East Wind Returns

by Grasso, William Peter

  “Well, isn’t that just dandy,” Truman says, fuming. “Do they even know it was an atom bomb?’

  “If they know, they’re not saying, sir,” Marshall replies.

  Admiral King pipes up again. “You know, Marshall, you might as well give Arnold his wish and make the Air Force a separate service. Get these expensive embarrassments out of the Army’s hair.”

  Truman spins toward King, red-faced, but James Byrnes calmly strolls between them and says, “Gentlemen, I have a better idea.”

  “Oh, do tell, Jimmy,” the seething president says.

  Marshall and Arnold each take a deep breath, backing down for the moment from the internecine challenge King has posed.

  “My good sirs,” Secretary Byrnes says, “what we and the rest of the world have just witnessed was our humane demonstration of the awesome power of the atomic bomb.”

  “What the hell are you talking about, Jimmy?” Truman asks, quite impatient and more than a little confused.

  Byrnes continues, “Look at it this way…we’re finally sure the goddamn thing works now, even if the Air Force can’t hit shit unless it’s a blue sky day. We know what it can do, and with a little imagination, we can make the stinking Japs and the rest of the world see it, too. There’s got to be some evidence of the bomb’s power in the vicinity of Hiroshima, right?”

  “Yes, Mister Secretary,” Arnold replies with great eagerness. “We can see in the aerial photos that the terrain on the blast side of the high ground shielding the city is totally incinerated…same for the offshore islands. There is also some damage to the waterfront area. We suspect it was from sea surge caused by the bomb’s shock wave.”

  “OK,” Byrnes says. “Let’s amplify that a bit…use words like devastated, consumed, rendered uninhabitable, eradicated, wiped from the face of the earth. A word like destroyed has soooo little meaning these days. We tell the world what benevolent, humane folks we are here in the good old US of A because we’re giving them a chance to see what we’re going to unleash if they don’t surrender right quick…just like all our exalted scientists begged us to do. It’s a win-win, gentlemen. How can we go wrong?”

  “So you’re saying we should claim success even though we failed at our mission?” Marshall asks.

  With a sly smile, Byrnes replies, “General, you catch on fast. You’re going to have a great future in politics.”

  “All right, Jimmy,” Truman says, somewhat calmer. “I guess that’s about the best we’re going to make out of this mess. Who knows, it might just work, too. But General Arnold, I have one more question for you. Why didn’t they just abort?”

  “Mister President, these are very dedicated, determined warriors.”

  “Let’s hope so, in case we have to do this shit all over again. And one more thing…Make sure that flight crew gets decorated generously. Make it look like they did a fucking fantastic job.”

  Chapter Fifty-Two

  Looking down at the sea from the C-47 carrying him back to Kadena from Kyushu, it seems to John Worth there are so many vessels headed to Japan, you could just walk there--like stepping stones--from ship to ship. So many aircraft, too; the plane he rides seems to be the only one not heading north. The sheer size of the American military is almost incomprehensible to any one soldier, sailor, or airman, each in his own little pocket of the war.

  It would be swell if every G.I. could get a load of what I’m seeing right now.

  The wheels touch down uneventfully and the trusty transport taxies to its parking space. Gathering his flight bags, John spills from the plane onto the ramp, into the swirl of activity he had expected. Looking right, he sees a number of transport planes being loaded from trucks emblazoned with red crosses on their sides: the hospital units are preparing to depart for Kyushu. Hustling in this direction as fast as his aching body will take him, he sees Major McNeilly, hands on hips, supervising the loading. Behind her, he sees Marge among a group of nurses lugging baggage. Yelling her name is pointless. Nobody can hear anything above the noise of countless aircraft engines warming up.

  He catches up with Marge at the boarding ladder. The starboard engine of her C-47 has just come to life with the usual belch of flame and smoke. The gasoline-tinged prop wash buffets them as they rush into each other’s arms.

  “Oh, John! What happened to you? I’ve been so worried! They told me you were OK.” Marge yells into his ear, the need to be loud making her seem all the more frantic. “Oh my God…are you hurt, baby?”

  Stroking her hair, he yells, “I’m OK, don’t worry. I’m fine.” Trying to sound reassuring is not easy at the top of your lungs; neither is saying goodbye to the woman you love. “And I found that damn thing I was looking for, but f-stop is out of action for good, though.”

  “Oh, good! No, no! Not good about your plane! Good that you found it, whatever it was! But, baby, when am I gonna see you again? We don’t know exactly where we’ll be.”

  “Don’t worry, Marge. I’ll be there before you know it, too.”

  Another aircraft engine roars to life. He must yell even louder. “I promise, I’ll find you. I’ll find you.”

  As her tears stream down, she buries her face in his shoulder, hugging him one more time. Looking up, she kisses his lips. Then she speaks into his ear with a tenderness totally at odds with the necessary volume, “Oh, honey, you already have!”

  Then Marge runs up the ladder into the plane, past McNeilly’s impatient glare. At the plane’s door, Marge turns and yells, “See you in Japan, Farm Boy! I love you!”

  John cannot hear her. He watches her plane taxi away, feeling something wonderful lost and found at the same time.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  The exodus is in full swing. Air units are leaving Okinawa and heading to their new bases in Kyushu, the countless planes lined up for takeoff barely visible through the clouds of choking dust kicked up by the propwash. Those stuck on the ground are praying for the usual rain to hold down the dust, but it has yet to come today.

  Colonel Harris sits at his desk, two pieces of paper before him. Both concern Major John Worth. The first is a secret communiqué from MacArthur’s chief of staff directing Major Worth be reassigned to a stateside post immediately upon his return to Okinawa. A similar message was sent to Bud Davies’ division commander on Kyushu. Soon after its receipt, Bud found himself on a plane to Hawaii, via Guam, with a brand new set of captain’s bars on his collar. As he looked out the window to the glistening sea below, he reflected on how correct Major Worth had been: don’t expect any trumpets--now excuse us while we stick you in some out-of-the-way closet. Take your promotion and be quiet.

  And of course, Mark Colton was long gone, halfway to California. The Navy had seen to that.

  The other piece of paper was from the International Red Cross and had been forwarded through military channels. A week had already passed since its origination date. It contained the message that John Worth’s mother was terminally ill, dying of cancer. She had been given a month, maybe less. John’s sister had sent him a letter weeks ago explaining the sad situation in detail, but it was still far from delivery, slowly making its way across the Pacific by ship, one logistical depot to the next. He would never receive it.

  Military personnel overseas had experienced in time-delay the births, dire illnesses, and deaths of loved ones since this war began. They did not get to go running home; those were the rules. The military could not afford to lose manpower over something as trivial as life events.

  Harris had not seen John Worth for two days, when he departed for what would turn out to be his last mission. The colonel did not know how many missions John had flown in his combat career; he had never bothered to find out. But he was sure there were more than enough to justify sending him home. Harris was also sure Worth would put up a fuss. There was that nurse he was cozy with--surely when a man gets that lucky he will be in no hurry to leave. Even if he and his lover ended up being posted far apart in Japan, Worth was a clever boy with ac
cess to airplanes.

  John’s reaction does not disappoint the colonel.

  “Negative, sir! With all due respect, I request permission to remain with the unit!” are the first words out of John’s mouth.

  “At ease, Worth. You look a mess. You’re wounded, tired. You’ve been here too long, son. You’re not thinking clearly. You’ve done your job admirably, honorably. I’m sending you home. They need you there. Your mother needs you.”

  “Colonel, my wounds are superficial. I’ve had worse. Why am I suddenly so lucky? Nobody gets to go home for an impending death in the family.” His voice was taking on a pleading tone.

  “Major, you’re getting on that plane if I have to put you on bodily. Do you understand me?”

  John understands all too well: Shit. I guess I already forgot that little speech I gave Bud Davies. Better that those of us who know of the Japanese bomb get scattered and nudged out of the picture. Easier to hush it up that way. I wonder if Mom is really sick at all. I wouldn’t put it passed them to make that up as an excuse.

  “I asked you a question, Major Worth. Do you understand me?”

  “Yes, sir,” John replies with dispirited voice as he salutes.

  “Good. Your plane leaves tomorrow morning, 0600. Get packed, Worth. Good luck to you.”

  As he walks to his tent, John has never felt more alone in his life. Being on Okinawa without her is bad enough. The thought of being half a world away is unbearable. It’s a good thing I don’t have to fly today, because if I did--for the first time in my flying career--I would fake it at sick call and sit the mission out.

  When he gets to his tent, he begins the long letter to Marge, a letter he never expected to write. He explains he is being ordered home. They had discussed the possibility of that before, considering how long he has been here and how much he had flown. His mother’s illness is a side note, for they are both well aware that is no reason to be sent home. He says nothing of the Japanese atomic bomb. Pledging he will be waiting for her back in the States, he instructs her to write him at his Iowa address, one she knows by heart, until he can advise her of his new posting. A dozen times he reiterates how much he loves her, but somehow it does not seem enough.

  John writes the letter twice. He gives one copy to Rowdy Chambers, the other to Chuck Jaworski. Both men would move with the squadron to Kyushu in two days. Better to have some insurance. This was still a dangerous business; some people would still die. At least one of them would find her.

  Then he starts to pack. Writing the letter had eased the pain some, each word reinforcing the bond he felt between them. Packing rips him apart again. Almost every one of his few possessions brings back a memory of Marge. The old football jersey cuts the deepest. As he stuffs it into the duffel, he remembers the last time he had seen her wearing it, asleep in his hammock after the typhoon. He was so grateful to find her alive. Now he is grateful there is nobody around to see him like this.

  In the cool, early morning darkness, John makes his way across the ramp to the silver four-engined transport that will fly him away. It is a Navy plane, an R5D, military equivalent of the new Douglas DC-4 airliner. The Army calls her a C-54. He drags himself, his duffel, and his flight bag up to the boarding ladder. A young naval airman, the plane’s radio operator, helps him with the baggage.

  The plane looks brand new, her aluminum skin gleaming in the moonlight and the headlights of ramp vehicles. None of the typical wear and tear around the loading doors, floor, and cabin sidewalls you usually see on transports. Even the tires look fresh, unworn, like they have only kissed the ground a handful of times since leaving the factory. The rubber deicing boots on the leading edges of the wings and stabilizers are still smooth, clean, not eroded. The big, round nacelles, each housing a 14 cylinder, 1700 horsepower radial engine, show no leaks, either.

  An old airman’s joke: A radial engine not leaking? It must be out of oil!

  The co-pilot, a naval ensign, his gold wings still shiny, right out of the box, greets John in the cabin and says with all the enthusiasm of a rookie, “She looks good, doesn’t she, sir? You’ll be going home in style!”

  John gives only a weak smile in reply, for going home is the last thing he wants right now. He settles into one of the dozen or so airline-style passenger seats in the aft end of the cabin; spartan affairs, but better than the usual bench seats along the cabin sidewall, for the long, multi-legged flight. The cabin forward of the seats is without furnishings; it is full of cargo that has been loaded through the oversized door in the aft left fuselage side, which is now closed. Only the passenger door, a smaller, integral part of that oversized cargo door, is still open, accepting passengers and crew.

  This is basically a courier flight, with some passengers along for the ride. Boxes full of documents, records, routine requisitions--the usual paper trail of a mammoth military operation--comprise the cargo load. Three of the passengers--two Army officers and an NCO--are the designated couriers accompanying the boxes, guardians of the bureaucracy. The other passengers, six in number, are five Marine Corps infantry officers and John Worth. As they settle in, the aircraft commander, a Navy full lieutenant, climbs aboard, greets his passengers, and casually gives them the standard pre-flight safety briefing for an overwater flight. The pilot covers the location of life vests, rafts, and survival kits. Seeing the wings on John’s flight jacket, he apologizes in advance if he bores him with such details. He offers that once airborne, they are free to wander the cabin and visit the cockpit. In addition to himself and his co-pilot, the crew will consist of a flight engineer, radio operator, flight mechanic, and navigator, all petty officers. The navigator, a chief petty officer, looks old enough to be the father of everybody else on board. They will be at their first stop, Guam, in six hours.

  The big transport takes off on schedule and turns east, toward the gray horizon trimmed with pink, announcing the dawn. The crew settles in for the long, monotonous overwater flight, made easier by the autopilot which is now flying the plane and will continue to do so until descent for landing, when the humans take back control. The flight engineer surveys the cockpit gauges and periodically strolls the cabin, looking out the windows with satisfaction at the four humming radials spinning their propellers at cruise rpm. He does not have much to do on this spanking new ship, where everything seems to be working as advertised. The old navigator, jokingly referred to as “The Ancient Mariner” by the other, younger crewmen, peers regularly into the scope of his LORAN receiver, does some calculations and passes the resulting information to the pilots. John can sense the slight changes in heading, the gentle, shallow banks the airplane makes after each correction of just a few degrees as the pilot dials the navigator’s information into the autopilot. The radio operator taps out regular position reports, presumably received at their destination, Guam. The flight mechanic, untroubled, sleeps like a log.

  The bored, weary passengers sometimes nap, sometimes chat, talking vague generalities of the war, unable to comprehend and disinterested in each others’ specific realms. The Marine officers--a major, two captains and two lieutenants--are headquarters staff, returning to Guam with reports on Okinawa’s logistical situation. All are combat infantry veterans of the island-hopping campaigns across the South Pacific. The Army couriers are all veterans on rotation home, savvy enough to latch onto this temporary duty as a reliable way to ensure quick transportation.

  John is lost in his thoughts, unable to sleep. He chats intermittently, feeling no camaraderie with his fellow travelers. The news of his mother’s terminal illness has not caused him much distress; he had never been close to her, always feeling she had coldly kept all her children at a distance, as if they were some kind of imposition that existed merely as potential sources of embarrassment. He remembers something his father had told him when he was a young boy, “Your Mother…she’s not a warm woman.” Young John had no idea what he was talking about; that lesson would take some years. Now that he has known Marge, he cannot imagine being
with a woman who was anything but warm.

  Marge--every time he thinks of her it is like there is not enough air to breathe, like he is flying too high and should be on oxygen. The disappointment of leaving has turned into the constant dull ache of missing her, a clamp-like pressure on his chest that makes him gasp. They were well aware separation might be forced on them; they had vowed it would not matter. Now they would put that vow to the test.

  John is surprised to realize he has no qualms leaving his unit and not flying. He really has changed, and it is Marge that has changed him. He definitely feels he has done his share--more than his share. It is not of his doing that he is on his way home. His conscience is clear, his duty done. For three long years he had flown combat missions with all the dedication and naiveté of a child. In three short months, this woman has made him see the light. The only reason for wanting to remain is Marge. She has gotten her wish, though, doled out with a cruel dose of irony: he is out of combat; they are thousands of miles apart.

  He allows himself a few moments of nostalgia for f-stop. Of all the machines he has known in his life, she had been the finest--his favorite--no doubt due to the expert ministrations of Chuck Jaworski. Machines are like pets: you love them; they die; you get another one to love. She had never failed him, but she was finished now, used up, beyond repair; the eventual fate of all machines of war. There are not enough Jaworskis around to keep them all running forever. She had not burned after her last landing; the electrical fire had extinguished after John shut her down for the last time. Now she was a ball of scrap metal, bulldozed out of the way at the field where she made her final landing. He will never forget her.