On Wings of the Morning (14 page)

Dear Mata,

Finally! They let us near an airplane! We do basic flight training on what is called a Stearman, a biplane like the Fleet I learned to fly on, but much more powerful. Tomorrow we start our instruction with ground school in the morning and orientation to the aircraft in the afternoon. I haven’t told anyone I have my pilot’s license, although I suspect that the brass knows it. I’ve found out there’s the way I do things and the way the Army wants me to do things and it will go a lot better for me if I do it their way.

We’re in South Carolina and it’s still very warm. I thought I might try to organize a couple of baseball teams while we’re here. I haven’t played since high school, but the rec officer has a supply of balls, bats and gloves. Some of the guys here are pretty good players—or at least they say they are. One guy was called up to the minors with the Yankees until the war broke out. He’s in the Army now, like the rest of us.

It’s very flat here, semi-tropical and supposed to stay warm until September. I’ll write more after they teach me to fly, ha ha.

My love to you and Mama and Papa. I hope I get some leave and visit around Christmas. That will depend on where I am since I’d have a four-day pass at the most to come home.

Your brother,

Otto

Lieutenant Ralston, the head instructor for ten cadets including Otto and their ten instructors, addressed the group gathered around the Stearman with yellow wings and a blue fuselage.

“Gentlemen,” Ralston began, “This is a PT-17 Stearman, a primary trainer. It has yellow wings so real pilots can spot it and get the hell out of your way. We will teach you to fly in the aircraft, but you must pay attention and do as you’re told. Otherwise you can end up seriously dead or injured and that’s your business, but you might kill or injure someone else or damage government property, in which case the cost of the aircraft will be taken out of your check. You won’t pay it off until 1954.

“We need all the pilots we can get, so rule number one is stay safe. If in doubt, follow your training, do as your instructor says and we’ll try to get you through this.”

“Cadet Kerchner, front and center!”

What the—Otto thought as he stepped forward. “Yes, Lieutenant Ralston!” he shouted, snapping off a salute.

“At ease, Kerchner.” Otto stood at ease. “I understand that you have your pilot’s license.”

“That is correct, sir!”

“
So you don’t need flight instruction, is that correct?”

“Begging your pardon, sir, I need plenty of flight instruction.”

“Why is that Cadet Kerchner? How did you learn to fly?”

“I learned to fly the wrong way, sir!”

“The wrong way? What is the wrong way?”

“The civilian way, sir!”

“And what is the right way?”

“The Army way, sir!

Ralston laughed. “Good answer, Kerchner! You’re OK In fact, since your initials are OK, I’m going to call you Second Lieutenant OK in military situations and ‘The OK Kid’ the rest of the time. Is that all right with you, Lieutenant OK?”

“That’s fine with me, sir!”

“Well, all right. Let’s get started, then. Beginning at the front of the aircraft is the engine. This is a very powerful engine, gentlemen, and it can get you into a pile of trouble if you don’t keep up with it…”

Otto, half listening, was chewing over his new nickname. It wasn’t a bad one, he thought. Better than a lot of others.

“Kerchner! What is this part of the aircraft called?”

“That’s the windscreen, sir!”

“Very good, Kerchner, very good.”

Dear Mata,

Your letter from a month ago finally caught up with me. That’s not too bad, considering how much I’ve moved around. At least I’m still in the same state.

They have us flying a larger monoplane (one wing) aircraft called a BT-13. It has a huge single engine, but the wings aren’t long enough, and it’s prone to spins. You have to pay attention to it every second or it will get away from you. And vibrate…man, does it vibrate. In fact, that’s what everyone calls it—the Vultee Vibrator. That term has a second meaning, but it’s not fit to share with a lady.

This camp is much like the others. I think the military had one plan for their camps and they used it over and over. Saves time and money, I suppose.

I forgot to tell you about my G.I. insurance. We each sign up for a life insurance policy and I named you as beneficiary. There’s an interesting expression pilots use when someone crashes and dies. We say he “bought the farm,” because the payout for the insurance will pay the mortgage on the farm. I can tell from what you write about the farm that it is doing well. I’m proud of you, sis, and the work you and all the other women are doing. Some of the fellas say their sisters and mothers and wives are working in factories, building aircraft and jeeps and tanks. They’re doing their part, as are you, and that will help bring this war to an end and let us get back to our lives.

I miss your cooking and I miss you and Mama and Papa. I hope you are well.

Time to get dressed for my baseball game. I’m playing shortstop like I did in high school, but there are some pitchers here who are really good. The first time I saw a curve ball I couldn’t believe my eyes. The ball really curved! And I didn’t hit it, I was so surprised! I’m a little more used to it now.

Take care and write when you can. I’ll let you know when I get my wings and hope you can come see me then. I should also have a leave home, depending on where I am.

Your brother,

Otto

Otto looked back over his shoulder at the line of aircraft in chevron formation. He was number two left, off the lead Vultee. Number 5 seemed to be having trouble staying in formation and there wasn’t much room for error.

He heard a huge thud back to his left and whipped his head around to see that the number 5 and 6 aircraft had collided. The left wing sheared off number 6 and it fell off, trailing smoke. Number 5 nosed up, its left tailplane gone, stalled and then went into a spin. Otto hoped the men would be able to bail out, but as he watched the two aircraft spiral to earth, no chutes appeared.

“Concentrate on what you’re doing, airmen.” It was the lead instructor in the number 1 airplane on the com. He called in the crashes. “Sumter field, this is flight 43, reporting two aircraft down, 13 miles northwest of the field. Repeat, two aircraft down, 13 miles northwest of the field. “

“Roger that,” came back the field. “Any survivors?”

“None that I can see.”

“Roger.”

There was a long silence on the radio as the flight droned on. They made a pass over the field and, one by one, peeled off and landed. Otto brought the big aircraft in and set it down gently. Poor fellows, he thought. They never knew what hit them. He shoved the canopy back and breathed in the humid air. Life really did rest on a knife’s edge, he thought.

Dear Mata,

I’m in Indiana! Finally close to home, so I can come see you and you can see me get my wings! It will be great to be with you again.

We start twin-engine instruction tomorrow, using something called an AT-9. I’ll have a co-pilot, and mine is Bob Donovan. Sometimes you keep the same co-pilot the rest of the time, so I hope it will be Bob. He’s a fine fellow, from Eau Claire, and flies very well. I feel like I can trust him.

It’s a little cold for baseball here so that will have to wait. My team did very well at the last base, going 13 and 5. We led the league, although I think I will never learn to hit a curve ball. I had a .445 batting average because most of the pitchers couldn’t throw a curve. I also hit twelve home runs, although I’m not much of a power hitter. Maybe it’s the weight I’ve gained from Army food.

I’m one step away from flying one of the big bombers. That will entail another change in location, and then it will likely be overseas to my assignment. I don’t know where I will be stationed. I have no say in it.

The AT-9 doesn’t have the same difficult handling characteristics as the BT-13. We have lost eight pilots out of three hundred from accidents. I’m told that is about average for a class our size, but I don’t think it’s an average experience for those who lost their sons and brothers and friends. I suppose sacrifices must be made to win this war, and these are some of the ultimate sacrifices.

Thinking of you and Mama and Papa and hoping you are well.

I am your brother,

Otto

Otto sat up with a jerk. He looked around the cockpit of the AT-9 and realized with horror that he had fallen asleep on a practice navigational flight back from Indianapolis. He looked at Donovan and saw he, too, had fallen asleep. It was a night flight and they were exhausted, but that was no excuse.

“Bob! Bob! Wake up!”

Donovan snapped awake. It took him a second to realize where he was.

“Wha’?” He blurted.

“We both fell asleep, Bob. Now where the hell are we?” They were at 10,000 feet, supposedly on their way back from a night cross-country practice mission. That much of the flight had gone well, but they had drifted off on the way back.

Donovan struggled with some charts. “Let’s see…” He dialed in some settings on the ADF. “OK, the field is twenty degrees to starboard, about ten miles away. We should see the lights in a minute.”

Otto steered the aircraft to the right, and in a couple of minutes, the lights of the field came into view. As they neared, Otto called the tower. “Freeman Control, this is Dark Side 442 requesting permission to land.”

The answer came back. “Roger, 442, you are cleared straight in to land on Runway 32.”

“Roger that, tower. Straight in on 32. Over and out.”

The controller clicked his mike button twice to acknowledge Otto’s transmission.

As the plane lowered toward the runway, Otto glanced over at Bob. “Not a word about this to anyone, Bob.”

“My lips are sealed, my friend.”

“I knew I could count on you.”

The AT-9 flared and touched the tarmac smoothly. Otto taxied over to the flight line, swung the plane around and cut the engine. The ground crew hurried to put wheel chocks on place. Otto and Donovan gathered up their paperwork and made their way to the briefing room where they signed off on their flight plan.

As they walked over to their barracks, Otto clapped Donovan on the back. “That was a close one, Lieutenant Donovan.”

“It was, Lieutenant OK. I suspect there will be quite a few of those before we’re through with this.”

“I think you’re right,” said Otto. “I think you’re right.”

Dear Mata,

Finally!!!!! I’m at a base where we learn to fly the big bombers—the B-17’s, which I’ve wanted to fly ever since I read about it going into production years ago. We’ll be flying some older models, not the latest “F” variant. Those are used on the front lines. Still, the one we’ll be flying is pretty impressive. Just to give you an idea of its power, it has four Wright Cyclone engines rated at 1200 horsepower each (total of 4800 hp if you’ve completely forgotten how to multiply). By comparison, your Ford has eighty-five horsepower. And you really see why it’s called the “Flying Fortress” when all of the guns open up at once! The sound is loud, even with headphones on.

We also joined up with our full crew that will stay together throughout our deployment. I was with Bob Donovan at the last camp—I’ve told you about him. Ed Detwiler from Bridgeport, Connecticut, is our bombardier and Steve King from Omaha, the navigator. Berle Robinson is the flight engineer and radio operator. He’s from Collins, Iowa. Sam Adams of Boston and Juan Espinosa of Santa Clara are our waist gunner; Frank Stone, the tail gunner. Frank’s from Tacoma. Norman Cousins is the ball gunner. He’s from Reno, Nevada. And then Arthur Marx from Richmond, Virginia, is the top gunner. They all trained at different bases for their specialty and from what I see, they’re a good crew. Everyone gets along, although they like to joke a bit much for my taste. I suppose I’m more serious because I’m responsible for the lives of nine other men.

We’ve been up on a few orientation flights, nothing fancy, just getting used to the aircraft and to each other. Talk about a powerful machine! When I advance the throttles to “full” for takeoff, the vibration shakes the whole plane. Then we speed along the runway and practically leap into the air. I know that will be different when we have a full load of fuel and bombs, but for now it’s such an awe-inspiring experience.

We’ve got a lot to learn, both in the classroom and by flying—the nature of German fighter tactics, formation flying, using a parachute, escape and evasion if we’re shot down, the Articles of War. We’ll get it all in, though, because I’ve never been so motivated in all my life, and everyone else seems the same way.

It’s not all work, though. There’s a baseball league, and my crew makes up a team. We’re pretty good. We call ourselves “The OK Corral,” since as I told you my nickname is “Lieutenant OK or “The OK Kid.” There’s a funny story about that—we went out to inspect our bomber when we first got here and every crew gets to name their aircraft. I pulled rank on the crew because they wanted to call the airplane “The OK Corral,” but I said I wanted to name it after you and Mama, so it’s the “Mata Maria.” I told them they could use the “Corral” name for the baseball team as a kind of consolation prize. There’s a sergeant in the motor pool who’s very good at painting pictures on the noses of the aircraft. I want him to paint a kind of Santa Maria ship (but with wings) that’s dropping bombs. Then you and Mama’s name will be in a nice script at the bottom of the painting. I’ll send you a picture when it’s finished. I hope you’ll like it.