by James Young
Saints be praised, she exalted, then bit her lip guiltily as she took her chair.
It was an uneventful following three hours for Patricia. Unfortunately, as the workday was drawing to a close, Patricia could slowly see Frances making his way back around to her side of the table. Looking at the clock, she pondered if it was time for another trip to the powder room while the man was still on the far side of the room. Trying hard not to stare, Patricia saw one of her newest coworkers visibly lurch, nausea clearly running over the woman’s face.
There are days I wish I’d taken up knitting, she thought, mulling over her options. Mother always stated a knitting needle to the thigh calmed the most amorous of pursuers. For the first time in her life, Patricia realized her mother may have meant “thigh” as a euphemism.
Then again, maybe it’s for the best I don’t stab my boss in the privates. The sound of footsteps coming down the stairs was a relief for Patricia. Frances stopped approaching her and turned towards the door, clearly perturbed at the interruption. A moment later, Commander Evanston was entering the room with a redheaded officer followed by two Marines.
“Miss Cobb, Commander Tannehill would like to have a word with you,” Evanston said, nodding towards the redheaded officer behind him.
“What is this regarding?” Frances interjected, stepping in front of Patricia.
“Official business,” one of the Marines, a gunnery sergeant, stated bluntly.
“Miss Cobb is my subordinate, Gunnery Sergeant,” Frances said, his eyes narrowing as he stepped past the edge of the drafting table. “A very important one, I might add.”
“Understood sir,” the gunnery sergeant said, neatly stepping forward another step and blocking Frances’ path towards the door.
Well this can’t be good. Butterflies starting to flit in her stomach.
“I was told to assure you, Miss Cobb, that I am not with the chaplain’s office,” Commander Tannehill said easily. “The woman who gave me that instruction also said, and I quote, ‘stop sharpening the knives, the animals are already dead when the butcher sells them to us.’”
That last comment brought a titter of laughter from several of the women present. Patricia rolled her eyes, as only one person would make that complaint.
“I take it someone cut herself making lunch again?” Patricia said evenly as she stepped towards the door.
“Miss Cobb, I expect you back in ten minutes,” Frances said, starting to press past the gunnery sergeant. The look in the Marine’s eyes made the civilian reconsider.
“Miss Cobb will return when Commander Tannehill is done speaking with her,” Evanston said, fixing Frances with a firm look.
I wonder what has the Marine so cross with Frances? Patricia thought as she walked out the door into the hallway.
“Miss Morton said I should probably cut to the chase,” Commander Tannehill said after looking around to make sure no one was in earshot.
“I cannot imagine that Josephine would give such advice,” Patricia replied deadpan. Tannehill stopped, then clearly realized Patricia was joking. With a look that bespoke a great deal of exasperation, the Navy officer began his pitch.
“Would you like to work in a different office environment helping the war effort? Effective tomorrow?”
Patricia looked at him, furrowing her brow.
“Doing what?” she asked.
“Not having to deal with lecherous bosses who wear entirely too much perfume,” the gunnery sergeant stated, joining them.
“I think it’s called cologne on a man,” Patricia corrected.
“If half of what I’ve heard about Mr. Carter is true,” the gunnery sergeant said, “he’s no man. My platoon sergeant’s daughter was working here up until a few days ago.”
Patricia looked at the gunnery sergeant, then looked at Tannehill, then back towards the doorway.
“Commander Evanston told me he could not spare you,” Commander Tannehill stated. “I informed him that, based on your ability to draw diagrams and familiarity with geometry, he could spare you now or after I informed Vice Admiral Halsey himself about Mr. Carter’s predilection for preying on patriotic young women.”
“I have to admit, sir, I wasn’t expecting that out of you,” the gunnery sergeant stated.
“Miss Morton is correct in that I have yet to marry,” Tannehill stated. “That does not mean I do not have a sense of decency. In any case, would you like to come work for me?”
Patricia looked back and forth between the two men.
I feel like I’ve stepped into act three of a play as the lead actress, yet no one felt the need to give me my lines. She looked back towards the closed door.
“On one condition,” she stated at last.
I’ll not just leave those other poor women to suffer that fool’s hands.
“Mr. Carter will not be working here at the end of the day,” Tannehill replied evenly.
Why Old Scratch, you look quite differently than I expected, Patricia thought wildly. I always expected to meet you at a different locale.
“I am surprised that you are confident in that amount of power,” Patricia observed.
“The man smells of bourbon, is harassing women, and was sent out here from Mare Island with already two strikes against him,” Tannehill replied. “I did my homework before we came to talk to you. I’m also a man of my word.”
“Then yes,” Patricia replied. “Whatever you’re asking me to do, yes.”
U.S.S. Chenango
1745 Local (2345 Eastern)
7 August
Whomever said this was “just like riding a bike” has either never rode a bike or landed on a bobbing cork in the middle of the ocean, Adam reflected bitterly as he took the wave off. The FM-2’s engine roared as he advanced the throttle and began to circle out of the landing pattern. It was his third waveoff in as many days. The fact the rest of the squadron was even worse at carrier landings than he was did little to mollify his mood.
We’re extremely fortunate we haven’t inadvertently splashed any birds from fuel starvation. The Marines had managed to bend two of their FM-2s in hard landings, but the Chenango had sailed with four spares lashed to the vessel’s hangar deck ceiling. Still, both of the young lieutenants involved had been grounded by the Chenango’s captain, and Adam didn’t blame the man.
The LSO is God of landing, and thine shall obey his will when waved off. 2nd Lieutenant Greenwood had panicked due to the carrier being close to entering a squall. 1st Lieutenant Silverstein had simply ignored the wave off and come barreling onto the small vessel, just barely managing to avoid jumping the barrier and ending up into the aircraft parked forward.
At least I have a great view up here. Just wonderful scenery to possible die in. The Chenango and her two escorts seemed to be the only ships on the ocean. Adam had deep respect for Captain Damon and his command of the small task force. The two destroyer escorts had started the voyage being visibly lackadaisical about their duties. Adam had been on the Chenango’s bridge when Captain Damon had prepared and sent the signal about that.
“Red One, Home Base,” his radio crackled as he got ready to settle back into the landing groove.
Uh oh. Adam squinted into the setting sun, then looked around worriedly. Something significant had to be occurring for the Chenango to break radio silence.
“This is Red One, over,” he replied.
This is what I get for always letting the rest of the flight land first. Adam had always been very good at fuel conservation, and as an experienced flight leader always knew his wingmen used far more fuel than he did. It was only prudent to put them back aboard the deck first. Now, as he looked at the setting sun, he pondered whether that was about get him killed.
“State fuel,” the carrier’s bridge replied.
“I’m roughly fifteen minutes from being into reserve,” he replied.
“Radar has a contact at bearing oh one zero true, estimated range forty-five miles, altitude probably angels seven, closing w
ith our current position.” Chenango replied. “Do you feel it is safe to investigate?”
I will never cease to be amazed at people who ask dumb questions, Adam thought. It’s about to be dark in probably a half hour or so, there’s no air sea rescue capability aboard this carrier, and you’re asking if it’s safe? No, it most certainly isn’t safe, but I’ll go anyway.
“On my way towards contact,” Adam said. “Please provide vector when within fifteen miles.”
There was a long pause, his instructions apparently causing some concern on the carrier’s bridge.
Just in case someone on the receiving end of those radar beams has our frequency open and speaks English, I’d rather see him first than be seen. A prudent man only had to get bounced by opposing aircraft eavesdropping on the fighter control radio network a single time to learn that lesson. Unfortunately, Adam had flown with some dense flight commanders during the Second Battle of Britain.
“Understand, will give you vector at fifteen miles.”
Adam put the Wildcat into a climbing trim and advanced his throttle. Looking out over the wings, he gave a heavy sigh and jettisoned the two empty drop tanks.
We’re going to Pearl, he thought. If this is what I think it might be, two less drop tanks won’t be a problem. The Wildcat, even the new FM-2, wasn’t the best climber in the world and Adam wanted to get to angels ten as quickly as he could.
That the hostile contact was heading directly towards the task force helped the relative closure rate immensely. A little over ten minutes and one additional radio call later, Adam found himself slightly below and off the port quarter of a single-engined, dual float aircraft.
“Red One, do you have the bogey in sight?” Chenango asked. Adam ignored the call, gradually closing on the enemy from below with the other aircraft outlined against the darkening sky. As he got within one hundred yards, the bright red circle on the dark green fuselage became visible.
“Red One, this is Home Plate, please respond,” Chenango stated.
Oh, I’m about to respond. He charged his four .50-caliber machine guns and took a deep breath then pulled up. It was only when the floatplane’s wings filled his reflect sight from end to end that Adam squeezed his trigger. It was a 3-second burst, and the Yokosuka E14Y’s crew probably never knew what hit them. The four streams of thumb-sized bullets sliced upwards through the fuselage, through the cockpit, and finally into the fuel tanks. The lightly built Glen burst into a fireball, the flames bright against the darkened ocean below as the aircraft fell towards the water.
Adam immediately threw his Wildcat into a reversal and cleared his own tail just in case his victim had a friend.
Can’t imagine a submarine carrying two of those things, but I’m betting that poor bastard wasn’t expecting someone to sneak up on him either.
“Home Base, Red One, scratch one bandit,” Adam stated tersely. “I am returning towards base.”
“Roger Red One, good job,” the Chenango replied. “Be advised we are changing course, come to heading one nine oh true from your current position.”
You know what’s harder than landing on a postage stamp in the middle of the ocean? Adam belatedly realized twenty minutes later, bile raising in his stomach. Finding that postage stamp in the dark. At his altitude, the sun was still a faint disc on the edge of the horizon. However, the surface of the ocean was dark, and he realized that perhaps it might have been prudent to pay a bit more attention during the impromptu ship search class held by the Dauntless squadron aboard Chenango.
“Red One, look to your five o’clock,” his headset crackled, and he recognized Sam Cobb’s voice. Rotating in his seat, Adam strained to see into the darkness.
There, he thought, his heart in his throat. It was only now, as he saw the carrier’s wake, that Adam realized just how much he’d been sweating in fear. As he turned around to get in the groove, he made sure to keep his eyes on his instruments rather than attempting to view things through his canopy. Once straight and level, he risked looking up.
Oh shit! He stabbed the electrical gear button and lowering his arrester hook. The Chenango was barely two miles ahead of him, the dark outline now just visible in the last vestiges of nautical twilight. He advanced the throttle slightly to account for the increased drag as the Wildcat got mushy with its gear coming down. Quick, furtive movements saw to his trim.
Thank goodness Eastern’s engineers didn’t do anything to mess with the low speed handling. The flight deck swelling as he closed. It was only as he was making his last adjustments and about to land on the deck that his mind clued him in to the lack of a LSO. Then the Wildcat was hitting the deck…and snagging the first wire as he chopped his throttle.
Okay, and people do this on a permanent basis?! he marveled, panting wildly in the cockpit. He was reaching forward to kill the engine when the Wildcat’s engine just died on its own.
“No more of this bullshit, Adam,” he muttered. “Nope, gonna change that flight roster right out.”
“Sir, you okay?” one of the Chenango’s plane handlers asked him. Adam hadn’t even heard the man clamber up on the wing.
“Oh, I’m wonderful,” he replied, short of breath. “I face the thought of dying from exposure every day.”
“Sir, captain would like to see you,” Sam drawled drily from the other side. “Something about apparently being blind as a bat.”
“Bats can see at night,” Adam replied as he levered himself out of his seat. “I think we have irrefutable evidence, however, that I, nor any other sane person, should be expected to land on a flight deck in the dark.”
It was a short walk to the Chenango’s blacked out bridge.
“Fine bit of flying there, Major Haynes,” Captain Damon said as Adam made his way into the compartment. The Navy officer extended his hand and Adam took it, hoping that his still sweaty palms weren’t too clammy.
“Thank you, sir,” Adam said. “It was a single seater, which means there’s either a cruiser or a carrier out there somewhere.”
“Probably neither, actually,” Captain Damon said, then continued. “The Japanese have submarines with seaplanes, and I’m wondering if this one was supposed to keep tabs on who is coming and going to Pearl Harbor.”
“Well, they’re going to need a new set of eyes,” Adam replied. “I’m pretty sure I got him.”
“Lookouts saw the flamer,” Damon replied with a smile. “How many does that make for you?”
Adam had to think about that one.
Clearly it’s been too long since my Spitfire days, he realized. Having a long line of kills was part of what helped him maintain the confidence necessary to go up day after day during the Second Battle of Britain .
“Depends on who you ask, sir,” Adam replied honestly. “But that’s twenty-six confirmed.”
Damon looked at him, face breaking into a broad grin.
“Well you just tied Eddie Rickenbacker, Major Haynes!” he said, clapping Adam on the shoulder.
Oh crap, I guess I did, Adam thought as Damon grabbed the microphone for the Chenango’s intercom.
“Attention all hands, attention all hands, we have all just been part of a momentous moment…” Captain Damon began.
“You know this means they’ll probably send you back home, right?” Sam muttered from behind him.
Adam turned and looked at the man.
“God, I hope not.”
Ratmalana Airfield
2300 Local (1330 Eastern)
Colombo, Ceylon
8 August
“Well, that tears it,” Russell muttered, looking at the signal. “Go wake the rest of the squadron.”
“Yes sir,” Pilot Officer Len Hatheway, Baron Four, stated. He grabbed Pilot Officer Gil Perkins, Baron Two, then ducked out of the blacked out ready hut at a fast trot. Russell waited until the man left, then turned to look at Flying Officer Peterson.
“Looks like you’re about to be a rich man,” Russell said, gesturing at the squadron board chalkboard
. Next to the alert rosters, there was a column listing the time and date that it was expected the Japanese would be sighted. Scrawled next to 8 August, 2300-0100, was Peterson’s name.
“Dammit, if only the Lancaster had radioed in ten minutes ago,” Bellingsley snapped.
“It’s a pittance,” Russell said, goading his pilot.
“One hundred pounds is nothing to sneeze at!” Bellingsley snapped, then realized both who he was talking to and the tone he’d used. “Sorry Sir.”
“Help Rhett plot where we’re going tonight while I walk down to the tower,” Russell replied with a smile. “Best make sure that plans haven’t changed in the last hour or so.”
“Yes sir,” Bellingsley said, heading towards the map. Russell passed through the double blackout doors and into the humid Ceylon night, once more feeling as if he was walking into a sauna.
More than one reason I miss England. A mosquito alighting on his neck drew swift retribution. That would be another. With a pang of anger, his thoughts turned to the letter in his pocket.
Not that I have a home and hearth waiting for me really anymore, he considered, face narrowing. Either because my former wife no longer loves me or because the Usurper’s government is so in bed with the Nazis that they need to ensure the populace lets the occupier do the same. Maggie had apparently found solace in the arms of a Luftwaffe pilot, and the man had put her in the family way. She apologized, but just couldn’t face the nights alone anymore without him. The local magistrate had agreed, and as of two weeks before, Russell was divorced.
In some ways you’d think the censor would have simply decided I didn’t need to see this. The arc of his marriage’s destruction had been plain as day in the ten letters he’d received, starting with the resumption of hostilities. If it was a Nazi or Usurper plot to gradually sap the morale, Russell didn’t know whether to be angry or in awe of the opposition’s thoroughness.
“Halt! Who goes there?” came the call from the machine gun post now placed one hundred yards to the tower’s north.