Thanksgiving is going to be so special for us and I can’t wait until you’re home. Tell me as soon as you get your assignment. Let’s not fight over anything. I wonder if Bud will be able to get time off so they can be here, too. That would make it even more special.
I love you very much and I can’t wait for this stupid war to get over so our life can really begin!
Love & Kisses,
Martha
“Do you have someone back home, Fred?” Nick asked as he pulled himself out of thought about Martha and the baby.
“Do you mean a girlfriend or someone like that?”
“Yes, I guess I did.”
“Naw, I spend most of my time hunting. Deer, mostly. Never was very good with the girls. Had one once for about two weeks, but we never talked or did anything.”
“Maybe you’ll meet someone out here?”
“Not really looking, but it could happen I suppose. I think I’ll stay on after the war, though. Maybe I can find a girl that likes to hunt and camp.”
“This would be the place for that,” Nick said privately questioning the thought of whether it was better to be in the war single or attached. Both had their advantages, he considered, but his choice was that it was better to be attached. From the sounds of Martha’s letter, she would agree, although the circumstances involving a pregnant wife are completely different from those of a girlfriend. He smiled, reflecting on the image of her plump body and pretty face.
They refueled in Anchorage and were back in the air within the hour with a full load of relief troops for the supply depot in Bethel. Other than the harsh weather, the duty was pretty good. Bethel was one of the closest points in the military supply chain to the Aleutian Islands in what had become known as the Thousand-Mile War, triggered by the Japanese attack on Dutch Harbor. For most of these boys, it would be like working in a cross-dock shipping facility, loading and reloading planes and ships for various destinations. The airfield had grown rapidly to support its strategic location.
With their quick stop in Anchorage, Nick and Fred assumed the natural master and apprentice relationship as captain and co-captain, with Fred finalizing the flight plan, a task taking about fifteen or so minutes, depending on the route, destination, and weather. After that, the co-captain was expected to inspect the readiness of the plane for flight, which involved checking up on any and all mechanical matters that a master mechanic, who probably would already hold a captain’s opinion in contempt let alone that of a co-captain, had already signed his name and reputation to in a log book. In reality, the co-captain added value by checking the radio gear for a few minutes, normally spending the remainder of the hour helping with the loading of baggage and mail.
Nick was never one to hold the formality of his rank over a co-pilot when it came to flying the plane. With the full load of troops now on board, however, and Fred’s limited flying credentials, it was prudent to hold with tradition in this case. They flew south from Anchorage to the base of the Alaska Peninsula and then west out over the Bristol Bay to a point just south of Bethel, where they turned north. They approached the Kilbuck Mountains in a full moon. There was so much snow on the ground and so few brush and trees to absorb the light that a landing could easily be made without any lights at all. The sky above was wonderfully clear, and the stars and moon were brilliant. It was then that the thought about Martha and being his co-pilot in the old days struck. We’d have a grand time together out here, he imagined. Nick put the plane on “the pilot” and read Martha’s letter one more time. He sent Fred back to the cabin in order to talk with the soldiers returning from furlough and begin to learn first-hand why this job was so important. Nick never forgot his time with Tony on that early flight with Captain Smith. It’s lonely on my end of this war too, Nick reflected after reading the letter once more. He was anxious for the time off at home.
“The beacon at Bethel is straight ahead,” he announced. “Buckle up, and we’ll be on flat ground in less than thirty minutes.” Fred returned and prepared for the landing.
CHAPTER 15
Bethel, Alaska
November 25, 1943
My Dear Martha,
Looks like I’m going to be stuck here for a week or so while we get the engines overhauled. The ship was squawking quite a bit coming in last night, and we used ten gallons of oil in the right engine and five in the left—per hour! Good time to get caught up on paperwork. Sorry I’ll miss Thanksgiving with you. Give Bud and Helen my best.
One of our boys, an Alaska pilot who was with us for a while—now with Wien Alaska Airlines—just brought an army boy out of the bush who had been lost for 84 days! Hard to imagine, but he’ll make it just fine. I heard a re-broadcast of the “Duffy Tavern” show last night in which Fred Allen plays the clarinet. It was quite funny. By the way, I’ll look around for a birthday present for Bud. I saw some seal-hair slippers he might like.
Yours,
Nick
It wasn’t so bad to get stuck in Edmonton or Seattle or Juneau, for that matter, but Bethel. “Goddamn!” Nick muttered to himself, purposely extending the second syllable for emphasis when he heard the news. He was hoping the mechanics would give him a quick fix and a green light to take the plane back to Fairbanks for the overhaul, where he could get another flight to Minneapolis-St. Paul. He wasn’t at all sure that they just didn’t want to show their muscle a bit. Even though the relationship between the pilots and mechanics is fairly harmonious, it still can be delicate. It’s easy for too many pilots to parade around in lamb’s wool–lined flight jackets and Ray-Ban sunglasses while the fixers find it difficult to wear the tinsel. Most grease monkeys have overalls splotched with varnish dope and hands black with grease. The good ones know that if they plan to survive the increasing technological demands of each new aircraft, then they need to make learning a constant and keep their nose in a manual. Their glory is in the back room counting the flights that unglamorously made their destinations. And, upon rare occasion, retching in a toilet in prelude to digging through the manuals to figure out why a flight didn’t make it. The power to ground a ship for an overhaul gave small outward satisfaction to the importance of the work they did.
The head mechanic approaching Nick was Becherer, but people called him Beck. “Did it seem a little unusual to you, Captain, that your engines were drinking oil like my dog drinks apple cider?”
Nick had never heard of a dog drinking apple cider before, but he knew that it was a trap to go there. He could barely stay up with Red’s peculiar sayings, and he wasn’t going to add Beck’s to his list. “It’s our job to make these tin buckets fly, Beck, not complain about a minor inconvenience like a few missing quarts of oil. Besides, did I have a choice?”
“Not at nine thousand feet you didn’t, but I do see in the service records that this isn’t the first of these leaks you’ve encountered.”
The fact that this leak was just discovered in Fairbanks would make no difference, Nick thought. Despite the fact that oil leaks were notorious in the C-47, Nick knew the chance of coming out on top in a debate over oil leaks with the head mechanic was about as possible as surviving a polar bear attack. “This ship reminds me of an old outboard motor I used to have. It lasted just about forever until I took it in to see why it used so much oil. The mechanic at Northstar Marine back in Cass Lake told me all the reasons why I didn’t deserve to have the motor because of my abuse, and said that if I didn’t let him fix it, he wouldn’t sell me a new one when it did give out.”
“Sounds like you were getting good advice, Captain.”
“Maybe, but two days later, after I gave him thirty bucks to fix it, somebody stole the damn thing.”
“What’s your point, Captain?”
“Well, it seems like it’s just when you get things working to your satisfaction that someone else wants to make it better. I’d still have that motor today if he hadn’t fancied it up so much as to be a covetous temptation for someone else.”
“You’d be better off
flying just cargo routes, Captain, and let the people take another bus, if you know what I mean.”
“Why?”
“Not so many will get hurt when you run out of oil at nine thousand feet.” Beck waived his hand wearily toward a young man who had followed him to the flight deck and addressed him directly. “Rebuild ’em both, Junior. Have the job finished next week for the captain.”
“There goes my Thanksgiving with the misses and the family,” Nick said, kicking his feet into the gravel scattered on the tarmac.
“I think I did ’em a favor by making sure they’d have you home for Christmas,” Beck retorted.
The conversations between the mechanics, like Beck, and the experienced pilots tended to be a little dramatic. Pilots generally played the character attributed by mechanics, who were convinced of their lack of general knowledge about the planes they flew.
“Does your dog really drink apple cider?”
Beck just winked as he and Junior walked away.
One week to the day after Beck’s order to rebuild both engines, the army commandeered Nick’s plane for dedicated service to the Aleutian chain. This bothered Nick for the obvious reasons but mostly because replacement planes were like someone else’s used car—you never quite knew what you were getting. As far as he was concerned, the ATC always got short shrift when it came to priority over well-serviced planes, which generally went to the USAAF.
He sent a Teletype off to Cricket in flight ops to get a status on his new ship and wasn’t happy with the news of a three-to-five-day additional wait.
“I guess that mechanic who fixed my boat engine works for you guys now?” Nick said upon seeing Beck at the mess hall.
“The problem is, our reputation with the brass is too good,” he replied with a straight face, holding his mess tray out for a serving of hash.
“How do you figure?”
“Easy. They need a plane; they order us to bring one in for a major overhaul. When it’s done, it’s perfect.” Beck shrugged. “What can I do?”
“Let’s shoot some pool tonight,” Nick offered. “You buy the beer since it’s your reputation causing me to stay an extra week.”
“You’re on for the beer. But, there’s a poker club in camp with a game tonight at 1900 you might be more interested in.”
“Okay, as long as the stakes aren’t too serious.”
“There’s no obligation, Captain. If you want out at any time, just say so.”
“I’m a little rusty, but count me in.”
CHAPTER 16
Martha’s hopes for a Thanksgiving reunion were dashed with Nick’s plane being grounded in Bethel. Everyone had been disappointed. Bud and Helen left on the Saturday afterward for the long drive back to Ohio. Sunday was a waste. Christmas shopping had been light the past week, people being very selective with what money they were able to spend. The job was still better than sitting around, however, particularly since it provided the break in monotony with Nick being away so much.
She had been on her feet a lot though and wondered how much the day’s morning sickness, extended nausea, and light fever would make work more difficult. Leaning over the toilet bowl for the third time convinced her to call in sick. It wasn’t like her to let her co-workers down, but some days were a lot worse than others and the doctor had warned her to be cautious.
At 10:00 a.m. she was still in her flannel nightgown and bathrobe, nursing a cup of coffee at the kitchen table. She stared at the trail of steam swirling from the cup, fixated in her thoughts about what Nick might be doing. Of course, it was about 7:00 a.m. in his part of Alaska, or 0700 as he would say, so he was probably just getting up. She hadn’t received any cards in the last few days and that always put her on edge. The story in the newspaper about Warren Porter being found dead and partially consumed by animals after his prop plane crash was hard to dismiss. Her reality provided a thin veneer of emotional protection when hard news was received.
By noon she was dressed and found herself sitting in the living room looking out the bay window waiting for the mailman. Maybe I’ll get a card from Nick today, she thought. That would be nice. It was cold and wet outside with gray, overcast skies laying a blanket of gloom on the world. It didn’t seem very Christmassy. But she remembered Nick’s description of Bethel—some god-forsaken place out by the Bering Sea with only tundra and snow, and not a tree in sight. She could only feel worse for him as she viewed the small print of the town’s name on the map she used to trace Nick’s trips. By the size of the type, this is a tiny place, she thought, just enough to service the airbase.
To her delight, when the mailman finally came there was an envelope from Nick, which always meant several cards, as sending multiple postcards separately was more costly. Their likelihood of being written over several days due to weather-prompted flight delays added to her optimism. She always preferred Nick’s thoughts when he took more time. She poured another coffee and curled up on the couch before treating herself to her prize. She could almost feel his presence on each card—his smell definitely. Touching the cards immediately bridged the thousands of miles between them and stirred a longing in her heart. She would read and reread each one with care. Knowing that he would interrupt each day to privately “talk” with her was special. Probably every army wife felt the same way. Martha hung on to these moments as if they were her only reality with Nick.
Bethel, Alaska
December 1, 1943
My Dear Martha,
Was initiated into the Casino Club in room 110 down the hall. It cost $100, but I’m already $15 ahead.
Yours,
Nick
Bethel, Alaska
December 3, 1943
My Dear Martha,
I’m beginning to worry about what I’ll amount to. I’ll probably become a gambler. We’ve been sitting here for almost two days gambling from the time we get up in mid-afternoon until we quit at five or six in the morning. It’s getting so I don’t have enough time to write. My whole day is shifted around. Some of the poker, black-jack, and craps get pretty rough, but I’m still not down.
Yours,
Nick
Bethel, Alaska
December 4, 1943
My Dear Martha,
Had a big smoker on Saturday night. Won a ring from a fellow in a poker game and tried to get him to throw in an automatic .22 target pistol, but he wanted too much. My poker hasn’t been too good. Think I’ll give it up. They want me in a game again tonight, but I think I’ll go to a couple of old shows.
Yours,
Nick
Emptiness filled her and tightness gripped her insides. “He doesn’t miss me at all,” she said under her breath. “This is just a big adventure.” Tears came easily as the cards fell from her hands onto the floor. The insensitivity of his words spoke to a complete lack of his understanding as to how important she hoped Thanksgiving would be for them. Their relationship was replaced by a poker game in a backroom parlor filled with cigar smoke and the smell of cheap whiskey.
December 8, 1943
My Dearest Nick,
I know that I can’t expect you to understand how lonely I am when you’re away, but I have always felt some comfort thinking that you felt the same way. Your three cards today detailing the vacation you seem to be enjoying with the boys playing poker makes it difficult for me to share any compassion for your situation. It doesn’t seem to me that the lost Thanksgiving for us was much of a disappointment to you when compared to the excitement of your gambling escapades. Maybe Mother was right. You’ll always put yourself first. Your baby and I will need a father and husband when you return—will you be there?
The family had so many plans that involved you and when you couldn’t make it all of us genuinely felt sad for your hardship. I can safely inform them that you survived quite well. It concerns me, Nick, that I don’t seem to know who you are at times. This makes me feel very alone and sad. What’s happening to you? Your baby and I don’t have much of a choice but to wait
and hope that your carelessness for how we feel and your insensitivity over our situation will pass.
Maybe I should wait until tomorrow to see if I feel the same way about your cards before sending this letter.
Love Always,
Martha
Now, Martha wished she had gone to work and never read the mail. There wasn’t anyone she could call. Certainly not her mother, as this would surely reinforce Ida’s opinion of Nick as insensitive and self-focused, nor Helen, as it was an expensive long-distance call away, and not Rose either—her German stubbornness intimidated Martha. And this is bound to make his Christmas trip home a big mess as well. How do I get past this? she asked herself. Knowing that her feelings wouldn’t just disappear and would certainly lead to a big fight when he got home, she just wished Christmas would go away. She couldn’t find the logic, however, that could put things back the way they were when the day started.
Her coffee had turned cold, and by the end of the day Martha decided that sending the letter would not solve anything. It was likely not to catch up with Nick until just before he returned home anyway. She refolded it and slid it into the addressed envelope, carefully placing it on the mantel as a visual reminder of something important to be done.
CHAPTER 17
Robert discovered that using his Thanksgiving furlough time to visit his parents at the Manzanar Relocation Center was more on the order of a pilgrimage—certainly not like the weekend homestay he used to experience during college. Two full days of travel, so far, and if weather cooperated he still wouldn’t be there until after dark, about ten o’clock. Captain Morgan had pulled some strings to make the trip happen, for which Robert was grateful. Captain didn’t have to do that, he thought, while waiting for his final shuttle leg from Camp Irwin in Barstow, California. Still, his feelings remained mixed, as Captain Morgan had been riding his ass quite a bit for having an attitude. Said it was “unbecoming.” Let the president of the United States put your parents in a prison for no reason and see how your attitude changes, he reflected defensively.
Fatal Incident Page 10