The Prince of Beverly Hills (30 page)

“Right away.”

“Tell her I love her, and give her my APO number, so she can write.” Rick handed Eddie a card with the address.

They shook hands and hugged, and Rick walked back to his room. The
Saratoga
would sail the following morning.

62

EARLY AUGUST 1942. Rick launched from the
Saratoga
and circled while his squadron fell in with him. He was a lieutenant now, and a squadron commander, the fruits of his age and rapid wartime promotion.

The aircraft formed up and followed Rick toward the beaches of Guadalcanal. He could see the wakes of hundreds of landing craft circling, waiting for the artillery barrage on the beaches to cease so they could land their Marines.

The barrage ended as Rick’s squadron approached, and he led his airplanes down to the beach. They made two runs, dropping bombs just inland from the beach and strafing any Japanese positions they could see, then returned to the
Saratoga
for fuel and rearming. Four more times that day they made the run, bombing and strafing targets farther inland, as the Marines progressed. Rick rarely knew if they hit anything, since the Japanese positions were carefully concealed. They made another dozen runs the following day, and at the end of the second day, Rick counted thirty-one bullet holes in his airplane, small-arms fire, fortunately. On the third day, they withdrew toward a rendezvous with an oiler for refueling the
Saratoga
, and they took on ammunition and supplies from other ships.

They took on mail, too, and Rick waited in vain for the mail clerk to bring him something. He had still not heard from Glenna, and Eddie Harris had not been able to find her. His only theory was that her face was ruined, and she didn’t want him to see her ever again. His heart ached whenever he thought about it. He was determined that the first stateside leave he got, he would go to Milwaukee and find her himself.

RICK WAS TAKING A NAP the following evening in the small cabin he shared with another officer when an announcement came over the squawk box:

“THIS IS THE CAPTAIN SPEAKING. ALL OFF-DUTY PERSONNEL WILL REPORT IMMEDIATELY TO THE HANGAR DECK FOR SPECIAL TRAINING.” The announcement was repeated.

“What the hell?” his cabinmate said from the upper bunk. “What kind of training?”

“Beats me,” Rick said wearily, getting to his feet and stretching.

“You think he meant officers, too?”

“He said ‘all off-duty personnel,’ ” Rick reminded him. “The old man is always specific. Come on, get your ass in gear.”

HALF AN HOUR LATER, Rick found himself sitting on the deck among a group of flyers, waiting for he knew not what. Then the lights dimmed and total blackness ensued. A moment later, he heard a whir of machinery, and then a hauntingly familiar sound, one he had not heard for nearly three years: the Artie Shaw Orchestra playing “Nightmare.” Then the lights came on, illuminating the giant elevator used to lift aircraft between the hangar and the deck. It was descending, and the band was riding it.

A gigantic cheer went up from the three thousand men assembled there, drowning out the music for the moment. Then the elevator reached the hangar deck, and the band broke into “Traffic Jam,” and the men went wild.

Rick was carried along with the moment, until they finished the number and began to play “Begin the Beguine.” At that he was overwhelmed with memories of Ciro’s and the Shaw band and Glenna singing “Stardust.” He got up and, choking back tears, made his way back to his cabin and threw himself on his bunk. From down the companionway, he could hear the band on the squawk box, and he pulled a pillow around his ears to blot it out. Soon he was asleep, until he found himself being shaken by a yeoman.

“Mr. Barron,” the man said, “the air officer wants you in the briefing room on the double!”

Rick shook himself awake. The music could no longer be heard. He checked his watch: after eleven. He splashed some water on his face and made his way to the briefing room. A night mission? What was going on?

He entered the briefing room, only to find it empty, its lights dimmed. A large-scale map of Guadalcanal was up on the board, showing their most recent targets. They would be going back tomorrow. He took a seat in the front row, then he heard the door open and close behind him.

“Rick?” A woman’s voice. There were no women on the
Saratoga
. He got up and turned around. She was standing in the shadows by the door, and he began walking toward her. “Glenna?” he said, though he knew it couldn’t be.

“I found you,” she said.

He swept her up in his arms and held her off the floor, kissing the tears from her face. “Am I dreaming?” he finally managed to ask. “How did you get here?”

“Artie brought me,” she said. “I’ve been touring the Pacific with the band.”

He held her back and looked at her. The face was nearly, but not quite, the same. “You’re beautiful,” he said.

“If I am, you can thank a doctor in New York.”

He led her to a chair and sat down beside her. “Tell me everything.”

She took a deep breath. “First of all, I’m so sorry I haven’t been in touch.”

“That’s all right, you’re here now. Just tell me what’s happened.”

“I woke up in the Judson Clinic, and Eddie Harris was there. I didn’t—still don’t—remember what happened. Eddie told me that Stampano was dead and that Bugsy Siegel was looking for you, and that you’d had to leave LA. He told me you were joining the Navy. I had known something like that was coming, of course, but I hadn’t expected it so soon.”

“Neither had I,” Rick said.

“After the swelling went down on my face, a few days later, Barbara came to get me, and I took the train to New York and moved in with a girlfriend, another actress I’d known at home in Wisconsin. I found a doctor and had three operations to repair the damage.”

“You look wonderful.”

“Oh, I’ll never be quite the same again, but he did a good job with what he had to work with.”

“You look wonderful to me.”

“When my doctor was satisfied that he’d done all he could, he said all I needed was time to heal, so I went back to Wisconsin and stayed with an aunt. An agent I’d met in New York wrote me and said that Artie had joined the Navy and formed a band. He knew that I’d sung with Artie on occasion, and he sent Artie a telegram asking if he might want me for a tour. And, three months later, here I am. Did you hear me sing ‘Stardust’ for you?”

“No, I went back to my cabin as soon as Artie began playing the familiar stuff. The memories were a little too much.”

“I thought you’d find me, but when you didn’t, I asked one of the ship’s officers and he took me to the air officer, and he sent me here. Now tell me about what’s been happening to you.”

Rick told her about his training and his assignment to the
Saratoga
, about his letters from Eddie, too. “You should write to Eddie,” he said. “He’s worried about you.”

“Oh, Eddie will just want me to come back to work.”

“No, not yet. Not until he knows you’ll be safe.”

“I won’t feel safe in LA again until you’re there with me. Oh, and neither of us should go back there. Ben Morrison told me before we sailed for the Pacific that Siegel is still determined to get you.”

“Well, it may be a while before I get stateside again. I’m here for the duration. How long can you stay?”

“Only until they come for me. The band’s instruments are being loaded on launches right now. We’re sleeping on a hospital ship tonight and giving a show there tomorrow.” There was a knock on the door.

“Go away!” Rick yelled.

The door opened and the air officer came in. “Sorry, Miss Gleason, but you’re needed at the gangway immediately. The boat is ready to leave. Rick, let go of that girl.”

They stood up and embraced. “I want to hear from you often,” she said, pressing her address into his hand. He gave her his APO number and kissed her once more, then she was gone.

He sank back into his seat, trying to remember every moment of their short time together.

63

IN LATE AUGUST, Rick and his squadron were summoned to the briefing room and told that there were reports of a large force of escorted troop transports approaching Guadalcanal, in an attempt to reinforce the Japanese presence on the island.

Rick led his squadron in search of the convoy, but they failed to find it and returned to the
Saratoga
, short of fuel. As they were landing, another report came in of a contact report on enemy carriers, and as soon as they were refueled, Rick’s squadron launched again.

Shortly after midafternoon, Rick spotted a carrier dead ahead and mustered his group for a bombing run. As he dived on the carrier, Rick could see that aircraft were being readied for launch, and he wanted badly to put one into the deck to prevent them from taking off. His angle of attack was steep, and he cut loose his bombs at five hundred feet, then pulled away in a climbing right turn, looking over his shoulder for results. He saw one of his bombs strike the carrier’s deck amidships and another, not his, farther aft, and he identified the carrier as the
Ryujo
, as he had been trained to do.

As he continued his turn, he heard a loud bang and felt something shake his airplane and, simultaneously, severe pain, as if someone had kicked him in the right knee. He continued his climbing turn away from the carrier and set a rough course for the
Saratoga
. Then he saw that his instrument panel was spattered with blood and, looking down, found a hole six inches across in the fuselage, through which he could see the leading edge of his wing. His ass felt warm and wet, and he knew he was losing blood rapidly.

He yanked the scarf from around his neck, tucked it under his thigh and made a tourniquet, while flying the airplane left-handed.

“Skipper, one more run?” his number two called on the radio.

“Affirmative,” Rick replied, “but I’ve been hit, and I’m heading for home. The squadron is yours.”

“I’m with you, Skipper,” he heard his wingman say, and he looked out to see the airplane flying formation with him.

“They didn’t have a chance to launch before we bombed,” Rick said, “but they could’ve gotten something up before we got there. Keep a sharp eye out.”

“Wilco. Are you hurt?”

“I took something in my right knee, but I’m controlling the bleeding. How’s your fuel?”

“Nearly half full; no sweat.”

Rick felt a wave of nausea and fought it off. He took a long swig from his canteen and began looking for the
Saratoga
.

“We’ve got an undercast ahead, three miles, looks like tops at one thousand,” his wingman said.

“Roger, let’s get under it now,” Rick replied and pushed the stick forward while retarding the throttle. The tops were at seven hundred feet, not a thousand, and he wasn’t under the clouds until two hundred feet. He leveled off. “
Saratoga
, Sparrow One, coming in damaged but controllable. Give me your heading and a short transmit.”

“Sparrow One, read you loud and clear. Heading is three, zero, zero. Did you get my transmit?”

Rick had already watched the radio direction–finding needle swing left fifteen degrees, and he adjusted his heading. “Roger.”

“We have a three-hundred-foot overcast here. Are you on top?”

“Negative, Sparrow One and Two level at two hundred. We’ll be straight in.”

“Roger, Sparrow One. We’re painting you at twelve miles with numerous aircraft eight miles behind you on your heading. Is that your squadron?”

“Negative. My group is making a second run. Those will be bandits, but they’ll have a hard time finding you, what with the overcast.”

“Roger, Sparrow One, continue your approach. Call deck in sight.”

Rick saw the
Saratoga
ten miles away and turned slightly to line up on the deck. “
Saratoga
in sight, nine miles, straight in. Sparrow Two is behind me.” He saw his wingman drop back to line up behind him and kept his speed up for a moment longer to allow him spacing.

“Roger, Sparrow One. Will you require assistance?”

“Affirmative, leg wound.”

“Do you want to ditch?”

“Negative, airplane is controllable.” Rick dropped the gear, put in a notch of flaps and retarded the throttle.

“You’re hot and low, Sparrow One.”

“Roger, slowing.” He put in another notch of flaps and watched his airspeed come down, then, two miles out, the final notch of flaps.

“You’re still hot, Sparrow One.”

“I may need the net,” Rick said. “Sparrow Two, you read that?”

“Roger.”

“If I need the net, go around.”

“Roger.”

Rick was still ten knots hot at five hundred feet, and he wasn’t going to get any slower. He watched the deck man with his paddles and hoped to God he didn’t get a waveoff. He was a little light-headed now. The deck rushed up at him, and the deck man waved him in. He touched down and felt the hook grab, then he fainted.

HE FELT PEOPLE CLAWING at his clothing as he came to. He didn’t have a left sleeve anymore, and he saw a medic standing above him, holding a pint of blood, which was draining into his arm.

“Easy there, Lieutenant,” the man said. “We’re cutting your clothes off.”

“Do I still have two legs?” Rick managed to ask.

“So far,” the man replied.

Rick fainted again.

HE WOKE UP two days later. A doctor came and looked into his eyes with a flashlight. “Can you talk to me, Lieutenant?” the man asked.

“What would you like to talk about?” Rick muttered.

“You’re on a hospital ship, bound for Pearl,” the man said. “You’re going to need knee surgery, and we don’t want to do it here. There’s a good man at Pearl, though.”

“I’m thirsty,” Rick said.

“Scotch or bourbon?”

“As long as it’s wet.” A straw was stuck in his mouth and he sucked on it greedily. “It doesn’t hurt,” he said when he could.

“That’s the beauty of morphine,” the doctor said.

SIX WEEKS LATER, he was wheeled aboard a supply ship returning to San Diego. Two weeks after that, he was in Cedars-Sinai in Los Angeles, being examined by the best knee man on the West Coast, courtesy of Eddie Harris.