John is standing next to Chuck Jaworski by the right tail boom, looking at the streaked stain of leaking coolant running down the boom from the outboard radiator to the tail. Petrillo and Lucas are already opening the radiator fairings to get a better look at the problem.
Looking up the exhaust chute of the radiator fairing, Chuck says, “Ain’t no holes in the skin…you weren’t hit by any ground fire…one of these vanes probably cracked all by itself and started leaking, then finally let go on you.”
The squadron commander, Lieutenant Colonel Bob Harris, drives up, listens to John’s story, pats him on the back, and offers him a ride to debriefing in the jeep. Harris is an ex-fighter pilot of no repute. He had not flown today. In fact, he had not flown in weeks. They all turn to see a female lieutenant running toward them. John tactfully excuses himself and runs to meet her.
A love-struck nurse, no doubt, Harris surmises.
John and Marge collide and dissolve into an embrace in the middle of the ramp.
Harris turns to Jaworski and says: “Uh, oh! Your boy’s in love… I’ll bet he turns ‘ramp happy’ before you know it.”
Like you, you useless bastard? Jaworski thinks but does not dare speak aloud. “Ramp happy” signified a pilot or aircraft that seemed never to leave the ground.
Instead, Chuck replies, “With all due respect, sir, I disagree. It don’t change a thing. It’ll probably make him even better.”
Since f-stop was being repaired, John does not fly the next day. He is waiting for Marge as she finishes her shift at 0400 and they go straight to John’s tent, munching on bread and chocolate as they walk the half mile. Once in the hammock, she falls asleep in his arms quickly. John finds himself softly humming “Sleepy Time Gal” to the exhausted nurse lying beside him. He will not be able to get that song out of his head for days.
Chapter Twenty-Two
Nakagusuku Bay, on Okinawa’s southeast coast, was renamed Buckner Bay by the US military in honor of Lieutenant General Simon Bolivar Buckner, Jr., US Army, who was killed in action June 1945 during the conquest of that island. It was a fine harbor, and the US Navy promptly made good use of it, filling it with ships of all descriptions. In addition to the vessels bringing personnel, supplies, and equipment, wounded warships sought refuge there to repair and refit.
Tankers were frequent visitors to Buckner Bay, delivering aviation gasoline to quench the 5th Air Force’s insatiable thirst. While immobile in port, they are easy targets, each a potential incendiary bomb of incredible destructive power.
On one unusually clear night, a twin-engined Japanese bomber, code named “Betty” by the Allies, gropes its way down the Ryuku chain in search of Okinawa. The plane is laden with bombs; its pilot is determined to crash into the first target of opportunity he can find. It is his appointed time to die with honor. The harbor is the most desirable choice, as the odds of inflicting significant damage will be higher. An airfield would rank second.
Once the kamikaze actually finds the island in the identical blackness of sea and sky at night, he can select and attack a target with little opposition, but finding the island proves to be challenging. Barely trained, the suicide pilot has his hands full just keeping the lumbering craft in the air. The fingers of his right hand play with the fabric of the “belt of 1000 stitches,” praying for the good luck this traditional charm, sewn by his mother and sisters and worn around his waist, is supposed to bring. Controlling the plane’s two engines is proving especially difficult, as neither are in good running condition. If the night was not so clear, he would have missed Okinawa completely, as he had strayed to the east, drifting with the winds aloft. It is, perhaps, a blessing that a proper landing would not be required, for it is unlikely the pilot is capable of such a feat. The warmth of the ceremonial saki toast before takeoff and the courage it inspired in this sacrificial aviator has long passed.
The buildup of US airpower on Okinawa is now a 24-hour-a-day operation; bright lighting is required at the harbor and airfields so crucial work can continue in the hours of darkness. The glow of these lights ultimately gives the island away and the pilot turns west, back to his final destination, to fulfill his mortal duty. American radar picks up the plane, but the operators assume it is friendly since it is approaching from the east, probably a Navy plane that cannot find its carrier. Picking out a cluster of lights at the edge of the blackness that he thinks might be the harbor, the pilot banks left and dives. Seeing the shadowy outlines of ships at their moorings, he aims for the closest one.
The pilot has misjudged his height badly and is overshooting the target vessel, an empty freighter, at a dangerously high speed, exceeding his plane’s maximum maneuvering velocity. Realizing that this could not possibly be a friendly aircraft, the fire of American anti-aircraft gunners begins to erupt all around the low-flying Jap plane, striking it several times in rapid succession but not bringing it down.
Sure that he cannot survive another pass, the terrified, disoriented pilot pushes the nose over, determined to destroy something--anything--American. Soon low enough to see reflections on the water he is plunging toward, the pilot instinctively jerks back on the control column. The nose began to rise for an instant, until the elevators on the tail, severely overloaded by the excessive speed, begin to disintegrate, turning the plane into an uncontrollable projectile. The Betty’s nose tucks under for the last time and it plunges dead center into a tanker, just arrived, filled to the brim with 100 octane aviation gasoline. The pilot had never even realized the tanker was there. Unwittingly, he has fulfilled his duty.
The explosion and blaze that follow are cataclysmic and rock the harbor. The flames are visible for 100 miles.
John Worth, asleep in his tent, is awakened by the explosion and sees the towering flames clearly, as does Marge Braden, who is on duty at the hospital. On the photo recon ramp, mechanics Petrillo and Lucas are trying to catch a nap as Jaworski hunts down some parts for f-stop.
Jarred awake, Petrillo says in his thick Brooklyn accent, “I thought we seen the last of this bullshit in the fucking Philippines!
Lucas looks around, yawns, and drawls, “They ain’t aiming at you, Yankee… shut your piehole and go back to sleep!”
The toll is some 50 dead, over 200 injured--most badly burned--and includes sailors, marines, and soldiers who were onboard ships or working the harbor. In addition to the destroyed tanker, two other ships sunk at their moorings and 10 more are damaged… all from one suicide aircraft, one barely trained and expendable pilot.
John and Marge would not see each other for several days; the demands of the injured on the hospital staff are too great. Swiftly and painfully reminded of how close the war still is to them, even on this island overrun with Americans, John begins to fear a kamikaze attack on the hospital, on Marge.
Nurse Nancy Bergstrom, ever the pragmatist, comments as she fills out triage tags, “Well, Margie, at least that slimeball Harmon Mann can’t bother you for a while.”
The fires at Buckner Bay rage into the next morning, when the familiar downpours of rain return and assist in their extinguishing.
Chapter Twenty-Three
John Worth made some inquiries and found out who was flying the P-47, number “43,” that had abandoned him during the engine-out return to Okinawa. The other P-47 pilots just smiled and shook their heads when John related the incident; they were not in the least surprised. The pilot in question was Captain Harmon Mann. John had been worried the cocky fighter jocks might not tell tales on one of their number, especially to a “camera boy,” but in this case they opened up gladly.
“Useless son of a bitch!” was perhaps the kindest opinion offered by one of Mann’s squadron mates. “I’m surprised they even take him along anymore… nobody wants him as a wingman, and the C.O. would never let him be section leader. He’s usually assigned as lifeguard. Even then, he usually flees at the sight of another aircraft, even friendlies.”
Lifeguards were planes that patrolled the sea routes to an
d from an objective, spotting and marking the location of downed fliers to facilitate their rescue by naval vessels or flying boats. Lifeguard planes were usually worn out and ready for the scrap heap. Their pilots were either rookies or tired old hands as worn out as their planes. Mann should have had no reason to be classified as either.
The fighter pilot continued to lay it on the line to John. “He has friends in high places, you know. Daddy’s a rich senator, so they gotta make the boy look like he shines… but you can’t shine shit. Rumor has it he only qualified for cooks and bakers’ school, but that got overridden from above and he ended up in flight training on a must-pass ticket. The C.O. tried to get rid of him a couple of times, but the orders were squashed by 5th Air Force. We just try to keep him out of our way. Probably the best advice we can give you is to do the same.”
Chuck Jaworski had done some checking of his own with buddies in the P-47 squadron’s maintenance section. Like the pilots John had talked with, they had no qualms talking about Captain Mann’s less-than-stellar exploits in great detail.
Returning to the photo recon squadron ramp, Jaworski finds John Worth sitting in his aircraft, constructing an improved chart table for the cockpit.
Admiring John’s handiwork, Chuck says: “That looks really neat, John… I like how it folds out of the way. Much better than the original…but I’ve just found out some shit that you’ve gotta hear right now.”
“Go ahead…Shoot!” John says as he gives Chuck his complete attention.
“I know you heard that nobody wants to fly with Mann, and you know from personal experience you can’t trust him, but this guy is one for the books…pretty much a walking SNAFU. Let’s just say he doesn’t have much in the way of piloting skills…or balls. He’s trashed a couple of P-47’s that basically had nothing wrong with them or malfunctions any novice pilot could have handled…even tore one up on takeoff when he forgot to lock the tail wheel…ground looped right off the runway, ripped a main gear off, bent up the wing… They had to send it straight to the scrap heap.”
In their years together, John had never heard the usually taciturn Chuck utter so many words all at once.
Chuck had even more to say. “But the big story is that he shot down and killed his own section leader back in the Philippines. Nobody really saw the whole thing…it all got hushed up like it never happened…the poor bastard got scored as KIA by the enemy…but it looks like he crossed in front of Mann during a tangle with some Oscars and in a blind panic, Mann opened up on him.”
Incredulous, John asks: “What about his gun camera film? Wouldn’t that show what happened?”
“That’s the really fucked up part, John. There is no film…it was defective. They think Mann threatened his maintenance crew and made them ruin the film. He had some shit on them that he had saved up until he needed it, caught them stealing booze from the Officer’s Club or something like that…so keeping them quiet was real easy. Now the arrogant bastard struts around like nothing ever happened.”
“Do you believe all that, Chuck?”
“You bet I do, John…and there’s something else I gotta tell you…he’s been going around boasting that he’s nailing Lieutenant Braden.”
“That miserable son of a bitch…” was all John could manage to say. The voice in his head, though, was clear and focused:
Maybe I should just take the advice of those fighter pilots and keep my distance from Mann before I do something really stupid, something that wouldn’t do me or Marge any good. I’ve sure wished a bunch of Japs dead in my life…but never a guy who wore the same uniform as me.
Marge wakes up as usual, around noon, and walks down to the flight line looking for John. She sees him sitting in his cockpit, obviously preoccupied, fiddling with something; looking for all the world like his mind is a thousand miles away…and strangely silent. He would always talk softly to f-stop--to her--as he worked on her, but not this time. He doesn’t notice Marge until she hops up the boarding step onto the left wing root; she is getting pretty good at doing that all by herself.
He seems deeply troubled, pulled into himself like a wounded animal. She has never seen him quite like this before.
“What’s the matter, baby?” Marge asks.
“Do you know a pilot named Harmon Mann?”
“Yeah…a real asshole! We treated him in the hospital a couple of weeks ago…for athlete’s foot!” she says, laughing.
“Well, he seems to know you, too…been telling people he’s sleeping with you… Are you dating him?”
“DATING!!! Oh, Farm Boy! Dating! Here? In the middle of all this shit? That’s so adorable! John, you are such a romantic!” Then she hardens her tone in a heartbeat: “Now listen to me, you idiot…I’m a woman in a combat zone. I’ve accepted the fact that just about every guy I see fantasizes about fucking me. Surely you must know this! So no, I’m not dating him, screwing him, or anything else. I don’t even want to know him.”
She leans into the cockpit, wraps her arms around him and kisses him, a warm and deep kiss that did much to clear his foolish doubts.
“I’m in love with you, Captain Worth.”
With an uneasy smile, John struggles to quell his fit of jealousy. “OK…maybe I’m being a little silly… and I love you, too, Lieutenant Braden.” Then he adds, his voice quavering, “But I swear…if that useless bastard ever comes near you, I’ll kill him.”
Not wanting to prolong this nonsense another second, Marge expels an exasperated sigh. “Swell,” she says. “That’s my brave warrior talking. Now, can we go get something to eat? I’m starving.”
Chapter Twenty-Four
Some food, some coffee, and lots of happy talk had purged the specter of Harmon Mann from their conscious thoughts. They still had a few hours to kill before Marge was due back on duty.
“Let’s steal a jeep and go down to the beach,” John says. “We’d be all alone, I’m sure.”
Marge discards that idea in a hurry. “Hey, aviator…look up there! Does that look like a storm brewing to you?”
John checks the darkening sky to the west and, a bit chagrinned, nods in agreement. Marge knows what he really wants, though--to mark his territory--to reclaim her for his own. Silly boy…I’m something you never lost…
“Let’s just go back to your tent… And hurry up about it, Farm Boy, before we get ourselves drenched.”
Once in the hammock, their lovemaking is urgent, frantic, sweaty… and wonderful. They pay no attention to the heavy rain pelting the tent, turning the roadways and footpaths of the base into the usually slippery muck, bringing the business of waging aerial warfare to a halt.
An hour passes. The rain has stopped. The rivers of mud outside the tent have ceased their flow and begin to dry. Both wearing one of John’s old football jerseys, they drowse in contented silence, spooned against each other, still damp from their exertions in the subtropical heat. Marge stirs and glances at her wristwatch.
“Is it late, baby?” John asks, entwining his legs in hers, not wanting this to end.
“Nah… We’ve got plenty of time.”
“Good,” he says, squeezing her tighter and slamming his eyes shut again.
“John, can I ask you something?”
“Of course.”
“Why’d you ever want to be a pilot?”
“Well…when I was about nine, a barnstormer with engine trouble landed on our farm. That pilot was a crazy old guy, flying this patched-up old biplane. Some of the stories he told! I sort of became his apprentice…helped him get that engine running again…”
Marge interrupted. “You could do stuff like that at age nine?”
“Honey, I was born a farmer… and for a farmer, being a good mechanic is a matter of survival. You depend on your machines and you start learning at a very early age how to take care of them. Hell, I rebuilt a truck’s engine when I was 12.”
“At 12? You couldn’t even drive it!”
“Sure I could… around the farm, anyway.”
/> Marge sighs and snuggles even closer against John. “We really are from different worlds… When I was 12, I wasn’t even allowed to ride the el by myself.”
“But I bet you did anyway, Marge.”
“Oh, maybe a couple of times…”
“Thought so. Anyway, once we got that plane fixed, he took me up for a ride. We did a couple of loops, rolls, buzzed some cows…It was a riot! That’s all I could think about from then on. I tried for years to save up some money for flying lessons, but by the time I got to Iowa State I was working my tail off just to pay for school.”
“But yet you managed to study engineering, work a job, play football… When did you ever sleep, John? Are you sure you didn’t join up just to get some rest?”
“Nah. I joined up to meet girls.”
He laughs as her elbow flies backwards and jabs him in the ribs.
“Not funny, Farm Boy.” But she’s laughing, too.
Marge has another question. “John, why does this fighter pilot thing bother you so much? They’re no better than you… or anyone else, for that matter.”
“That ain’t what they think, Marge. When you’re in primary flight school, it’s pretty obvious that only the cream of the crop gets chosen to fly fighters.”
“OK… so they should have picked you, no?”
“Well, I was doing real good in primary. Pretty much top of the class. But toward the end they want you to engage each other in mock dogfights. Guys were getting really carried away, trying to show off, flying way past their abilities. Crashes and mid-airs were happening like crazy. I didn’t see any point dying in training… so let’s just say I didn’t participate fully.”
East Wind Returns Page 10