Wingmen (9781310207280) (25 page)

“They’re going
to refloat her and give her another crack at the Japs, from what I
hear,” said the coxswain.

“Is that
right?” Jack thought that rather preposterous. If the ship had sunk
as fast as they said she had—fast enough to trap hundreds of
hapless men belowdecks—then she undoubtedly had massive hull damage
below the waterline. With all the new ships coming out now,
especially the new battlewagons that made her look puny by
comparison, why would the Navy spend the time and the money to
patch her up? The sunken ship passed astern of them and Jack could
now see the
Arizona
.

“But you know,
sir, there’s one that’s never going to sea again,” the coxswain
said.

The
Arizona
had
sunk on an even keel, but workers had cut away most of the wreckage
above the water line. The waves now washed crazily through the
middle of the upper turret’s gun barrels.

“How’d she
sink?” asked Jack.

“Jap bomb went
right down her stack. Split her open like a sardine can. Someone
said they found the ship’s bell over in a canefield near Diamond
Head.”

Jack chuckled
at how the sailor glibly passed along ridiculous information. Who
cared where they found the
Arizona
’s bell? The men caught inside when she blew
up sure didn’t give a jolly goddamn.

“What ship are
you headed for, sir?” asked the coxswain.

“
Constitution
,” said
Jack. He lit a cigarette.

“Pardon me,
sir, but is it true what they say about the
Constitution
?”

“What do they
say about her?”

“That she’s a
hard-luck ship.”

“That’s no
one’s business except the men who have to sail her,” Jack said
sharply; then he realized what he’d said was as good as saying,
“Yup, she’s a hard-lucker all right.” The coxswain seemed to
understand and didn’t offer any more conversation, but as they
reached the accommodation ladder for the
Constitution
, Jack turned and said:
“If you want to see a hard-luck ship, steer back over to the
Arizona
.
She’s got the worst luck in the whole fleet.” He started up the
ladder.

“I’m sorry,
sir,” said the sailor. He changed gears quickly and the liberty
boat rumbled away.

Jack climbed
the ladder thinking,
This isn’t a hard-luck ship. It’s just a hard-luck crew,
and mine’s the hardest
.

“Pardon me, Skipper,”
said Fred. He opened the door to the skipper’s stateroom and
entered. Jack Hardigan had one foot up on the seat of a chair,
buffing his shoe with a white rag. He looked up. “Come on in.
What’s on your mind?”

Fred closed the
door but stood close by it. He was carrying a single, unmarked
manila folder. “Have you heard the news yet, sir?”

“What
news?”

“Some staff
officer just came aboard with sealed orders and they canceled all
liberty. Word has it we sail the day after tomorrow, in the
morning.”

“I guess it’s
about time,” said Jack, tossing the rag into an open drawer. He
closed the drawer with his foot, then pushed the chair back under
the desk. Yes, it was about time, he thought. It had been a long
time coming; finally it was here. “I guess I better get ready for a
briefing with the air group commander.”

“Yes, sir,”
said Fred. He looked at the folder hesitantly, as if debating
whether to go on.

“Was there
anything else?” Jack had to go to the chief’s quarters to talk with
Chief Carmichael about inoperable aircraft, and he didn’t want to
be late.

“Well,
Skipper,” said Fred, “I’ve been sitting around the last couple of
days”—Jack smiled at the admission—“and I got to thinking that the
squadron doesn’t have an insignia. I was just wondering if anyone
had made plans to work on one.”

No one had ever
mentioned a squadron insignia, but if they were going into combat
maybe they should have one. “No,” Jack said, “we’ve never had the
opportunity. Why?”

Fred opened the
manila folder and took out a piece of paper. Jack caught a glimpse
of a brightly colored drawing, “I made up a drawing, just some
doodling.” Fred turned the piece of paper around and handed it to
Jack. “I thought it might start some ideas with you or the
guys.”

“You think we
should suggest improvements?” Jack asked, looking closely at the
drawing and seeing quickly that it would be difficult to improve.
The insignia was a shield, not unlike those found on coats-of-arms,
divided diagonally by a single gold bar. The upper left half
consisted of a four-color drawing of a face card—a Jack—brandishing
a short sword. Across the top of the space, above the Jack, was the
single script word: “Jack’s.” The lower half of the shield had the
naval officer’s insignia of shield, eagle, and crossed, fouled
anchors. The piece was blue, yellow, and red, with black trim and a
silver eagle. With little hesitation and no comparison, Jack
decided it was the best squadron insignia he had ever seen. And it
had his name in it.

“What made you
pick the Jack of hearts?” he asked. He was amused at the surprise
that showed on Fred’s face.

“The mustache,
I think,” Fred managed to say.

“Did anyone
help you on this?”

“No, sir,” said
Fred, still standing uneasily by the door.

“You’ve got a
flair for it,” Jack said. He couldn’t take his eyes off the
picture, kept discovering details not apparent from the first
glance. He was trying to imagine how it would look on the nose of
an aircraft just forward of the windscreen and above the wing
root.

“What do you
think of it?” asked Fred.

“I think we’ve
got ourselves a squadron insignia.”

“Oh, it’s not
that good, Skipper.”

“No, it isn’t,”
said Jack. “It’s better.” He took the manila folder from Fred’s
hands, opened it, and placed the picture inside, taking one last
look before closing the folder. “It just so happens that I’m
heading down to talk with Chief Carmichael right now. We’ll see if
he can handle the paintwork.”

“But shouldn’t
we see if the rest of the guys like it?” asked Fred.

“Fred, have you
ever tried to design anything by committee?” Jack smiled ruefully.
“Can’t be done. Besides,” he rested one hand on the doorknob, “it’s
my squadron and I have final say. Case closed.” He started to
leave, but Fred stopped him.

“In that case,
would you mind not letting on that I drew it up? I mean I don’t
think I deserve…”

“Sure, Fred, no
problem. It’ll be our secret—just between the two of us.”

“Thank you,
sir,” said Fred, but the skipper was already gone.

Chief
Carmichael obviously had mixed feelings about the new insignia.
After they’d spoken, Jack went up to the squadron office and
allowed himself a private chuckle. The proper amount of bullying
and mild insinuation had got the job done. The drawing was a fine
piece of military art and the chief knew it. But it was also a
formidable challenge to the mechanics, who would begin transferring
it to the individual aircraft to be finished in time for the first
day of action. Jack figured professional pride would get the job
accomplished. And since that was something in desperate need of
reinforcement, Fred’s insignia was a minor godsend.

Jack leaned
back in his chair and contemplated a series of black-and-white
drawings on the opposite bulkhead silhouettes of Japanese aircraft
for identification training. He wondered if the enemy had new
planes now, too. Most of their pilots must be new, like his were.
Would they be as good as, or better than, his own? The enemy no
doubt had taken some of their experienced veterans and had placed
them in command of new squadrons, as Jack had been. How would they
measure up?

Death. That was
what it all came down to, and Jack wondered for the hundredth time
how he’d ever become involved in this business. At the bottom line
of a civilian enterprise was a figure representing monetary gain or
loss; his bottom line was the number of men he lost or brought
back. His own body, his own life, could be a part of that
statistic. Jack sighed. The war was no longer the adventure it had
started out being. Now it was merely depressing. Even the fear was
almost gone.

He sat forward
and opened the top drawer of the desk. There
was
something he could do that
wasn’t depressing. It was a small thing, perhaps, but it was
positive, and it needed doing. He took out his “Hold” file, removed
the rough copy of the reprimand for Fred Trusteau, tore it into
little pieces, and dropped them into the wastebasket. He felt
better immediately.

The
sound-powered phone on the bulkhead by the desk yelped in its
peculiar way, and Jack picked it up. It was CAG. He was seeing all
the squadron skippers in his quarters right now. Would Jack kindly
consent to join them? Jack said he’d be there in three minutes and
hung up. In a moment, he was locking the office door behind him and
pushing through the crowded passageway. He saw his pilots gathered
in front of a bulletin board, admiring a hastily rendered
reproduction of the new insignia. Chief Carmichael was wasting no
time. The pilots parted to let Jack through.

“Is that our
insignia, Skipper?”

“It isn’t the
torpedo squadron’s,” Jack replied.

“That’s pretty
good. Who drew it up?”

“That’s a
secret. I promised not to tell.”

“How many Nips
you gonna nail this time, Skipper?”

“I’ll leave a
few for you guys.”

“You think
we’re ready, Skipper?”

“Just bring on
the Jap planes. We’ll show ’em.”

We’ll show them,
indeed
.

As it became
increasingly obvious that the bitter struggle for the Solomon
Islands was not necessarily the shortest route to the ultimate
encirclement of the Japanese homeland, so also did it become
increasingly clear that the lethal power of the mobile carrier
forces could not and should not be tied down to the conduct of an
essentially land-oriented campaign, as the Solomons-New Guinea
route led by General MacArthur would surely become.

Although it is
a fact not generally known, the training raids on enemy-held
islands did not end with the raid on Wake on October, 1943, but
became a precedent for the breaking in of new air groups on their
way to the front area combat zones. Truly, aircraft and pilots were
lost on operations that did not materially affect the outcome of
the war, but the experience gained by these air groups during the
raids allowed many an aviator to survive the grim aerial campaigns
that marked the final year and a half of conflict.

J.E. Hardigan,
Commander. USN (ret.),
A Setting of Many
Suns:
The Destruction of the Imperial Navy
[The Naval
Institute Press, 1962], p. 201.

Fred Trusteau carried
the War Diary under one arm and forced his way through the crowded
passageways leading to the squadron office. He’d just come from the
ready room, which was full of bickering pilots speculating over the
upcoming mission, philosophizing about their chances of coming
through it, and trying like hell to guess where it was they were
going. They had been at sea for two days and still no word. Fred
didn’t find this unusual or unexpected. He knew they wouldn’t tell
the pilots, or anyone else for that matter, what the target was
until they were at least halfway there. This was done in case a
ship or aircraft had to return to Pearl Harbor because of
breakdown. If that occurred, there might be a chance of word
leaking out before the strike had actually begun. He had tried to
explain it to Jacobs but was not successful. And the anxiety was
beginning to affect him, too.

When he reached
the office, he found his way blocked by a second-class mechanic
named Peters, who was sitting in a chair facing the closed door of
the office and deftly wielding a palette and a long thin
paintbrush. Fred came up close behind him, bent down to examine his
work. He was surprised to find a nearly completed rendition of the
squadron insignia. Jack of hearts and all. “Mind if I go in?” he
asked.

“Just a sec.
Just a sec.” Peters spoke without breaking his squinting
concentration on the insignia.

“That looks
real nice,” said Fred, switching the Diary impatiently from one
hand to another.

“Yeah, sure it
does,” said Peters. He dabbed at the palette and continued his
work, still without looking at Fred. “You would say that. You don’t
have to paint the damn thing.”

“Will you be
very much longer?” asked Fred.

“Just a few
seconds more. Just a few seconds more.”