On Wings Of The Morning (26 page)

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Authors: Marie Bostwick

BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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“Roger,” Lindbergh answered calmly, then rolled off the edge of the formation, dove down to twenty-five hundred feet, dropped his bomb, and pulled out of the dive before the thousand-pounder's ten-second delay was completed. The resultant explosion was furious and directly on target. The radio chatter picked up again as the men whooped in excitement and shouted encouragement to our guest. I was impressed. Lindbergh's run had been the picture of accuracy and coolheaded piloting. Watching him showed me where the other boys had gone wrong—at least, I hoped it had. I was next.
Taking a page from Lindbergh's book, I peeled off from the rest of the wing, evening out over the target and coming in low. There was an intact hangar right next to the burning one that Lindbergh had hit. That was my target, and it was coming up fast. I let my bomb fly a split second before I thought I should, and then pulled up out of the dive as hard as I could to get clear of the percussion that would follow the blast. Ten seconds later the hangar exploded into a ball of flame. A direct hit! Lindbergh had been right. In these windy conditions, you had to release just a little early to compensate. The boys learned from his example, and three out of the four of the remaining bombs were delivered in the target area.
“All right, boys, that was a good day's work,” I called over the radio. “Nice job, everyone, especially for a first try. Let's buzz Jefman on the way home and see if we can't find ourselves a few boats to strafe.”
We'd been flying for hours, but the boys were running on adrenaline, excited over the success of the mission. They responded with a chorus of enthusiastic whoops. I smiled under my mask, pleased that everything had gone so well, but I quickly put a lid on the celebration.
“All right. Can the chatter. We haven't seen any Jap fighters out here for a while, but that doesn't mean we won't today. Keep your eyes open and your heads in the game.” We hadn't faced any real enemy opposition for weeks, but I wasn't going to get complacent. No matter how well things were going, the memory of my final flight with Walker, Campezzio, and Holman was never far from my mind. It was my job to keep the men focused and get them home alive.
By the time we got to Jefman Island, most of the boys were running low on fuel. We saw six boats below but only had time to attack before Jessup radioed in that he was running low on gas. “I think I'd better head back to base, Lieutenant, or I might end up swimming home.”
The rest of the men confirmed that they, too, were low on fuel, so I gave them permission to head for home. I was ready to go as well, but Lindbergh said, “I've still plenty of gas, Lieutenant. Mind if I stick around and see if I can't take out a couple more of those barges?”
I looked down at my fuel gauge. I wouldn't have minded heading back to base, but I still had enough gas for a few more minutes. No matter how good a pilot Lindbergh was, there was no way I was going to leave him out here alone. Nor did I want him to think that we were the kind of outfit that leaves a job half done. “That's fine. Jessup, you lead the boys back to base. Charlie and I will be right behind you,” I said.
There was a moment's hesitation before Jessup answered, “Roger. See you at home, Lieutenant.” I knew he was questioning the wisdom of my decision. Frankly, so was I, but I figured I still had fifteen minutes' worth of gas before I'd be in trouble.
The rest of the boys headed back to the base while Lindbergh and I circled back over the island. It was worth the trip. Between us, we picked off three of the four remaining enemy boats. The rumors had been true. Lindbergh might be forty-three, which in pilot years is ancient, but he still had his stuff. It was everything I could do to keep up with him, but I did.
This has got to be some kind of dream,
I thought.
I can't believe I'm Charles Lindbergh's wingman.
We made a couple more passes over the island, and I kind of forgot about the time, but reality set in when I finally thought to check my fuel gauge. There was barely enough fuel to make it back to base. How could I have been so careless? If any of my guys had pulled a stunt like that, I'd have chewed them up one side and down the other.
I called Lindbergh on my radio. “Hey, Charlie,” I said nervously. “I've got myself into a little bit of a situation here. My gas is running low. I'm not sure I can make it.”
Lindbergh's voice was calm on the other end. “Don't worry, Morgan. I'll be with you the whole time. We're both going to get back. Try reducing your rpm and lean out your fuel mixture and throttle back a little. It'll get you some extra mileage.”
“All right,” I answered doubtfully. I didn't quite see how this would help, but I wasn't in a position to argue at that point, so I did as he asked.
We turned our ships around and flew back to the base. Lindbergh was by my side for the whole trip, and though we didn't talk much, I felt more confident knowing he was there. At least if I had to bail out, he'd be able to report my position to the rescue planes. But as we got closer to home, I could see he was right. My gas was being consumed at a much slower rate. I was going to make it after all.
When we landed I still had fuel left in my tank, but not much. Lindbergh still had seventy gallons to spare. Walking to the briefing room, I shook his hand. “Thanks a million, Charlie. I don't know exactly what you did or why it worked, but I'd have been in real trouble if you hadn't helped me out up there.”
“It's just a little trick I learned years ago,” he said modestly. “That's what I'm going to speak about during my talk tonight. In fact, I'd appreciate it if you'd come and tell the rest of the men about how it worked for you today. Seeing is believing, after all.”
“Sure,” I said. “I'll be there.”
 
It was only quarter to seven, but the recreation hall was packed. Every seat was taken, and the walls were ringed with latecomers relegated to standing room. I pushed my way to the front of the room and found a place to stand near a side door where I thought I might catch a little bit of a breeze, but it didn't help much. The room was stuffy with the heat of closely packed bodies and buzzing with conversation. Somebody had set up a small platform and a blackboard near the front of the hall. At precisely seven o'clock, the commander of the 475
th
, Colonel MacDonald, mounted the platform. MacDonald was a good leader, well liked and, more importantly, well respected by his men. When he spoke, the room was silent.
“Good evening, gentlemen. It's hot in here, and I don't want to keep you any longer than necessary, so I'll get right to the point. As you know, Mr. Charles Lindbergh has been visiting with us for the last couple of days. He has come up with a few techniques for increasing the range on the P-38, and I asked him to share those with you this evening. Mr. Lindbergh?” Colonel MacDonald nodded to Lindbergh and took his seat as the famous Lone Eagle stepped forward.
“Thank you, Colonel. I've only been here two days, but I've already had a chance to see the 475
th
in action, and it's clear to me that you are as fine a group of pilots as I've ever seen. Thank you for the privilege of flying with you, gentlemen. I've already learned a lot from you.
“As Colonel MacDonald said, over the years I've developed a few fuel-saving techniques that, if applied to the P-38, could stretch your range by as much as four hundred miles.” Lindbergh took a piece of chalk and started making notes on the blackboard. He explained that by reducing our rpm from twenty-two hundred to sixteen hundred, setting the fuel mixture to auto-lean, and slightly increasing the manifold pressure, a P-38 could stay aloft for as much as nine hours instead of the current six to six and a half. Putting down the chalk and turning to face his audience, Lindbergh concluded, “Obviously, this additional flight time could allow your planes to show up in places the enemy would never expect you, giving you the advantage of surprise.”
The room was dead silent as the men tried to take this in, but I could tell by the looks on their faces that they weren't convinced. I took a step forward and raised my hand. “Mr. Lindbergh, do you mind if I say something?” He nodded his permission, and the guys all turned to look at me.
“Mr. Lindbergh is right about this. During our mission today, I found myself a little short on fuel and a long way from home. But Mr. Lindbergh was with me, and I tried out the techniques he's outlined tonight. I landed safely with gas to spare.”
The murmuring resumed, the tones not quite as skeptical as before. Lindbergh was right. The boys were more convinced by evidence that came from one of their own. Still, not everyone was sold on Lindbergh's plan.
An airman in the fifth row grumbled, “Have you ever spent nine hours in the cockpit of a P-38? There isn't enough room in there to change your mind. By the time we land we'll be so cramped up they'll have to pry us out with a crowbar.” The crowd rumbled their agreement.
Another voice called out, “And what about the mechanical wear and tear of flying such long missions? You'll grind the engines down if you overwork them like that.” The noise level increased as more men voiced their doubts.
Lindbergh held up one hand, asking for quiet, and the guys settled down a bit. “You're right, a nine-hour mission is going to be hard on you and your aircraft. If surprising the enemy, winning this war, and getting you all home to your families as soon as possible weren't so important, I'd never even dream of asking you to do such a thing. I've spent a lot of time in the cockpit of the P-38. Nothing like you men, of course, but you're right. A pilot feels and looks a lot like a pretzel after a long mission. But as far as the engines, I've been working with the aircraft engineers for quite some time now, and I can tell you one thing. These are military engines, and they are designed to take a lot of punishment. So punish them. I promise you, they can take it.
“Just one more thing. If any of you feel uncertain about employing the techniques I've outlined here tonight, you shouldn't use them. You are the captains of your own ships. You have to make the decision for yourself. After all, you know more about flying your planes than I do.”
The room was quiet when he finished. Dismissed, their faces were serious as they discussed the evening's events among themselves and left the hall. I was getting ready to leave myself when Lindbergh called me over.
“Thanks, Morgan. I don't know how it went over with the men, but I appreciate your help.”
“Don't mention it. I was only telling them the truth. I'd have been in big trouble out there today without your help.”
Lindbergh smiled. “But if I hadn't shown up, you wouldn't have been out there running down your fuel in the first place.”
“It was well worth it to inflict a little more damage on the enemy. Every mission like that helps us wrap up the war that much sooner. Give the boys a little time to think about what you said. They'll see you're right. They're good men.”
Lindbergh nodded, but his face revealed his doubts. “Time will tell,” he said before changing the subject. “I was wondering if I couldn't buy you a beer. I've got a meeting right now, but maybe tomorrow night? There's something I wanted to talk to you about.”
“Sure,” I said. “That would be fine.”
“Good. I'm going out on another mission in the morning, but I'll drop by your quarters around nineteen hundred and then we can walk over to the officers' club.”
“See you then.” We shook hands, and I walked out of the hall, flattered and more than a little amazed to think that Charles A. Lindbergh, the Lone Eagle, the hero whose picture still hung on the wall of my childhood bedroom, wanted to discuss something with me. I was trying my best to be cool about the whole thing, but it was no use. As soon as I was out of sight of the recreation hall, I broke into a run and started composing a letter in my head. Mama would never believe this!
29
Morgan
New Guinea—July 1944
 
L
indbergh stuck his head in the door. “Mind if I come in?” he asked and stepped inside without waiting for an answer. With temperatures in the nineties and humidity levels to match, doors in New Guinea are rarely closed.
“Good to see you,” I said and shook his hand quickly before returning to the task of putting on a clean shirt. That was another challenge of living in the tropics; I changed my shirt about three times a day. I nodded toward a desk chair, and Lindbergh took a seat. “How did everything go today? Good mission?” I asked, making conversation while I hurried to get dressed.
“Yes. We saw a little action,” he said casually.
“No kidding? We haven't seen hide nor hair of the Japs for a couple of weeks. What happened?”
“It wasn't much, just a Japanese Sonia. There were a couple of P-38s after him, but they'd run out of ammunition. We surprised him. There were four of us. I'm sure he knew he was done for, so he came right at me, hoping to take somebody with him, I suppose. I fired and pulled up at the last second, but he was hit and went into a dive.”
His manner was so modest, so relaxed, that I wasn't quite sure I understood him. “So you got him? You took out a Japanese plane?”
“I had to.” He shrugged. “It was self-defense.”
I couldn't stop myself from grinning. Getting a kill in combat—at his age! No one on earth could convince me that the tall, middle-aged man sitting in my room wasn't the greatest pilot the world had ever seen or would ever see. “Self-defense or no,” I said, buttoning the top button of my shirt, “it was still a pretty good day's work. Congratulations. I'm buying the beer.” I started toward the door, but Lindbergh kept his seat.
“Morgan, hold on a minute. There's something I want to talk to you about. It's personal, so I'd rather we talked here than in the officers' club, where we might be overheard.”
I was surprised. What sort of personal matter could Lindbergh have to discuss with me? “All right,” I said and pulled up another chair. He was nervous. His eyes darted around the room, finally coming to rest on the quilt that covered my bed, on the dream quilt Mama had given me when I left for the service. Lindbergh seemed fascinated by it.
“My mother made that, back in Oklahoma.” I scooted my chair out of the way so he could see it more easily. “Mama is more artist than seamstress. She's never been in a plane, not yet, anyway—I'm going to take her the second I get home. I don't know how she knew it, but this is exactly how our hometown looks from the air. There is the river,” I said, pointing to a winding skein of silver embroidery that cut through the fields, “and all those different squares of yellow and gold are just exactly how the wheat fields look right before harvest. And down there is our farm. The silhouetted figures are Mama and me, when I was a kid.”
I lifted my hand, drawing his eye to the upper right-hand corner of the quilt. “And see? Over here she's put the airplane wing with the scarf fluttering out, like the pilot is looking down at the people on the ground and waving back at them. Of course, she doesn't show a face, but the pilot is—”
“Me,” he interrupted. Finally looking at me, his gaze piercing and serious, he said, “Morgan, I'm the pilot in that plane. The face you can't see is mine.”
I didn't understand what he was getting at, not at first. And even as his meaning became clearer in my mind, understanding his words was one thing; believing them was another.
I looked at him, remembering that day in Oklahoma City so many years before, when I was a boy, practically vibrating with excitement at the prospect of seeing my hero in person. Even if I had only caught a glimpse of him over the heads of the throng, just like the thousand other kids in the crowd, I would have remembered it for the rest of my life. Just like those other thousand kids. That would have been enough. But when he picked me out of the crowd, leaned down to my eye level, shook my hand, and said, “It's nice to meet you, Morgan,” as seriously as he'd been talking to a grown-up, I was overjoyed. But it never occurred to me, not until this moment, to wonder why I was the lucky one, why Lindbergh had plucked me, ripe and ready to believe, out of the sea of devotees.
I remember now that we stayed after the rest of the crowd had dispersed. Where did we wait? Did someone shuttle Papaw, Grandma, and me to a back room so the reporters and hangers-on wouldn't notice us? I don't know. I don't remember how that was accomplished, all I remember was a big hand boosting me up into the cockpit of the
Spirit of St. Louis,
sitting in the pilot's seat while Lindbergh carefully explained the function of each control, dial, and indicator as if I would understand exactly what they were for. And I remember feeling as if I did. Four years old. If you had asked me then and there to taxi down the runway and take the
Spirit
for a spin, I would have said, “Sure,” and started going through my preflight checklist. No one had ever hurt me or lied to me. Not yet. At that moment, in the belief, bravado, and innocence of a child, I was certain I could do anything. That was a long time ago.
Lindbergh was looking at me, waiting and wary.
“When you said you remembered meeting me in Oklahoma City, you were telling the truth.”
“Yes,” he said quietly, and he looked at the ground, his eyes avoiding mine. “That was the first time I met you, the only time—until now. I'd only learned you existed a couple of days before.
“I worked out a plan to disappear on my way to Oklahoma City. I'd tell everybody I'd had mechanical problems, then land in Dillon after dark, hide the
Spirit
in an abandoned barn, and walk over to the farm to see your mother. I missed her so much. It had been so long.”
“Five years. That's how long it must have been if you didn't know about me. I guess you couldn't have missed her that much.” I couldn't keep the bitter edge from my voice. He looked up as I spoke, and his eyes were flat and gray, the spark gone from them. Was that how he looked when someone hurt him? I hoped so. Whatever hurt I could inflict on him, he surely deserved.
“That's when she told me that you ...” he continued. “that she and I ... that I ...” He hesitated. I couldn't help but wonder if he hesitated because he still didn't quite believe it or because he still didn't want to believe it.
“That you had a son?”
He bit his lower lip and nodded. “I wanted to see you, Morgan. I wanted to see you right away, but you'd left for Oklahoma City with your grandparents. They'd taken you to see me. I looked for them in the audience, and when I spotted you, I made sure someone pulled them out of the crowd and asked them to wait. I did my bit for the crowds and then waved good-bye, saying I had to give an interview. Then I hid out in one of the hangars until most everyone had left so I could spend time with you. I wanted to,” he said earnestly.
“Really? How much time was that? An hour? Two? Whatever it was, I guess your curiosity must have been satisfied because I certainly never saw you again.”
“Morgan, I don't blame you for being angry. It couldn't have been easy for you,” he said, and I could tell he was trying to keep his voice calm, determined to keep his emotions in check. “Believe me, I understand.
“I almost never saw my father. He was a congressman. He and my mother never got along. They had terrible fights. They couldn't divorce because of his position, but they didn't live together. Mother and I lived like gypsies, moving from one apartment or rooming house to another.”
He spoke with a strange detachment as he reported the facts of his bleak childhood, as if relating a story he'd heard third-hand, a story that didn't have much to do with him personally. But then, as he continued, his voice softened and his eyes misted, focusing past me to some distant point visible only in memory. And for a moment, just a moment, I thought I saw him as he was, rather than as he wished to be seen.
“He died many years ago. But lately, I've been dreaming about him. In my dream, I am the age I am now, but he looks like he did when I was a boy. He comes to see me, but he just stands there and doesn't say anything. I can feel that he's come to tell me something, but he can't get the words out. Finally, I ask him, ‘Why didn't we spend more time together when you were alive? Why didn't you ever send for me?'” Lindbergh's eyes had turned dark and angry. “I wait for an answer, but he just looks at me. Then he picks up his hat and leaves the room, and I feel so terribly sad because I know it is too late now. He won't be back.” Quietly, he repeated the statement once more, more to himself than me. Then, as if being abruptly woken, he took in a sharp, clean breath and looked at me, aware of my presence once again.
“So you see, Morgan. I understand how you feel.”
For a moment, I had been tempted to feel sorry for him, but the mask of cool self-control was there again so neatly that I wondered if he had ever really dropped it in the first place.
“No, I don't think you do. You don't know what it was like to grow up hearing the word ‘bastard' whispered behind your back when you walked through town. You don't know what it was like hearing your mother called worse than that by the boys at school, having to black their eyes and getting your own blacked in return defending her honor. You don't know what it was like having to lie to her about it because you couldn't bear to see the pain in her eyes one more time. So don't tell me you understand!”
I jumped to my feet, shouting, unable to control myself any longer. “You can't even begin to imagine how it feels. And if you could, that would make it ten times worse. Because if you'd known, if you'd had the slightest idea of what she was going through and you let her face it anyway, you'd be the worst kind of monster.” I looked at him and shook my head disgusted. “And maybe you are.
“What kind of man does that? What kind of man makes a young girl fall in love with him, steals her innocence, and runs off? And when he shows up five years later and is confronted with the truth, what kind of man just disappears again? What kind of man kicks his mistakes under the rug and just leaves everyone else to deal with the mess? What kind of man are you?” I practically spat the question, pouring as much venom into my accusations as possible, wanting to inflict a mortal wound, but he didn't flinch. His conscience was clad in armor.
“Morgan, that's not fair. It isn't as easy as you make it sound. If I had known about you before I'd made the flight to Paris and reporters started hounding me at every step, I would have married Eva. But I didn't find out until it was too late. When I did, I was heartsick. I hated myself for letting your mother go through all that alone. I did the best I could. I tried to make things easier for both of you. I made sure she had enough money, but she wouldn't take much from me. And I kept tabs on you, too, Morgan. My attorneys made discreet inquiries, and I got a report every few months on how you were doing, but there was so little I could really do. It was an impossible—”
That was enough. I wasn't going to listen to any more. “That's a lie! It wasn't impossible!” I shouted. “You just made it that way! I was born in nineteen twenty-three. You flew to Paris in nineteen twenty-seven. You had four years to come back, to find out about me and do right by my mother. She loved you! She waited for you! All those years, she was waiting for you!”
I covered my face with my hands, trying to rub away the pictures in my mind, pictures of Mama waiting. Standing at the window and scanning a clear blue sky, a tiny wrinkle of worry imprinted between her brows. Leaning forward whenever a door opened with expectant, hopeful eyes. But no matter who entered, or tried to enter, it was never the one she'd hoped to see. Her lips were smiling and her words were welcoming, but her eyes gave her away. None of us was the one. Not Grandma or Ruby. Not Paul. Not me.
“You selfish, heartless bastard! She waited for you! Every day for years and years! And every day she was disappointed, but I never knew why. I thought it was me. I tried so hard to be good enough. All I wanted was for her to be happy. I'd have given anything for that. So don't you dare stand there and tell me it was impossible, that you did the best you could, because it's a lie.”
I shook my head, disgusted. “Look at you. The Lone Eagle. The great American hero. It's a lie. You're a lie.”
All this time he sat there, his face impassive and his eyes flat gray disks of steel, determined to keep his emotions in check and his thoughts to himself. But at this last, I could see the muscles in his jaw tighten ever so slightly, making the vein on his neck stand out. He exhaled a slow, determined breath through his nose, making his chest rise and fall again, like the breath you let out when the doctor is applying a cold stethoscope to your back trying to assess the existence and condition of your heart. He got to his feet.
“You're right,” he said. “I'm not a hero. I never said I was. God knows, I'm guilty of many things, Morgan, but that isn't one of them. I never claimed to be that heroic character the press invented. Charles A. Lindbergh, the Lone Eagle, is a mythological creature that happens to share my name and face. But that's where the resemblance ends. I can't live up to that image. No one could, Morgan.”

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