Wingmen (9781310207280) (40 page)

Duane turned
back to his flying, impressed with the power of the heavy
ship-borne artillery. It dawned on him that he had just witnessed a
good example of the controversy that raged in the upper command
levels between the carrier officers and the Gun Club: The old
battlewagons still packed quite a punch, and sometimes the aviators
dropped the ball. He shrugged to himself, completely confident
nonetheless that his job was not endangered.

“Okay, fellas,
close it up. We don’t have all day.” Duane, checking back on the
seven other Hellcats, was not surprised to find them tagging along
behind him in a loose, ragged formation. He knew they were tired,
overworked. They had been in continuous action for six days, flying
twice the normal number of hours per day, enduring the pressures of
flying over enemy islands. They were bound to lose some of their
fighting edge. But that probably didn’t matter. Since their first
day in the area, the
Ironsides
fighters had not encountered a single
airborne enemy aircraft. It was as if the Japanese had completely
written off the Gilbert Islands, leaving the trapped soldiers on
Betio and Makin to fend for themselves.

The eight
Hellcats droned along at six thousand feet, leaving the atoll of
Tarawa behind them. Halfway back to the task group, they passed
another flight of Hellcats and Dauntlesses headed in the opposite
direction, toward the beautiful little ring of islands that the
Navy and Marines were so horribly disfiguring. Duane wondered how
much longer they would be here, in this obscure little corner of
the world he had never heard of ten days before. If they stayed in
the area much longer, they could broadcast their exact position in
the clear every morning. The entire Japanese empire knew where they
were, anyway. Duane pulled out his plotting board and checked their
position. They would be spotting the outer ships of the screen
soon.

“Okay, fellas,
IFF on. We don’t want them taking pot shots at us.” He knew there
was little danger of that. The gun crews aboard the ships were
probably as tired and bored with the operation as the pilots were.
But procedures were established to be followed, and Duane was not
one to flaunt procedure. He told his charges to close it up so they
at least looked sharp as they flew over the task group; then he
looked down and found the first destroyer of the screen. As the
tired pilots cleaned up their formation, the first carrier hove
into view, followed shortly by two more. Duane contacted the FDO
and was told to wait for a few minutes while the
Constitution
launched another
strike and four fighters for CAP. The eight Hellcats circled high
above the carrier as the tiny, cruciform airplanes below rolled
down the deck and soared gracefully into the air. He switched over
to the CAP control circuit.

“Rooster, this
is Banger Zero Two. Airborne.” It was the Skipper, taking a turn on
CAP.

“Roger, Banger
Zero Two. Report when on station.”

“Affirmative.”

“Rooster Base,
this is Banger One Four. I am airborne.” And that was Trusteau.

“Roger, One
Four. Report when on station.”

“Wilco, Rooster
Base.”

“Ever seen a
better day for flying, Trusty?” The Skipper again.

“Possibly, but
I can’t remember when.”

“You still got
all your wheels?”

“Last time I
checked they were there,”

“I hear that
when all the tires are gone, they’re going to give us pontoons and
let us land on the water.”

“Sure beats not
landing at all.”

“Roger to that,
Trusty.”

Duane flipped
back to the strike control circuit and wondered if he and Jack had
sounded like that when they flew together all the time. Now it
seemed they were never doing the same thing at the same time. The
skipper would take one flight, the exec would take the next, and
never the twain would meet.

The little
exchange about wheels concerned a recent tendency for the tires to
blow on landing, a perilous experience if ever there was one. The
skipper and Trusteau had chatted about it as if they were old
buddies from before the war. That, combined with the fact that Jack
just didn’t pay very much attention to him anymore, disturbed
Duane. Why did people have to change like that?

“We have a
clear deck at this time, Banger Leader. Bring the chickens on
home.”

“You got it,
Rooster Base. Let’s put ’em down, guys.”

Duane banked to
the left, slipping easily into the pattern he knew so well. The
landing was made almost without incident; seven times the landing
signals officer slashed his paddles in the cut sign and seven times
a Hellcat sank to the deck, caught a wire, plunged to a halt. The
eighth one, however, was different. Ensign Peckerly made a good
approach, took the cut, caught the wire, and had a blowout in his
right main gear tire. The Hellcat swerved to the right, nosed up
sharply, stood for a second on its nose, then slowly, uncertainly,
tipped over, and crunched to the deck upside down. Its wheels stuck
straight up as if it were some great, dead insect. Duane Higgins
stayed on deck long enough to determine that Peckerly was all
right—he was hanging upside down in his crushed cockpit while
dozens of mechanics and plane pushers struggled to free him—then
headed below to his waiting berth in the great floating poker
game.

23 November 1943
: VF-20 today
flew a total of forty-two missions including sixteen sorties as air
support off the island of Betio and the remainder as combat air
patrol. Effective squadron strength is down to twenty-seven
aircraft after numbers five and twenty-three experienced blowouts
upon landing. The tire situation is considered critical as it is
believed that spares cannot be received prior to 30 November.

Aircraft
piloted by Lieutenant Bradley and Ensign Duggin at 1110 hours
participated in an attack on a probable enemy submarine
approximately twenty miles west of the task group. Results of the
attack are not known.

Aircraft
piloted by Lt. (j.g.) Hammerstein and Ensign Patrick attacked and
shot down an enemy search plane of the Dave variety with a single
float, believed to be flying from a base in the northern Marshalls.
The attack occurred at 1330 hours. The aircraft was destroyed in a
single pass by Mister Hammerstein within sight of the task
group.

Reports
indicate that resistance on Betio is nearing an end, although all
carrier groups are expected to remain in the area for at least
three more days.

Jack Hardigan
flew his Hellcat mechanically, barely thinking about it and worried
about his men. Below him, the last of the day’s CAP, except for
himself and Fred Trusteau, were being taken aboard
Ironsides
. It was the
twenty-sixth of November, six days since the landings on Betio, and
the air group had been in continuous action since two days before
that. Waking time eventually began to merge into a single unending
grind of launching, patrolling, vectoring, escorting, strafing,
landing, launching again. His men were ragged and tired and he knew
it; he was in the same condition himself.

It was late
afternoon. The sun dipped close to the horizon and shone red on the
low-lying, scattered clouds. The ships below slashed the sea with
parallel wakes. Jack looked over his shoulder, knowing without
seeing him that Fred was there as before—consistent, uncomplaining,
utterly reliable. Fred was tired, too; he looked it when they were
aboard ship. But in the air he was better than ever.

The entire
squadron had been as sharp as nails going into this operation. The
training he had put them through since Wake had brought them to a
peak of proficient readiness. Eight days of this, however, had worn
them into a sloppy, mistake-prone gaggle.

And the planes.
That was another story. The situation with the tires was
astonishing. Now they had four inoperable Hellcats; tires were
blowing on all the planes with sobering regularity. Ensign Rogers
had gone over the side two days before when his left tire went on
landing. Only a miracle had saved him from certain death: The
fighter had hung up precariously in the port catwalk, its wheels
snagged by the life line, the right wing propped up against a
forty-millimeter gun mount. As soon as Rogers had scrambled to
safety, the life line snapped and the Hellcat slid into the sea,
crashing into the side of the ship on its way down. The experience
made Rogers into a swaggering, hardened veteran overnight, but Jack
knew now that all the men were getting somewhat edgy about
landing.

At least there
was one thing Jack didn’t have to worry about. It had come about
several days after the original briefing. It still made him wonder.
On that particular evening, Commander Jennings had called him to
his stateroom and made small talk until it was time for the movie.
Jack guessed that he was trying to find the nerve to thank him for
his protection in the water off Wake. Jennings had just said he was
sure sorry about Lieutenant Brogan and sure glad about Ensign
Trusteau when the address system announced the wardroom movie. He
had suggested they see it together. Jack accepted, convinced that
Woody Heywood had been right: CAG had mellowed. But actions spoke
louder than words. The petty harassment simply stopped, leaving
Jack with the energy and time he needed to keep his pilots alert
and his planes in the air.

“Banger One,
this is Rooster Base.”

“Go ahead,
Rooster Base.” Jack looked around. They had better be taking them
aboard pretty soon. There were maybe ten minutes of daylight
remaining.

“Banger One,
what is your fuel situation?”

“Fuel is no
problem, Rooster. Daylight is. Suggest you bring us aboard
asap.”

“We have a foul
deck at this time, Banger. Fifteen minutes should clear it.”

Fifteen minutes
would be cutting it very close. Darkness fell out here like a door
slamming. Jack wondered what had caused the fouled deck, but
decided he didn’t really want to know until he had to. He looked
over at Fred. The ensign’s oxygen mask was dangling and his face
was ruddy with reflected sunlight.

“Everything all
right over there, Trusty wingman?”

Fred gave a
smiling thumbs-up. “Peachy keen, Fearless Leader.”

“Fifteen more
minutes won’t make a diff, will it?”

“We can sleep
an extra fifteen minutes tomorrow morning.” Jack laughed to
himself, not afraid to exchange a little small talk over the empty
circuit. They circled leisurely, keeping the ships of the group in
sight below, not wanting to be far away when they were called in.
In about ten minutes they were notified.

“Banger One, we
have a clear deck at this time and can bring you aboard.”

“That’s what we
want to hear, Rooster. Let’s go home, Trusty.”

The two
Hellcats descended in a sharp bank, reversing course directly into
the rapidly setting sun. They were on the downwind leg, crossing
the outer destroyers of the screen, when another call came.

The director’s
voice was strained, hurried.

“Banger One,
climb to angels five. Stand by for vector.”

“Roger,
Rooster.” Jack increased his throttle, checked his instruments,
glanced back at Fred. Fred shrugged exaggeratedly; then he pulled
up close under Jack’s wing. The two fighters clawed upward in the
failing light.

“Banger One, we
have an unidentified bogey bearing zero niner zero true, range ten
miles. Do you have sufficient light for interception?”

“We will
intercept,” said Jack. He pulled around in a tight turn to the
left, still climbing. He wasn’t sure just how they would intercept
a bogey in the dark, but they would try. The ship must be protected
at all costs. He would worry about landing later.

“Vector zero
niner two, range ten miles and closing, altitude angels three,
buster.” It was close. Ninety degrees true was due east, into the
darkest part of the sky. Behind them, the sun’s rim sank below the
horizon. The first stars appeared overhead. Jack tightened his
straps, pulled his goggles over his eyes. Throttles to the wall,
the two Hellcats rushed into the blackening sky, leaving the ships
behind.