The Fly Boys (3 page)

“Yes, Captain,” Wohl said. “I understand. Just as I thought! And what about the gun camera film?”

The major was in his midthirties. He had pale blue eyes and thick brown hair which he wore in a waxed brush cut. His face
was colored by the sun, except for where the rays had been blocked by his flight goggles. The pale circles were like a mask
around his eyes and made him look like a raccoon.

As the major listened to what Mader had to say, he glanced murderously at Steve, who was careful to keep his eyes front, studying
his reflection in the Remington prints’ glass.

Standing six feet tall and weighing one-seventy, Steve knew he was almost too big to fit into a fighter’s cramped cockpit.
He kept his weight down—and kept himself strong —with calisthenics and by not eating much, which was no big sacrifice considering
the quality of front-line chow. There wasn’t much he could do about his height, except grin and bear it when he had to fold
up like a pocketknife to tuck into his fighter. Fortunately, his concentration was such that he forgot about his discomfort
and everything else except waxing the enemy once he was in the air.

He had always been big for his age. His size had always made him seem older than he really was. These days, so did his profession.
His blond hair was cropped to brush-cut length, but worn unwaxed so that it fell forward, flat on his skull. His skin had
been burnished by the sun, and the long hours spent scanning the sky from his cockpit had etched squint lines on either side
of his hawk’s nose, at the corners of his narrow slash of mouth, and around his brown eyes.

Steve snuck a glance at Wohl. The major had picked up a pencil and was jotting notes to himself as he sat with the telephone
receiver cradled between his shoulder and ear. The beige enamel paint had begun to blister and peel off Wohl’s desk due to
the tropical heat and humidity. The major was absently picking at the marred finish, stripping off paint curls and dropping
them to the muddy plywood floor as he continued talking to Captain Mader.

“Set the projector up. I’ll want to view Lieutenant Gold’s film. I’ll be over in a few minutes.” He hung up and glared at
Steve. “Mader says there’s nothing wrong with your radio.”

Steve resisted the urge to shrug. “I guess it got better, Major.” He allowed himself a ghost of a smile, just to test the
waters.

“You think this is funny, Lieutenant?”

The ghost of a smile took a powder. “No, sir.”

The major jerked his thumb over his shoulder toward the Remington prints. “You-all think that you’re one of them ornery Old
West gunslicks who didn’t need nobody? You think you can charm your way out of the fact that you disobeyed my orders in a
combat situation?”

“May I speak frankly, sir?”

“Go ahead.” Wohl’s eyes were just about bulging out of his head, he was so mad. He was scratching at his desk as if it itched.

“What I think, sir, is that since I shot down four Japs, the major ought to be congratulating me and putting me in for a promotion
and maybe a medal, not chewing out my ass,” Steve concluded, remembering at the last possible instant to add, “sir.”

If flashing eyes were machine guns, Wohl would have been scoring direct hits, blowing Steve out of existence. But then the
major closed his eyes for a second and took a deep breath. As he exhaled it seemed that the anger and tension went out of
him. He gestured toward a straight-back chair against the wall. “Drag that over and sit down, old son.”

Steve did as he was told.

“You want a drink?” Wohl asked, opening a desk drawer.

“Anytime, sir.”

Wohl brought out a bottle of gin and two glasses. Steve’s heart sank. He was a bourbon man, and failing that, rye whiskey
or scotch. He hated gin, especially straight up, but there was no way he was going to further antagonize the major by refusing
what he figured was a peace offering.

Wohl poured two fingers into each glass, and slid one across the desk toward Steve.

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said. As Wohl knocked back his drink, Steve, forcing himself not to gag on the smell of juniper berries,
flung the gin against the back of his throat and swallowed it down, shuddering.

“Another?” Wohl asked, reaching for the bottle.

“No, sir! Thank you, sir.”

The major nodded and put the bottle away. “Now then, let me run through this with you from the beginning. First off, you-all
did shoot down four Jap fighters. Your gun camera film confirms this, and I eyeballed you making that one incredible shot
when that bandit crossed your flight path. Congratulations on some fine shooting and flying. Just about the finest I’ve ever
seen.”

“Thank you, sir,” Steve said. The gin was rolling around like a ball of mercury in his empty belly.

“But I’m still very pissed off with you.”

Steve nodded distractedly. That wallop of gin combat-patrolling his gut was making him feel like he was going to upchuck.
“Sir? Excuse me, sir. May I smoke?”

“Go ahead,” Wohl drawled.

Steve pulled out a rumpled package of Pall Malls and a battered, nickel-plated lighter. He extracted a cigarette, smoothed
out the worst of its hooks and bends, and lit it. He inhaled deeply. The tobacco seemed to settle his stomach.

“You suggested that instead of raking your ass over the coals I should put you in for a promotion. No way would I do that,
Lieutenant.”

“But—”

“Shut up,” Wohl said wearily. “Just sit there and smoke your cigarette and listen. You were my wingman. A wing-man’s sole
purpose in life is to sit like a fucking boil on his leader’s ass, watching his back while he does the shooting. A wingman
needs to be reliable, because if he isn’t reliable, he’s going to cause his leader to be distracted worrying about him, and
a distracted fighter pilot is a dead one. A wingman needs to be disciplined. He’s flying so close to his leader that he’s
got to respond in an instant to his leader’s moves. If he doesn’t, he’s going to get shaken loose from his leader, or worse
yet, crack into him. Finally, a wingman has got to have willpower. The willpower to deny himself personal glory on behalf
of the greater good. He’s got to be able to say to himself, ‘Okay, maybe I’m not going to get any kills, but my leader will,
and by watching his back I’m serving the greater good of the squadron?’” Wohl paused.

“Major, I don’t see what all this has to do with me being denied a promotion. I mean,
okay
, so what if I played the lone wolf up there? I’m alive and well to tell about it, so what’s the beef?”

Wohl stared hard at Steve. “You really have no idea what I’ve been talking about, have you?”

“Sir, with all due respect, maybe what you’ve been talking about doesn’t apply to me. Rules were made to be broken, if you’re
good enough to get away with it.”

“You don’t think you have limitations, Lieutenant?”

“Not in dogfighting, sir,” Steve grinned. “If you’ll pardon me saying so.” He was careful to keep his tone respectful so Wohl
wouldn’t misunderstand. He didn’t feel he was being arrogant. Just truthful.

“Reliability, discipline, the will to see beyond one’s self-interest to the greater good,” Wohl ticked off the attributes
on his fingers. “Those are the same qualities an officer needs. By your insubordination today you proved to me that you don’t
have those qualities, Lieutenant. You’ve got everything it takes to be a superb fighter pilot. You’ve got none of what it
takes to shoulder the responsibility of being in charge of other men. That is why I will not put you in for a promotion.”

Steve struggled to control his temper. He couldn’t help thinking that a lot of this was just sour grapes; that the major was
merely jealous of his air combat skills. “Sir, I personally don’t see it that way, but I’m sorry I’ve disappointed you. I
sincerely apologize for not fulfilling your expectations, sir.”

“You just don’t get it,” Wohl repeated. He looked tired. “Ah, fuck it. I tried, right?” he sighed. “What the hell, you’re
only nineteen. You probably think you’re going to live forever. I was nineteen once, believe it or not, but when I was nineteen
I was jerking sodas and trying to wax co-eds, not knock Jap fighters out of the air….” he trailed off, shaking his head.

“Sir, I’m kind of enjoying the war,” Steve shrugged. He stubbed out the remains of his cigarette in the tin ashtray on the
major’s desk. “I guess I’d rather dogfight than anything.”

Wohl seemed not to have heard him. “Lieutenant, this was the first chance I’ve had to see you in action. Now that I have—I’m
going to look at your film in a few moments, but it’s not going to show me anything I don’t already know about you—I want
to talk to you about your future.”

“Sir?”

“I want to transfer you out of this squadron.”

Steve was appalled. “Begging the major’s pardon, I said I was sorry for what just happened. Look, I promise that it won’t
happen again—”

Wohl held up his hand. “Slow down, old son. This isn’t a punishment I’m talking about. It’s … well, I guess you’d have to
say that it’s a kind of reward. There’s a new, elite fighter squadron being formed. It’s going to be the only Army Air Force
unit based at Santa Belle.”

“Where’s that, sir?” Steve asked.

Wohl stood up and went to the map on the wall. He pointed to a brown dot near New Georgia Island in the Solomons chain. “Santa
Belle is a hot area, Lieutenant. It’s only recently been taken from the Japs by the Marines.”

“I don’t get it, sir,” Steve said. “If the webfoots are holding the island, they’ll have their own fighter squadrons there.”

“Command doesn’t explain everything to me, Lieutenant,” Wohl scowled. “I do know the Army doesn’t like the idea of the Navy
and the Marines getting all the limelight for the Solomons campaign. This elite squadron will represent our branch of the
service during the push to close the ring around the Jap stronghold of Rabaul.”

“Sounds like a public relations stunt to me,” Steve scowled.

“I guess it is, in a way,” Wohl agreed. “But that’s not necessarily a bad thing. For instance, the Army is going to equip
this new squadron with its latest fighter, the Republic P-47D Thunderbolt. The 348th at Lae has just gotten some of them,”
Wohl said. “You might have seen them flying. They’re calling the P-47 the Jug.”

“I did see them,” Steve said excitedly, but then his expression soured. “Gee, I don’t know, Major. I’ve kind of gotten used
to the P-38 Lightning.”

“She’s a good mount, all right,” Wohl agreed. “But let’s face it: she’s no match for the Navy’s Hellcats and those gull-winged
Marine Corsairs. The Jug is supposed to be faster than the P-38, and carries more firepower. I’d think a red-hot jockey like
you would be itching to fly one.”

“But I’ve only been at Tobi Point for a couple of weeks, Major,” Steve protested.

“That just makes it easier for you to transfer,” Wohl prodded. “It’s not like you’ll have to leave behind any good buddies.”

Steve looked Wohl in the eye. “You really want me to go, don’t you, sir?”

Wohl hesitated. “Son, I’ll put my cards on the table. After watching you fly and having this palaver with you, I think that
you’re too rich for my blood, and too rich for the rest of the squadron. You’re all raw talent and no cunning,” Wohl continued.
“My big worry concerning you is that your tremendous talent is going to keep you brash. That it’ll get you killed before you
get enough experiencee to learn to be in control of your skills, and not the other way around.”

Steve frowned. “You mean I let my skills control me?” He paused. “I never really thought about it that way….”

“Roger that,” Wohl smiled. “You need seasoning, old son, and the way you
get
seasoned is by watching and emulating more experienced pilots, but before you can
learn
anything from someone else, you’ve got to
respect
them.”

“Sir, I know I was insubordinate,” Steve said, getting upset. “But I never meant disrespect—”

“Simmer down. I know that, old son,” Wohl snorted. “If I’d thought otherwise I’d be busting you down to noncom, not spending
all this time palavering. What you need is to fly with pilots as good as you are. Maybe even get a taste of what it’s like
to be second best, unlikely as that prospect might seem to you now. The only way that’s going to happen is if you get assigned
to an elite squadron where
everybody
is a top scorer.”

“Well,” Steve said, “I guess I’m going.”

“I can’t force you into a volunteer outfit,” Wohl replied. “But speaking man to man, I advise you to take advantage of the
opportunity. I think it will build your character. You see, it won’t be easy being a member of the sole Army squadron on a
Marine-held island. You and the rest of your squadron buddies are going to have to pull together unless you want those webfoots
to run you right into the sea. You having to count on others—and knowing that they’re counting on you —will be good for you,
old son. It’ll help you to mature.”

“Yes, sir,” Steve said evenly, hiding the fact that he thought that what Wohl was handing him was a crock. He was mature enough
to get the job done, which was shooting down Japs, right? On the other hand, he probably wouldn’t have to put up with any
more of this pussy shit that Wohl was trying to hand him in a sharpshooting outfit.

Wohl pondered him. “By the way, I’ve been saving the best for last. This new squadron is going to be commanded by your old
buddy Cappy Fitzpatrick.”

“Major Fitzpatrick?” Steve repeated happily. It was a sure bet that Cappy wouldn’t try to make him hang back. “That settles
it! I’m going!”

Wohl chuckled. “Thought that would close the deal. I’ll start the paperwork. You’re dismissed, Lieutenant.”

Steve got up, came to attention, saluted, and turned to leave the office.

“By the way, Lieutenant,” Wohl called out.

“Sir?” Steve asked from the doorway.

“I’m also putting you in for the Air Medal.”

“Sir?” Steve asked, mystified. “But I thought…”

Wohl waved him quiet. “You’re a wild man, Lieutenant Gold, and you’re going to have to be tamed if you’re to be of any real
use to this Army, but that aside, you’re presently the goddamned angel of death in a dogfight. For that you deserve recognition,
and I intend to see that you get it.”