skimmed over the top of the first ridge, clearing it by only a dozen feet, strafed the unfortunate enemy vessel, and then banked hard left to clear the other hill, all at 250 miles per hour, leaving a burning barge in his wake. It was an impressive performance, and before long everybody was talking about it. Clearly, the old boy still had it.

  The next day I had a chance to see him in action for myself. This late in the war, with Japanese resources dwindling rapidly and the battle for air superiority going so well
that we rarely faced much opposition, the higher-ups had decided to start loading our P-38s with thousand-pound bombs, trying to put some extra pressure on the enemy.

  Our mission that day was to fly to Noemfoor Island, drop our bombs, and get home, engaging in a few strafing runs along the way. This was only the second bombing mission for the 475th and my first, so I was a little anxious to begin with. When I was informed that Mr. Lindbergh would be flying with us, that feeling intensified. I think the other guys felt the same.

  He was waiting in the ready room when we arrived. I stepped forward and introduced my men.

  “Nice to meet you,” Lindbergh said. “Since we’re going to be flying together, maybe you’ll want to drop the mister. Call me Charlie.” His casual manner put everyone at ease.

  “Thanks, that’ll be fine. Glad to have you with us. I’m the section leader, Lieutenant Glennon. Morgan Glennon.” His smile faded, his eyes widened slightly, and he looked at me without saying anything. The silence was awkward.

  I cleared my throat. “You probably don’t remember, but we’ve met before. It was in Oklahoma City during your victory tour. I was only about four years old. My grandparents drove all the way over from the panhandle, where I’m from, just so I could see you. Grandpa pushed us all the way to the front of the crowd. You actually waved me forward and talked to me for a while. You even let me climb into the cockpit of the Spirit of St. Louis, and then you autographed a picture for me.” Lindbergh was still quiet, looking at me, and now the men were looking at me, too.

  I didn’t know what else to do, so I laughed uneasily and said, “If I hadn’t already been set on becoming a pilot, that would have clinched the deal for sure. I still have the picture. Probably you did the same thing at every stop, picked out some lucky kid to talk with, but it meant the world to me.” Lindbergh smiled, but said nothing. I cleared my throat and shrugged. “Like I said, you probably don’t remember it, but I sure do.”

  He spoke, and when he did, his voice was a little hoarse. “Actually, I remember that day very well. It’s nice to see you again, Morgan.” He shook my hand with a firm grip. I felt stupid. I was sure I’d just made the biggest fool of myself, going on and on like some star-struck fan, but Lindbergh was gracious about it.

  “Well,” I said sheepishly, “it’s an honor to have you flying with us today, sir.” He gave me a look. “I mean, Charlie. I’ll be on your wing. We’ll be coming in right behind a bunch of A-20s, trying to finish off any targets they miss. On the way home, we’ll do some barge hunting. This is our first bombing run, so I hope we don’t embarrass ourselves too much.”

  “Same here,” Lindbergh said modestly.

  “All right, then,” I said, nodding to my crew. “If you’re ready, gentlemen? Let’s hit the trail.”

  The day was fine and bright, but there was a wind coming out of the east. We were covering a dozen A-20 bombers. They buzzed into Noemfoor like a pack of clumsy, fat bumblebees, dropping their loads and inflicting serious damage, leaving the enemy runway that was their target cratered and useless.

  Our targets were the hangars next to the airstrip. We circled above, waiting for the smoke from the A-20 bombs to clear so we could see the target. Jessup went in first, but he miscalculated, and his load dropped into the jungle, far from the mark. Garrison, was next and he didn’t fare any better. There was a lot of cursing traveling back and forth over the airways. I broke in and tried to settle things down.

  “All right, guys, cut the chatter. You both waited too long to release. Garrison, you’ve to get in there lower and then power out quick. You’ll get it next time,” I assured them, though I was as frustrated by their performance as they were. If none of us hit our targets, it would mean a whole six-hour mission wasted, not to mention that we’d look like a bunch of rookies in front of one of the greatest pilots of all time, who would undoubtedly report our incompetence to the brass. “All right, Charlie, you’re next.”

  “Roger,” Lindbergh answered calmly, then rolled off the edge of the formation, dove down to twenty-five hundred feet, dropped his bomb, and pulled out of the dive before the thousand-pounder’s ten-second delay was completed. The resultant explosion was furious and directly on target. The radio chatter picked up again as the men whooped in excitement and shouted encouragement to our guest. I was impressed. Lindbergh’s run had been the picture of accuracy and coolheaded piloting. Watching him showed me where the other boys had gone wrong—at least, I hoped it had. I was next.

  Taking a page from Lindbergh’s book, I peeled off from the rest of the wing, evening out over the target and coming in low. There was an intact hangar right next to the burning one that Lindbergh had hit. That was my target, and it was coming up fast. I let my bomb fly a split second before I thought I should, and then pulled up out of the dive as hard as I could to get clear of the percussion that would follow the blast. Ten seconds later the hangar exploded into a ball of flame. A direct hit! Lindbergh had been right. In these windy conditions, you had to release just a little early to compensate. The boys learned from his example, and three out of the four of the remaining bombs were delivered in the target area.

  “All right, boys, that was a good day’s work,” I called over the radio. “Nice job, everyone, especially for a first try. Let’s buzz Jefman on the way home and see if we can’t find ourselves a few boats to strafe.”

  We’d been flying for hours, but the boys were running on adrenaline, excited over the success of the mission. They responded with a chorus of enthusiastic whoops. I smiled under my mask, pleased that everything had gone so well, but I quickly put a lid on the celebration.

  “All right. Can the chatter. We haven’t seen any Jap fighters out here for a while, but that doesn’t mean we won’t today. Keep your eyes open and your heads in the game.” We hadn’t faced any real enemy opposition for weeks, but I wasn’t going to get complacent. No matter how well things were going, the memory of my final flight with Walker, Campezzio, and Holman was never far from my mind. It was my job to keep the men focused and get them home alive.

  By the time we got to Jefman Island, most of the boys were running low on fuel. We saw six boats below but only had time to attack before Jessup radioed in that he was running low on gas. “I think I’d better head back to base, Lieutenant, or I might end up swimming home.”

  The rest of the men confirmed that they, too, were low on fuel, so I gave them permission to head for home. I was ready to go as well, but Lindbergh said, “I’ve still plenty of gas, Lieutenant. Mind if I stick around and see if I can’t take out a couple more of those barges?”

  I looked down at my fuel gauge. I wouldn’t have minded heading back to base, but I still had enough gas for a few more minutes. No matter how good a pilot Lindbergh was, there was no way I was going to leave him out here alone. Nor did I want him to think that we were the kind of outfit that leaves a job half done. “That’s fine. Jessup, you lead the boys back to base. Charlie and I will be right behind you,” I said.

  There was a moment’s hesitation before Jessup answered, “Roger. See you at home, Lieutenant.” I knew he was questioning the wisdom of my decision. Frankly, so was I, but I figured I still had fifteen minutes’ worth of gas before I’d be in trouble.

  The rest of the boys headed back to the base while Lindbergh and I circled back over the island. It was worth the trip. Between us, we picked off three of the four remaining enemy boats. The rumors had been true. Lindbergh might be forty-three, which in pilot years is ancient, but he still had his stuff. It was everything I could do to keep up with him, but I did.

  This has got to be some kind of dream, I thought. I can’t believe I’m Charles Lindbergh’s wingman.

  We made a couple more passes over the island, and I kind of forgot about the time, but reality set in when I finally thought to check my fuel gauge. There was barely enough fuel to make it back to base. How could I have been so careless? If any of my guys had pulled a stunt like that, I’d have chewed them up one side and d
own the other.

  I called Lindbergh on my radio. “Hey, Charlie,” I said nervously. “I’ve got myself into a little bit of a situation here. My gas is running low. I’m not sure I can make it.”

  Lindbergh’s voice was calm on the other end. “Don’t worry, Morgan. I’ll be with you the whole time. We’re both going to get back. Try reducing your rpm and lean out your fuel mixture and throttle back a little. It’ll get you some extra mileage.”

  “All right,” I answered doubtfully. I didn’t quite see how this would help, but I wasn’t in a position to argue at that point, so I did as he asked.

  We turned our ships around and flew back to the base. Lindbergh was by my side for the whole trip, and though we didn’t talk much, I felt more confident knowing he was there. At least if I had to bail out, he’d be able to report my position to the rescue planes. But as we got closer to home, I could see he was right. My gas was being consumed at a much slower rate. I was going to make it after all.

  When we landed I still had fuel left in my tank, but not much. Lindbergh still had seventy gallons to spare. Walking to the briefing room, I shook his hand. “Thanks a million, Charlie. I don’t know exactly what you did or why it worked, but I’d have been in real trouble if you hadn’t helped me out up there.”

  “It’s just a little trick I learned years ago,” he said modestly. “That’s what I’m going to speak about during my talk tonight. In fact, I’d appreciate it if you’d come and tell the rest of the men about how it worked for you today. Seeing is believing, after all.”

  “Sure,” I said. “I’ll be there.”

  It was only quarter to seven, but the recreation hall was packed. Every seat was taken, and the walls were ringed with latecomers relegated to standing room. I pushed my way to the front of the room and found a place to stand near a side door where I thought I might catch a little bit of a breeze, but it didn’t help much. The room was stuffy with the heat of closely packed bodies and buzzing with conversation. Somebody had set up a small platform and a blackboard near the front of the hall. At precisely seven o’clock, the commander of the 475th, Colonel MacDonald, mounted the platform. MacDonald was a good leader, well liked and, more importantly, well respected by his men. When he spoke, the room was silent.