Jake kept the Nall F A C and Corey Ford in sight and concentrated on the image of the yellow dot in the bombsight as it walked across the jungle below.
Big Augie called the altitudes in a monotonous chant as they dived, but he didn’t mention the dive angle. They were bombing the hell out of an area containing nine tiny men; precision really didn’t matter.
As the A-6s made their final runs, the F A C briefed a flight of arriving A-7s. Grafton pulled out of his last run into a gentle circling climb so Ford could join with him. The pilot scanned the scene below one last time as his wingman worked the inside of the turn and closed the distance. The lush jungle was now pocked with red scars where the bombs had torn and slashed. The earth itself seemed to bleed. Dirty-gray puffs of smoke drifted off in a string toward the northwest.
When Ford was on his right wing Jake turned to the northeast, toward the sea and the waiting ship. He checked the clock on the instrument panel. He would have to hurry to make the recovery. He pushed the throttles forward and slipped the stick back and let the power of the engines carry them upward into the blue emptiness.
Cumulus clouds, all at the same height, floated over the sea. Jake descended until he was skimming the tops, then eased lower and began to thread his way through the silvery mounds. For the first time that day Jake Grafton consciously took note of the sun, which bathed the cockpits and the cloud tops in a tawny glow. He could feel the tension ebbing; a sense of well-being suffused him. This was the last flight of the line period. He glanced in the mirror at Ford and found satisfaction in the precision with which his wingman maintained his place as they weaved downward.
Jake selected a cloud ahead and flew straight toward it. Just short, he lifted the nose and began a slow roll. His eyes caught Ford’s in the mirror, and he saw the wingman hold his position throughout the roll. Jake dropped through a gap between the clouds and descended toward the sea in a series of hard turns, necessary only because he whimsically chose to avoid the cloud pillars. Now they were underneath. Just as the white cloud tops were at a uniform altitude, so were the gray blue bases. Here was a darker world, where the plane cast shadows on an otherwise brilliant sea. From that vantage point Jake sensed he had entered a temple without walls, a shrine composed only of shadow and light.
They saw the ship when they were twelve miles out, Grafton led his wingman in a wide turn that brought them up the ship’s wake at 3000 feet, then he slid into a counterclockwise orbit on the Shilo’s port side that brought him over the ship on each circuit. After he had completed one turn around the circle, the ship began a 180-degree turn into the wind. The ship’s wake had been a mere feather.
Now the mighty screws churned the sea to accelerate the 95,000-ton airfield to 22 knots which, combined with the 8-knot trade wind, would give the Shilo 30 knots of wind across her deck.
Jake could monitor the progress of the planes on deck, their wings still folded, as they moved toward the catapults. He saw the machines on the catapults spread their wings and saw the first two planes, an A-6 on a bow catapult and an F-4 Phantom on one of the waist cats, simultaneously begin their journeys into the sky. At this altitude and distance an observer had sense of the speed and violence involved in launching. The birds moved slowly toward the deck edge, left behind, then skimmed across the surface of the sea like low-flying gulls.
He searched the sky and found the other machines, small and difficult to see, that were moving in small circles but not at his altitude. Below on the flight deck, the landing area was emptying as the catapults shot the planes aloft. He located the Phantoms that were lowest in the holding pattern. They were descending, as were the A-7 Corsairs below him.
Jake let the nose drift down and followed them.
The flight of four Phantoms in fingertip formation swung wide and gave themselves a two-mile straightaway as they flew up the ship’s wake at 800 feet. The fighter on the leader’s left wing slid down and under the remainder of the formation and took the number-four position in a right echelon. Over the ship the leader peeled away from the formation and made a hard turn to the downwind leg as he slowed to landing speed. This maneuver was known as the “break.” Each of the other planes peeled off at eight-second intervals. As he came abeam of the ship’s fantail, the fighter lead began his turn onto final approach. Had he judged it correctly? Would the ship have a ready deck when he rolled out of the turn onto the ball? Not a word had yet come over the radio: daylight recoveries in good weather were “zip-lip.” As Jake watched, the familiar Phantom shape flew up the wake and stopped on the deck. The second fighter was turning on final. The A-7s, all four in echelon, were approaching the ship for their break.
Jake swung wider and led Ford down. He was absorbed in watching the planes ahead and judging the intervals. A plane should cross the ramp every thirty seconds; any more, seconds would be time wasted, fewer seconds would mean a wave-off because the previous plane had not yet cleared the landing area. How well you flew around the ship, where everybody could watch you, formed the keystone of a carrier pilot’s reputation.
The two Intruders flew up the wake at 800 feet with their hooks down.
Corey Ford was welded onto Grafton’s right wing. Jake was watching the last A-7 on the downwind leg. Not yet — almost Now!” In the right seat, Big Augie splayed the fingers of one hand open in Ford’s direction, the “kiss-off.” Jake slammed the stick over and rolled into a sixty-degree bank as chopped the throttles to idle and extended the speed brakes. Four Gees. The altimeter needle was glued to feet. Slowing through 250 knots, he tapped the gear and flap handles down and relaxed the Gees. He let the plane Slow to landing speed as the gear and flaps extended.
On the downwind leg, Jake and Big Augie chanted the liturgy of the landing checklist. The interval between them and the A-7 ahead looked good. On speed 118 knots. The indexer on the glare shield matched the airspeed indicator. Jake’s eyes took it all in. He turn off the abeam position… still on speed . .
turning . - descending nicely… ninety-degrees off final altitude okay. Crossing the wake he saw the ball on final. and centered ball … watch that line. coming down, looking good … on speed with the ball centered , -. crossing the ramp smash! They were thrown forward against their ham straps. Jake opened the canopy as they taxied, and they salty seawind swept through the cockpit.
SEVEN
Grafton slept until almost five P.m when Lundeen shook him awake.
“Time to go eat or you’ll be awful hungry tonight, pal.”
“What’s for dinner?”
“Curry.”
“Forget it. I’ll eat popcorn at the movie. Go ‘way and let me sleep.”
“If you don’t get up now, you’ll never sleep tonight “
“Are we headed for the Philippines?”
“Yep. Headed for five glorious days and lusty nights in the sweetest spot this side of Tijuana.”
Jake turned on the bunk light and sat up in bed. “I made a big decision, Sammy. I’m going to quit the navy.
“What’re you going to do when you’re out?” Lundeen asked.
“Just what every other history major does when he hits the big, wide world: sell used cars or insurance.”
“Life’s a bitch and then you die,” Lundeen pronounced in his best man-of-the-world voice. “You need to turn your mind to something important, like getting laid this time in port.”
“Sure. All I need’s a good dose of the clap.”
He picked up his soap, shampoo, and towel and headed for the shower.
Son of a bitch, Jake muttered to himself as the water massaged his body.
Flying’s like a goddamn drug. I’ve centered my life around it, and when the euphoria is gone, reality is completely grim. Here I stand, feet firmly planted on the shower floor, and the only truth is that Morgan is dead and the targets are crap. Maybe some Soviet spy leaves a list of useless places on a Pentagon desk every night and the military puts it on the wires the next day.
It’s a wonder we haven�
�t been ordered to attack the Haiphong garbage dump.
Someone pounded on the side of the shower stall.
“Take a navy shower in there, fella.”
Jake turned off the water and lathered himself all over. He turned the shower on again and rinsed. He was drying himself when Cowboy Parker strolled in, clad only in a towel.
“Jake, if that fighter pilot lets you pay for a single drink while we’re in port, he doesn’t have a hair on his ass.”
“Old bald ass. He said he’d buy me a bottle.”
“One lousy bottle. Does he think attack pilots live on milk?” Cowboy stepped into a shower stall and turned on the water. “One lousy bottle,” he shouted. “Fighter pukes are such tightwads. Imagine him thinking his ass is only worth one bottle of cheap whiskey? By God, he should be buying bottles for the entire squadron.”
Cowboy kept talking and the water kept running. As Jake went by, he pounded on the side of the stall. “Save some water for everyone else, Cowboy.”
“Water? Why, you young twerp! I was taking navy showers when you were still in junior high school. Hell, when I was a kid down in Texas, every morning I used to take a cake of soap and go out and roll in the grass while the dew was still on. That’s a Texas shower.” The water continued to run. “I didn’t even see rain until I was ten years old. I thought a creek was nothing but a dry ditch where rattlesnakes lived.” He continued the monologue. Jake paused at a washbasin, then turn the cold water tap wide open. A scream and a cloud of steam emanated from the stall. Jake scooted out the door as a bar of soap flew through the air in his direction.
Lundeen was sitting at his desk when Jake return to their stateroom. “I just singed Cowboy’s backside in the shower.”
“He’ll get you for that. Sometime when you least expect it.” Sammy continued to flip through a magazine.
“Got any idea who I’ll get as a BN?”
“Nope. Don’t think any of the crews in the squadron want to shift around.
Cowboy and the Skipper would make that decision. Maybe you’ll get this new bombardier who’s going to meet us in Cubi. I saw the message about him just an hour ago.”
“What’s it say? Anything about his experience?”
“Uh-uh. Actually there are two bombardiers and a pilot. The pilot and one bombardier are coming from VA-128, and one BN is coming from VA-42.” Attack Squadron 128 was the A-6 replacement squadron based at NAS Whitbey Island with the responsibility of training all the A-6 crewmen bound for squadrons attached to Pacific Fleet carriers. Attack Squadron performed the same function on the East Coast.
“I hope I don’t get a nugget.” A nugget was a new man on his first tour of duty.
“How come?”
Jake hung his towel behind the door and sat on his bunk. “Because I need a BN who’s got it all in one sock.”
“These BNS are all good. They’re pros.”
“I want a guy who really wants to fight.”
Sammy tossed the magazine on the desk and laced his fingers together behind his head as he gazed at Jake speculatively. “Don’t do anything crazy, Jake. Don’t even think about it. You’re the guy who figures every damn angle before the chips are down.”
“I’m tired of bombing trees, Sammy.”
“If you let the war get personal, you get dead real quick. What you really need is to get drunk and laid this time in port. I thought I did, but nowhere near as badly as you.”
“Yeah.”
“It ebbs and flows, shipmate. A hot woman and a cold beer will put all this in proper perspective.”
After dinner that evening, the skipper called an all-officers meeting in the ready room. The room soon overflowed with the squadron’s forty officers.
Several men sat on the duty officer’s desk, and three latecomers squeezed in at the rear of the room. Commander Camparelli, standing by the podium, asked Cowboy if everyone was present.
“No, sir. Big Augie is up checking out the evening movie.” Big had been appointed movie officer after Camparelli had been required to visit with the captain of the Shilo concerning that young gentleman’s regrettable lack of decorum in the Alameda officers’ club the night before the ship had sailed.
The movie officer was required to sign out a movie every day after flight quarters and to operate the projector in the ready room. Big was now a fair hand at changing reels and held what was widely believed to be the ship’s record, a mere thirty-two seconds.
“Well, we can’t wait on him,” the skipper said. “Tomorrow at 1000 on the flight deck there will be a memorial service for McPherson. The uniform for officers will be tropical white long.” He paused, as if searching for something he should add. When the silence had gone on too long, he continued. “Enlisted evaluations E- 1 through E-3 are due by the end of the month. You people will have them completed and turned in to your department heads by the time we get to Cubi Point. You guys are getting sloppy. Paperwork has to be done regardless of flying fucking or anything else. No evals, no liberty.”
“On another subject, we’re going to put a couple planes on the beach this in-port period. We’re getting a new pilot and one or two new BNs, so we’ll do some field qualifications to get the pilot up to speed on landings. Lundeen and Greve, Grafton and Mad Jack will take the planes to Cubi. The quack has been working pretty hard, so we’ll give him a ride. Launch 0700 day after tomorrow. A wistful sigh drifted through the room. A few extra hours on the beach were always welcome. The ship will pull in in about 1000. The gangway should go over about 1030 or so.” Cheers greeted this announcement The ship had been at sea for fifty-two days.
“You fellows in the back lock the doors.” They murmured. Whatever was coming was going to be good.
“What I am about to say is not to go beyond the room. If my wife writes and tells me the officers’ Wives Club is discussing this, I will hang the sonuvabitch who wrote it home. None of the ladies in the ‘Waste a Day Club’ has any business hearing what I’m about to say.
Camparelli paused for effect.
Silence was total.
“I spent a half hour with the other squadron skippers up on the bridge this afternoon. It seems we have a phantom shitter on board.”
Most men hooted at this announcement, but a few simply looked bewildered.
Camparelli surveyed the room. “I see an explanation is required for the innocents among us. The phantom is a phenomenon that has plagued navy ships from time to time. It’s been years since I heard about one, but apparently we have a phantom aboard this ship.”
Various people exchanged grins and nudges. “Recently members of the ship’s engineering and air departments found human feces in spaces that had been unoccupied for several hours. Then the phantom started getting cute. He would put little notes in the ship’s suggestion boxes to the effect, ‘Tonight I am going to shit in number-four catapult room,” and sign it ‘The Phantom.” Sure enough, the next morning there was that little brown pile.”
The room rocked with laughter. Audacity toward authority always made a good joke. As the noise diminished Cowboy wanted to know, “What’s feces?”
More roars.
“It’s that stuff you’re full of,” came an answer from across the room.
When the laughter subsided, the Old Man continued. “Anyway, yesterday afternoon another note was found in the suggestion box saying the Phantom would strike last night on the quarterdeck. The captain secured access and stationed marine sentries outside with orders to admit no one.” The commander paused and looked about him. Not a whisper could be heard. The Old Man’s eyes twinkled. “This morning they found a pile on the quarterdeck.”
Men laughed so hard their eyes watered. They pounded each other on the back and stomped their feet.
All this was too much for Sammy Lundeen. He got up from his seat and tiptoed up the aisle, turning his head this way and that and peering about.
The laughter subsided and all eyes were locked upon him. A few giggles rolled around. When Sammy got to th
e front of the room, he cast a few more surreptitious glances, then unfastened his trousers, pulled them down, and squatted. The guys in the back row stood on the chairs, craning to see better.
The skipper spoke. “Sam, if you shit on my ready room deck-” The rest of his remark was lost in a hurricane of noise. Sammy was trying to keep a straight face but was having trouble. He stood and pulled up his trousers, took a last careful look around, then quickly tiptoed back to his seat. The storm of applause and laughter shook the walls.
“Okay. Enough. XO have you got that folder?”
“Uh, yessir, but, uh … do you really think … ?
The Old Man held out his hand and Harvey Wilson reluctantly passed him a manila folder, then retire with a serious look to his chair. Camparelli put the folder on the podium and flipped through it, examining every document.
“Parker, front and center. Cowboy got slowly to his feet and proceeded to the front. There wasn’t enough room for him to stand in front of the podium facing the skipper, so he stood beside it facing the audience.
The skipper held a sheet of paper in his hand an read it to himself.
Finally he turned and looked at the operations officer. “It says here that on the 6th of October you were found by several officers whose reputations are spotless … well, their reputations are fairly good … average maybe … heck, these guys drink, smoke, and cheat at cards. Anyway, they found you wandering stark raving naked through the passageways.” Giggles broke out again. “What do you have to say for yourself, Mister Parker?”
“Well, Skipper, I was in the shower and somebody stole my towel.”
“Mister Parker.” The skipper’s voice dripped contempt. “Let’s not blame your perversions on a fellow officer. You were observed to be almost a hundred feet away from your stateroom, naked as a Sunday chicks knocking on every door.”
“Uh, someone locked the door to my stateroom, sir. I think I was the victim of a conspiracy.” Cowboy glowered at the crowd.
The audience hooted. “The party or parties unknown who plotted this foul deed were trying to besmirch my reputation, sir. As unbelievable as that sounds, it’s true.”
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