by Daniel Wyatt
Robert recognized the man, although they hadn’t seen each other in forty-five years. He checked the name tag to be certain. “Tom. Tom Bates.” He shook the outstretched hand of the former Mary Jane armorer.
“Geez, Bob, you haven’t changed that much. You haven’t put on a pound. Then again, look at me.” They both laughed. “What have you been doing since 1945?”
Robert took his drink from the bartender. “Thanks.” Turning back to his friend, he said, “Oh, the normal stuff. Got married. Worked. Raised a family. I became a full-time grease monkey for a Ford dealer in Phoenix. Retired now. How about you?”
“I went into real estate in Los Angeles during the big boom of the sixties. Then I retired to a ranch near Fresno, where I live with my wife. Lots of room for the grandchildren. Ride my horses. Light the barbeque. Pick fruit.”
Robert smiled. “The good life. How many grandchildren you got, Tom?”
“Ten. I had four kids. Two boys, two girls. How about you?”
“Two boys for me. One lives in Japan. He’s still single. The other, the youngest, Les, has two kids. He’s the military man of the family, an F-18 fighter pilot in the navy, stationed on Guam.”
“A son in the navy? That’s great!” Bates gulped from his scotch. He turned away from the bar to look the room over. “Hey, isn’t that Phil Cameron?”
Two sets of eyes shot to the entrance where General Cameron stood with his French-born wife. Several couples surrounded the Camerons, greeting them. The room suddenly came to life.
“See you later, Bob,” Bates said, and left.
Cameron and another man, whom Robert recognized as Cameron’s co-pilot on the atomic mission, approached the bar and fit into a space beside Robert.
“Two beers,” Cameron announced to the bartender.
“Yes, sir.” The bartender handed over two bottles of beer with two tall, clear glasses.
“Still like beer I see, Phil,” Robert said, grinning.
During the war Cameron was a unique commanding officer. In charge of the 509th — a group strength of 1,700 men — he had his own private army. A team. First names. No salutes. No ranks. Just do your job and respect the other person and his job. But any leaks or loose talk... you were banished to Alaska or worse for the remainder of the war.
Cameron didn’t utter a reply until he read the name tag. “Bob Shilling. It’s good to see yuh.” They shook hands. “It’s been a long time.”
“It sure has.”
“You remember my co-pilot, Dick Hall?”
“Actually, we never did meet. Hi.” Robert extended his hand and the smiling man gripped it solidly. Hall was a husky individual, blonde-white hair, well-tanned.
“Bob was the crew chief of the Mary Jane.”
“Oh... really.” Hall’s smile vanished.
Robert expected the reaction. No choice but to change the subject. “Yeah, she was my ship.” To Cameron, he said, “So, will Fifi be ready for your run over North Field tomorrow?”
Cameron forced a grin. “If they get the repairs done to her, I will. She’s still in a hangar on Guam. They’re going to burn the midnight oil tonight to get her ready.”
“What’s the trouble?”
“Engine number three. No power. I’m flying back tonight to see how things are going.”
“Good turnout,” Robert observed, eyeing the room. “Heard there’s going to be over five hundred attending.”
Hall leaned forward. “And once the 509th gets going, this sleepy little island will never be the same. We’re going to paint her red.”
* * * *
Early in the afternoon the next day, Robert remembered Hall’s words as he and Edna were on one of the many tour buses heading out in a convoy to the old 509th headquarters at North Field. From what he could see from inside the vehicle, Tinian hadn’t really changed all that much since World War II. The only significant difference was the drop in population. During the war, the island had been busy with activity due to the thousands of permanent and temporary citizens. Now, the population stood at 850, according to the driver — a small, dark-skinned man — conducting the tour. He told those aboard that he was Chamorro, that is, of Micronesian, Filipino, and Spanish descent and that he had been born on the island just after the war.
The tour continued through jungle and over hills. The driver spoke briefly of the many watermelon farms and the possibility of the United States setting up a military base once again on the island. This would be a great boon to the slow tourist industry. In addition, he continued, the long, flat topography of the island was suited for lengthy runways. Not only that, but if the Americans came back, and if the tax dollars were spent wisely, the islanders would receive better medical treatment and the best of schooling for the children.
Edna smiled. She was enjoying herself, amused that the streets were named after Manhattan throughways. The driver explained that when Tinian was captured from the Japanese in the summer of 1944, one of the US Engineering Corps who had laid out the island was from New York City and he had a great idea. Because the island was shaped like Manhattan, he wanted to bring a little bit of home to the Pacific. Thus, Broadway and 42nd Street was the most important crossroad. Other streets were Park Avenue, Madison Avenue and the picturesque Riverside Drive that ran along the water’s edge.
* * * *
Stepping down from the bus, Robert had his arm around his wife. Together, they watched the other buses unload on one of the old dispersal sites near Runway Able. The crowd was casually dressed for the heat, wearing shorts and light tops. Many were hung over from the late-night celebrating.
The sun was warm in the partially-clouded sky, with a slight breeze coming off the ocean. It looked like rain clouds were massing. This was the Mariana Islands’ rainy season. A few hundred feet away, the surf was pounding against the rocky shoreline.
“So, this is it. Your base.”
“Yeah, this is it,” Robert answered his wife. “There’s the 509th compound behind us. A nice monument marks the spot. And there” — he pointed — “are the four runways, all over 8,000 feet long. Over there” — he pointed beyond the runways — “are the hard stands, where we did most of the work on the B-29s. In the summer of 1945, Tinian Island was the largest operational airfield in the world. That way is straight north.” He nodded this time. “You can see Saipan only three miles away. More B-29 airfields were there too. And more again on Guam.”
Edna squeezed her husband’s arm. “Now, aren’t you glad you came?”
Robert didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his attention to a large, shiny aircraft coming from the south. Others soon saw it too. Then the sound... as the aircraft drew closer. After all these years, Robert could still recognize the distinctive roar of the four radial engines. Fifi had made it. He hadn’t seen a B-29 in flight since the summer of 1945. Suddenly, the war came back to him like it had never done before. The long hours laboring away over the largest and most intricate bomber of the war. The stress. The worry. The aching arms. Then, for the first time in years, it all came out. His eyes began to water and he wiped them with the back of his hand. He was proud of his individual war effort. Really proud. He smiled at Edna, shyly, as she too began to get choked up.
Fifibanked out to sea and came around for an upwind landing on Runway Baker. Flaps down, the speed dropped off. By the time she touched down, Robert and Edna weren’t the only ones in tears.
Chapter six
GUAM
“Mom, dad, you look great!”
Les greeted his father with a handshake and his mother with a firm hug near the parking lot outside Guam’s International Air Terminal. His mother looked happy, keeping her arms around her son for a lengthy time. It was a warm day, all three in shorts and T-shirts.
“Have you put on some weight?” she asked, finally pulling back.
“Muscle. All muscle,” Les grinned. “You two have lost a few pounds, haven’t yuh. Anyway, how was the reunion?”
Tired-eyed, Robert replied,
“We had a ball.”
“And he’s got the bloodshot eyes to prove it,” Edna laughed.
“And to think you didn’t want to go, dad.”
Robert shrugged. “I know, I know. Your mother told me the same thing.”
At the car, Les opened his passenger door for his parents, and then threw the two suitcases into the trunk. “Buckle up,” he said, closing the trunk. “The laws are strict here.”
Robert stared at the Nissan, not moving a muscle.
“What’s the matter, dad?”
“A Nissan! You bought a Jap car,” Robert replied. “What did you do that for?”
Les knew that his father — a confirmed Ford man — was touchy about Americans buying foreign cars, especially Japanese-built ones. “I didn’t buy it. I’m leasing it.”
“Don’t matter. It’s still a Jap car.”
Les tried to remain calm. “Come off it. The war’s been over for nearly fifty years.”
“Not for me he hasn’t.”
Les and his mother exchanged glances, then Les said, “Would you rather take a cab?”
Edna nudged her husband. “Oh, for the love of Mike, damn it, Robert, get in the car!”
* * * *
The Saturday morning traffic was heavy on Marine Drive, the roadway that led into the capital city of Agana. Les drove past hotels, car rentals, shopping centers, and restaurants, until he reached the beach where the shoreline palm trees swayed to the light ocean breeze coming off Agana Bay. The sunroof was back for Les and his parents to enjoy the sunshine.
For the elder Shillings, the contrast between Tinian and Guam — only 100 miles apart — was startling. Sparsely populated Tinian was laid back. Guam, with its 120,000 residents, was a beehive of bustle and activity. Les had the facts on hand for his parents. Five airlines serviced the island. It had seven radio stations, three television stations, three newspapers, and twenty-nine banks. Agana contained more than a dozen hotels, most of which had been built in the last ten years, as well as air-conditioned malls and plenty of fast-food restaurants. Guam was a far cry from sleepy little Tinian
“How about golf? What yuh got there?” Robert asked from the back seat, still pouting after the Nissan incident.
“The best. Admiral Nimitz Golf Course. I’ll drive you out this afternoon. First, I thought we’d head home, pick up Gail and the kids and go for a ride around the island. Then a barbeque after. How does prime rib sound?”
“I like that,” Edna replied, looking over from the front passenger seat.
Robert said nothing.
“Oh, by the way, dad,” Les said, glancing in the rear-view mirror at his father, “my CO wants to meet you.”
“Really? What for?”
“I don’t know. He just said he wants to meet you. You game?”
“Sure.”
* * * *
Later that afternoon, while the Shillings talked about old times on the patio deck over drinks, steaks, potatoes, and Caesar salad, they were interrupted by the portable phone ringing on the table.
Les picked up the receiver. “Hello.”
“Lieutenant Shilling?”
“Yes, it is.”
“This is Captain MacDonald.”
“Yes, sir, captain, what can I do for you?”
The conversation in the room died down, then stopped abruptly.
“Remember that meeting I talked about with you, regarding your father?”
“Yes, sir, I remember.”
“I hear he’s in town. I’d like to see him. Tonight. Eight o’clock sharp. I want you to be there too. My office.”
Les caught a sting of authority in his CO’s voice. What at first was supposed to be a so-called casual visit now sounded more like an order. He glanced at his digital watch. An hour to go. “Yes, sir. We’ll be there.”
“Keep this between the three of us, at least for now.”
“Yes, sir.”
The receiver went dead and Les hung it up. He turned to his family.
“What was that about?” Gail wanted to know.
“The boss,” Les replied. “Relax, it’s nothing. I have to leave in a while. I’ll be right back, though.”
The conversation started up again.
“Dad, let me top your drink.”
“I can use some more ice, too,” Robert added.
“Sure, come on in the house. I want to show you something.”
* * * *
By the time Les and his father arrived at MacDonald’s office, two other people were already there. Tiger and General Phil Cameron. And what surprised Les the most was that Cameron and his father were on a first-name basis. Introductions were made. All five sat.
MacDonald yanked opened a desk drawer and pulled out a large manila file that contained photos and typed paperwork.
“Gentlemen,” MacDonald began, firmly, “this is not a social gathering. It’s business. Three weeks ago, Agana Naval Air Station picked up an unidentified target on radar at oh-one-hundred in the vicinity of Tinian. One of our own F-18s, flown by Lieutenant Shilling, was alerted. Before he could make any type of visual, the target simply vanished without a trace.” The CO turned to some papers in the file. “According to our radar, it was on a true course of three-five-zero degrees, at an altitude of 1,000 feet and a speed of only 200 knots. Another target appeared three days later at oh-one-ten over Saipan. It also disappeared without a trace. After a few more targets, I started to detect a pattern. They were appearing on radar every two or three days, and five or ten minutes later than the previous one, and at a speed of 200 knots. In addition to that, the position of these targets formed into a definite path north, as you can see, gentlemen, from the map to my left. I have plotted each radar sighting. Then a slight change occurred near the island of Agrihan. The target suddenly climbed to 3,000 feet and changed its course to three-four-one.”
Cameron broke in. “Captain MacDonald, what in hell’s bells does this have to do with Bob and me? The US Navy is none of our business.”
“You’ll see, general. Please let me finish. Shortly after oh-two-hundred hours, eight days ago, off the coast of Agrihan, Lieutenants Shilling and Runsted intercepted the source of these signals. And here’s what they photographed.”
The CO slowly spread out on his desktop six clear infrared black-and-white photos of a B-29 Superfortress. The others leaned forward to look. Les, Robert, and Cameron were all astonished. The pictures had been taken from the port side. On the tailplane was a large R inside a black circle, with the numbers 296546 below it. The nose contained the block letters MARY JANE and a life-like painting of a girl in a bathing suit below the pilot’s window.
“I suspect,” MacDonald continued, “that someone is playing a little game with the US Navy. This reunion of yours has attracted a lot of public attention. I’ve seen Fifi, myself, up close. This bomber, gentlemen, does not have the same markings, does it? In fact, the markings on this bomber are those of the 509th Composite. Your group, general. That’s why I asked you and Mr. Shilling here.” He turned his attention to Robert. “I did some checking, sir, with old Army Air Force records and found that you were the crew chief on the original Mary Jane. Do you two have any idea what’s going on here?”
“No, we don’t,” the general admitted.
“I thought that Fifi was the only flying B-29 in the world.”
“It is, captain. At least, we thought it was.”
“Then why this? The Mary Jane? Obviously, there’s two B-29s now.” The captain frowned. “So, tell me, what’s so significant about the Mary Jane?”
Robert and Cameron exchanged stares.
“All right,” Cameron said to his old friend. “I’ll tell them.”
The general got up from the seat and paced the room, then stopped. “OK,” he sighed. “The truth. Following the Hiroshima and Nagasaki missions, our government still weren’t certain that the Japanese would surrender. Therefore, conventional missions were still deployed. On August 14, a bomber force was sent out to
destroy the Hikari Naval Arsenal. The Mary Jane and a dozen or so others from the 509th Composite joined a group from Tinian’s West Field.” Cameron sighed. “The Mary Jane and, I believe, one other bomber, were shot down before they reached the enemy’s coast. Both were never seen again. The next day, the Japs surrendered and all was forgotten about the Mary Jane. That is... until now.” Cameron’s finger pressed one of the pictures. “For some reason, somebody has made an exact duplicate of the machine.”
“Why would anybody do such a thing?” MacDonald asked.
“You got me there.”
“You sure this isn’t Fifi disguised?”
“Positive,” Cameron replied.
Les stirred in his chair. “I’d like to know one thing. Dad,” he said to his father, “the picture you have in your war album at home didn’t have a bathing beauty on it like it does on the picture, did it?”
“True,” Robert answered. “That’s because she was painted on the night before the mission. That’s why. And there’s something else. Fifi has most of the original gun positions still intact. Mary Jane was a stripped down bomber, as were all the other 509th B-29s. The armor was taken out. It had no blister windows, as you can see in the photo-recon shots. The only guns she was carrying were in the butt. In short, Fifi and this version of the Mary Jane are two completely different bombers.”
“Now, the positions of these targets,” Cameron said as he turned to the map on the wall. “I can see from these pinpoints, captain, that the course is working straight from Tinian towards Iwo Jima, the same approximate course that we used on our B-29 missions to Japan. Then, there’s the times. May I see your paperwork, captain?”
MacDonald handed him the file. “Certainly.”
“Thank you.” Cameron removed the reading glasses from his breast pocket. He paused to read. “From this sheet, where the times, dates, and positions were plotted, I would have to say that the Mary Jane was right on time with her flight as it was proposed in the briefing. Your first radar sighting of her occurred at oh-one-hundred near Tinian. That was the time she was scheduled to take off. At oh-one-ten you sighted her on radar over Saipan. That figures. Then again you caught her west of Agrihan at oh-two-hundred. And her last marked position was 200 miles south of Iwo Jima. Your radar recorded the altitude at 1,000 feet until Alamagen. Then she climbed to 3,000 feet. After Agrihan she climbed to 5,000 feet.” He sighed, eyes on the file. “Last sighting was 400 north of Guam. I see.”