To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

Olds exhaled, visibly letting go of a counterargument.

  “Hell, you’re right, Tex,” Olds said. “I’m sorry, too.”

  “Sorry don’t kill Messerschmitts, boys. Just learn,” Tex said. “And do better.”

  Movement in his peripheral vision drew Benny’s eye away from Tex to Durand who stepped next to his bed, clearing her throat.

  “Pardon me, gentlemen,” Durand said. “But I need to examine him and then he will need to rest.”

  “Of course, ma’am,” Tex said. “How long do you think he’ll be out?”

  “At least a week,” Durand said. “I need to evaluate the effects of his head trauma and his wounds need to close up properly before he returns to the cockpit.”

  Tex frowned, but he didn’t argue.

  “Alright, then,” he said. “I suppose a week of vacation for making ace isn’t too much to ask. I’ll check in on you later, Jakes. Come on, Olds, you heard the doctor.”

  “See you later, Benny,” Olds said.

  Durand pulled a small flashlight from a fatigue pocket and sat down on Benny’s bed next to him. Taking his wrist in her hands, she found his vein with her fingers and he saw her nodding as she counted his pulse. Benny realized, of course, that she was just being a medical professional, but his body took her touch in all the wrong ways. He took a deep breath, trying to slow his heart rate, and thought of penguins. Apparently satisfied, Durand dropped his wrist without comment and put her left hand on his cheek, tilting his eyes toward her and leaned in close, shining the flashlight in his eyes.

  “Your eyes are dilating properly,” she said, putting away the flashlight and pulling a fountain pen from her breast pocket. “This is very good. Please now follow my pen without moving your head.”

  Benny tracked the tip of the pen without issue as she moved it right and left, and up and down in front of his face. The pen stopped in front of her nose and when she dropped it he was staring into her eyes again. She met his gaze for a long moment, her chin tilted just slightly to the side, a hint of mischief tugging her lips into a smile.

  “Also very good,” she said, unscrewing the cap of the fountain pen and reaching for a clipboard hanging from a nail beside his bed.

  “Thank you,” Benny said. “For saving my life, I mean.”

  “For flying my, ‘tinker toy,’ into combat to get you, you mean?” Durand said, an impish smile blossoming on her face. “It wasn’t as dramatic as all that. The boys had the enemy on the run. I didn’t even take small arms fire.”

  Benny snorted and shook his head. Brass ovaries indeed.

  “What?” Durand said. “Several men tried to kill you yesterday, you don’t seem perturbed by the fact, why should I feel differently?”

  “You’ve got me there,” Benny admitted. “Thank you, nonetheless.”

  Durand finished what she was writing with a bold stroke and recapped her pen before answering him.

  “You are most welcome,” she said. “Now tell me, where did you learn to speak French so well?”

  “My family is from New Orleans,” Benny said. “My mother made sure I could speak French. My grandmother didn’t even speak English.”

  “It’s an interesting accent,” Durand said. “It reminds me of my grandfather. He was a country farmer and always spoke a bit rougher than his cousins from Paris. Tres masculin.”

  As she reached out to put the clipboard back on its nail, Benny noticed a tattoo on her forearm. It was nothing artistic, just a long series of small black numbers. Durand saw him staring at it, and her smile vanished. Realizing he’d upset her, though not why, Benny dropped his gaze.

  “I’m sorry,” he muttered. “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

  “It’s alright,” Durand said. “I’ll check in on you later. If there’s anything you need while I’m out of the ward, just let one of the nurses know, and they’ll take care of you.”

  “Thank you again,” Benny said.

  “It is my pleasure again,” Durand said, making her tone light with visible effort. “Perhaps when you are not my patient anymore, I’ll let you buy that drink you owe me.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to—” Benny said, “I mean, I didn’t know you were a…that is, I wouldn’t want to embarrass you or…”

  Benny Jakes, flying ace and stammering idiot.

  “Embarrass me how? Are you reneging on your debt, Mr. Jakes?” Durand said.

  “Of course not,” Benny said. “I just wouldn’t want anyone to gossip, if you were seen socializing with, well, with me outside of a professional setting.”

  “Oh, Mr. Jakes,” Durand said, disarming smile back in place. “I’m a big girl, and I socialize with whomever I please. You rest now; we’ll chat more later.”

  * * *

  Six weeks later, Benny and his three charges were cruising eastward, closing on a final approach back to Gia Lam in a standard finger-four formation. He smiled behind his oxygen mask. Four French Stukas were smoking wrecks just on the Laotian side of the border; they’d been dead before they’d known they were in danger.

  The hunting was a lot thinner these days. The French had become careful about how and when they employed their airpower, taking pains to avoid the threat from the P-80 squadron. They sent their Sturmvogel ground-attack Me-262s only for quick bombing raids wherever the P-80s weren’t.

  On the bright side, American planes and volunteer pilots continued to flow into Vietnam. Between Free Vietnamese Air Force and AVG pilots, they now had sixteen qualified P-80 pilots and eighteen operational airframes. Initially, Tex had divided out the American and Vietnamese pilots evenly amongst the four flights. Each flight got three Americans and one Vietnamese pilot.

  As it turned out, though, Benny was the only leader who spoke decent French. The other three flight leads became quickly frustrated by the language barrier, and Tex reassigned all three Vietnamese pilots to Benny’s flight. At first he’d found his new subordinates to be competent pilots, but on the timid side and entirely too deferential for fighter jocks. However, three weeks getting to know them revealed they suffered no deficit of killer instinct and, while still scrupulously polite, they each displayed keen and quirky humor the longer they were in the flight.

  Earlier that morning, when he’d walked out to the flight line, he’d noted that his four ships had a new coat of paint on the tail. Tex Miller had insisted on shark’s teeth on all the P-80s, but only Benny’s birds had a bright red coat of paint on the tail.

  When he’d asked his maintenance chief, Sergeant Hernandez, about the surprise aesthetic modification, the man had looked at Benny like the answer was obvious.

  “Well, sir, you were in the 332nd in the War, and you guys kicked ass,” Hernandez had stated. “I figured it would be good luck.”

  “Excellent travail aujourd’hui, les hommes,” Benny told his men. “Now lets give them a show. Keep it tight.”

  “D’accord,” each of his men acknowledged the order.

  Switching back to English to talk to the Tower, he announced his intentions.

  “Tower, this is Tiger Four on final approach,” Benny said. “Stand by for victory loop.”

  “Tiger Four,” the Tower operator responded in a clipped Boston accent. “You are cleared for loop.”

  Benny kicked his plane into a wide cork-screwing series of turns over the runway, his men following him perfectly. His grin grew wider as the g’s pulled him this way and that against the restraints. As the end of the runway passed beneath him, he leveled out for three seconds before pulling his nose hard up, shooting into the air, all the way over into a loop that put them back on approach to Gia Lam.

  “Good show, boys,” Benny said. “Now let’s get into our normal landing pattern. I’ll see you all at the O Club tonight. Drinks on me.”

  * * *

  The O Club’s turntable was connected to some surprisingly good speakers so they had jazz records piped in with their meal. The décor was all rich browns and golds, definitely an artifact of the Club’s previo
us owners. Robin and two of his guys were mangling a waltz with three of the nurses on the dance floor while Benny and his pilots celebrated the day’s victories on the second floor balcony.

  “We’re tied at four kills, Tran,” Ngo Than Duc, the oldest and shortest of the three Vietnamese said. “But you’re still a trinh nữ in jets.”

  “Eat shit,” Tran Hien Vo, the youngest, replied. “I’ll put five thousand piastres against your sister’s virtue that I’ll be the first Vietnamese ace.”

  “That’s a losing bet,” Lee Phi Hung, Benny’s wingman and the middle “child” of his pilots said. “No way something as battered as his sister’s virtue is worth five thousand piastres.”

  All four pilots roared at that.

  “Ngo, what’s a, ‘trin new?’” Benny said when they’d stopped laughing. His Vietnamese was improving, but his guys still talked mostly French around him out of courtesy.

  “It’s…ah,” Ngo stopped. “I don’t know the French word.”

  “Sir it means he’s never, ah,” Lee made a circle with left thumb and forefinger and poked his index finger through it in universal sign language.

  “I see,” Benny said laughing again.

  A figure in a dark red dress caught Benny’s eye approaching the bar below. Conversation forgotten, he stared like a moonstruck school boy. He’d thought Margot beautiful from the first time he’d laid eyes on her, but in a red, form-fitting silk dress, she appeared as something from a dream.

  Benny frowned. He’d taken lunch several times with Margot Durand, always accompanied by Robin and one of Margot’s nurses or another woman for proper chaperonage. Margot seemed amused by Benny’s insistence on the propriety, but she was no less charming and interesting for it. They shared an affinity for Victor Hugo and jazz, and they enjoyed their disagreements regarding the merits of Camus and Sartre’s works—those published before World War II, or smuggled out following both men’s executions in 1945.

  Damn Vichy, Benny thought. As Margot moved around the room, his thoughts turned back to the French doctor. He was drawn to her, but wary. Miscegenation was still illegal in most of the United States. Openly romancing a white woman could get him arrested; hell, even sharing a table with Margot, as he’d already done, could get him murdered back home in Louisiana. This wasn’t Louisiana by several decimal places, but survival habits died hard.

  But women like Margot don’t grow on trees.

  When he pulled his eyes off of Margot, he saw that all three of his men were grinning knowingly at him.

  “Dai uy, why don’t you go wish Dr. Margot a pleasant evening?” Ngo said. “We’ll be alright up here.”

  “No, no,” Benny said. “I shouldn’t—”

  “No, sir, really, go ahead,” Tran chimed in. “Unless you’re afraid…”

  “Go to hell, Tran,” Benny said. “I hope Ngo does get his fifth kill before you do.”

  The table erupted in laughter again as Benny stood up, drawing Margot’s eye to their table.

  Well, I’m pot-committed now.

  Margot followed him down the stairs with her eyes, all the way to the bar with an inviting smile on her face the whole time.

  “Benny,” she said, her accent inflecting the y at the end of his name in a manner he’d come to appreciate. “I saw the victory loop; you broke the dry streak today, congratulations.”

  “Merci beaucoup,” Benny said, returning her smile. “You look especially lovely tonight, Margot.”

  “You are too kind,” Margot said, her wide, dark eyes reflecting the warm incandescent light of the club.

  “I am too honest,” Benny said, shaking his head. “And I must be crazy.”

  “Why? Because you find yourself interested in a woman? This is a strange definition of insanity, Benjamin,” Margot said.

  “Do I really have to spell it out for you?” Benny said. “Is France really that progressive, that it just doesn’t matter? Or did you miss the fact that I’m black as the as the ace of spades?”

  “You are most certainly not,” Margot said, lifting her chin. “You are a lovely chocolate and caramel shade; I find it most appealing.”

  “Oh, for Christ’s sake, Margot,” Benny said, putting a hand to his face and rubbing his forehead.

  A dark line appeared between Margot’s eyebrows and something not entirely pleasant flickered in her lovely eyes. She was quiet for a moment, staring at Benny. Suddenly she thrust out her right forearm, palm up to show the ivory skin covering her veins and the series of numbers he’d seen that first day in the hospital.

  “You saw this in the hospital,” Margot said. “You didn’t ask what it was.”

  “You seemed upset when I noticed,” Benny said. “I didn’t want to distress you.”

  “That’s very polite,” She said. “It is from Ravensbruck. Is this a place you have heard of?”

  It sounds familiar…oh…oh.

  “My God,” Benny said. “The camps—”

  “Yes, the camps,” Margot said, dropping her arm. “I was at Ravensbruck from 1943 until 1945, when your government negotiated our release.”

  “I didn’t even know you were Jewish,” Benny said. “I’m so sorry, I can’t even imagine—”

  “I am not Jewish.” She cut him off. “I left medical school to fight with the resistance. I had already killed four policeman and a collaborating mayor. When I tried for an SS Obergruppenfuhrer, it did not go as well.”

  Benny felt respect conflating with terror as he looked at her.

  “I’ll spare you the details of everything they did to me,” Margot continued. “Afterward, I thought that I was broken by it, that they had turned me into something worth less than a whore. After we were deported, I spent months feeling sorry for myself. One day, though, I realized that I am a survivor. The French fighting for the Reich? They are the whores.”

  She paused, visibly taking an effort to calm herself.

  “Your people would not put me in a position to fight them,” she said. “So I rescue warriors, heal you so you can kill them for me. Through all that pain I learned to reach for what I want, Benjamin.”

  Benny heard the determination in her voice and could almost guess what was coming next.

  “When I say I do not care what others think when we are together, allow me to be absolutely clear: I do not give a single fuck what anyone else thinks of us,” Margot said. “I have faced much worse than them. I like you, and I think you like me, too. If that isn’t true, then by all means, I shall not trouble you further.”

  Margot took a step back and started to turn on her heel. Benny reached out and put a hand on her arm.

  “Margot, wait,” he said.

  “Wait for what, Benny? You to get a chaperone so we can continue this conversation without offending bigots?”

  Benny thought furiously. He didn’t know what to say. Five minutes ago he’d thought their relationship impossible; now it seemed nothing in the world mattered more than convincing her to stay. In the background the record changed, and Fred Astaire’s voice filled the room to a smooth bass and piano accompaniment.

  “Dr. Durand, would you dance with me?” Benny said.

  Removing his right hand from her arm, he extended his left hand palm-up in a time honored courtly gesture. Margot’s eyes widened for a long moment, then, slowly, she smiled again and the light returning to her eyes seared his anxiety away. She placed her right hand in his left.

  “Yes, Mr. Jakes,” she said. “I would love to dance.”

  Benny led her to the dance floor, aware of every eye following them. Only Margot, her hand still warm and gripping his firmly, allowed him to ignore them all. She flowed into his arms, assuming an elegant, strong frame against his. They moved into an easy foxtrot together, gliding across the floor with a stride that was simultaneously jaunty and graceful. She picked up on the rhythm naturally and followed his lead without a missed step.

  “You know how to dance,” Benny said.

  “So do you,” Margot said.


  Benny twirled Margot into an underarm turn and back into his arms, then a reverse turn to shadow position for a few counts, her back to him with his hand on her stomach. He picked up the floral scent of shampoo on her chestnut hair before she returned to his arms to glide across the floor once again. Everyone else in the world fell away; there was only Margot and the music.

  They opened up into a promenade, and Margot’s shapely legs flashed as they strode across the floor and as they came back together for the final beat of the song she pressed her body fully against his, drawing a sharp breath of surprise from him.

  “That’s not part of the foxtrot,” Benny said.

  Margot batted her eyes and leaned up to whisper in his ear.

  “It is in France.”

  Applause and a wolf-whistle pierced the spell of the dance. He spared a glance for the room, Robin Olds was standing near the turntable, grinning broadly and clapping; upstairs Tran, Ngo and Lee were likewise applauding. The rest of the officers in the club and their dates were torn, some smiling and clapping, some looked uncomfortable, and a handful glared.

  To hell with you, gentlemen, Benny thought as he bowed to the crowd, and Margot curtsied like a born queen. For once, you just wish you were me.

  * * *

  The next morning as he stepped into 4th AVG headquarters, Benny could hear explosions and gunfire over the radio speakers along with the voices of men doing their best to maintain Laconic professionalism under fire.

  “Tiger Main, this is Ajax Main,” a static-ridden Midwestern voice announced. “We have one company engaged with a battalion in the hamlets three kilometers to our direct east. Another company has been cut off on the northeast bank of the lake, five klicks out. We estimate at least two enemy battalions. Ajax Main and Ajax North are both under intermittent indirect fire, over.”

  “Understood, Ajax,” Tex said. “We’re loading bombs now, eta one hour, over.”

  “We need you ASAP, Tiger,” a note of fear crept into the voice from the other end. “That company on the lake can’t last long.”

  “Roger, Ajax,” Tex said. “My staff will be monitoring this net. Send updates. We’ll be there as soon as we can. Tiger Main, out.”