Wingmen (9781310207280) (3 page)

“Good morning,
gentlemen,” Deal said to the pilots on the left side of the room.
These were all veterans and had flown in combat at least once.
Seven or eight of them claimed kills. “And for the flying turkeys,”
he said, addressing the right half of the room, carefully
segregated by a cleared aisle, “I have an announcement to make. One
of you bastards is going to leave my squadron today.”

He paused to
let this information sink in. Fred glanced around at the men near
him, including one miserable j.g. who had been with the unit for
over six months and hadn’t flown a single combat mission. “I have
been directed,” Deal said slowly, acidly, “to ask for a volunteer—”
He split the word into three precise syllables, as if he were
talking to complete idiots. “—to transfer to a real chicken
outfit.” He paused for effect.

“Well, now,”
Deal continued, after a moment of silence. “Don’t you all speak at
once. I have nothing better to do than stand here and look at your
pretty young faces.”

One of the men
in the front row tentatively raised his hand and started to ask
which air group it was, but stopped when most of the assembled
pilots suddenly turned in their seats. Two men were standing: Fred
Trusteau and the miserable j.g.

Fred watched
the look on Deal’s face as the older man realized that at least two
members of his squadron didn’t care where they went, just so long
as they went. Deal scratched nervously under his armpit where the
holster chafed him and said with as much venom as he could muster,
“Come with me, you bastards.”

Deal’s office
was a chaos of flight gear, flight manuals for the new Hellcats,
and stacks of assorted and uncompleted paperwork. He left the two
men standing as he cleared a pile of personnel jackets from his
swivel chair and sat in it. There were no other chairs empty enough
to sit in, so Fred and the j.g. remained standing. Deal rummaged in
the pile of officer jackets and came up with theirs.

“Well,
Trusteau,” he said, “I can’t say I’m surprised you found things a
little too rough in the Dealers. We don’t want quitters anyway.” He
opened Fred’s folder and began flipping through the entries. “But
you, Silver. We’ll make a man out of you yet.” He snapped the
folder closed with a small swoosh of air. “You stay.”

“Will that be
all, sir?” asked Silver helplessly.

“Get out of
here,” said Deal.

As Silver
turned to go, Fred grabbed him lightly by the arm and held out his
hand. He looked the j.g. in the eyes. “It’s been nice,” he said.
“Good luck.”

“Thanks,” said
Silver. He made scarcely a sound as he left the office and closed
the door behind him.

When he had
first been assigned to VF-8, Fred had really wanted to like
Lieutenant Commander Deal. His first impression of Deal had been
that the man had strength and control; that is, strength of
personal character and control of the people and events around him.
But after two days in Deal’s squadron, Fred felt entirely
different. Deal divided his pilots into two groups and spent more
time with the veterans. He heaped contempt on the inexperienced men
and urged his better pilots to do the same.
Of course they’re the better
pilots
, Fred thought. What did Deal expect from the
newcomers? There weren’t any Jap carriers in Lake Michigan. He soon
realized that Deal was narrow and childish. His control of people
amounted to a grown-up form of bullying.

Deal was busy
writing. Without looking up, he said, “Trusteau”—(pronouncing the
name “trust-oh,” which was incorrect)—“your attitude stinks like
hell.” He put down his pen. Fred saw that he had been working on an
officer’s fitness report. “I believe in letting a man know where he
stands with me, and I’m telling you now. Straighten up your
attitude toward your superiors and things will go a lot better for
you.”

“Yes, sir,”
said Fred.

“Your flying
ability isn’t in question. But this grab-assing around isn’t the
real thing, either. When you meet your first Jap pilot out there,
you better pray like hell your friends’ll stick up for you, or that
Jap’ll blow your ass out of the sky so fast you won’t have time to
wipe it.” It was a long speech for Deal. But Fred watched him
steadily. “I hope your next skipper knows what the hell to do with
you,” the older man said. He shoved the personnel folder across the
desk and Fred took it. “Now get the hell out of my squadron.”

Fred held the
folder, wishing he could tell Deal exactly what he thought: that
Deal was an asshole.

“Sir,” he said,
“if I may. What outfit am I headed for?”

Deal scrounged
through the papers on his desk. He found a half-smoked cigar, which
he lit. “VF-20, other side of the island,” he said. Clouds of
blue-gray smoke engulfed him. “Biggest bunch of yo-yos this side of
Bora Bora. The yeoman’s cutting the orders now.”

“Thanks,” said
Fred. He knew that now he’d have to rebuild his image from scratch,
but that it would be worth it to get out of this squadron. He
turned to go, then stopped at the door. “It’s been nice,” he said.
“Good luck.” He left.

“Fuck it all,”
said Lieutenant Commander Deal.

“Trust-oh?”
Lieutenant Commander Hardigan was leafing through the contents of
Fred’s personnel jacket only an hour or so after Deal had finished
with it.

“True-stow,”
said Fred. He sat in a nice padded armchair, marveling at the
difference between the two squadron commanders’ offices. Even the
ashtrays were clean in this one. Jack Hardigan wore a laundered,
freshly pressed khaki uniform with a black tie. His dark hair was
neatly trimmed and combed to one side.

“Do they call
you Fred?”

“Yes, sir, when
the occasion suits it.”

“In this
squadron, the occasion suits it.” Jack smiled and leaned back in
his chair. “So you came here from Deal’s Deadly Dealers?” He was
surprised at how fast the personnel office had hustled him up a
replacement pilot. It told him that Air Group Twenty was indeed
probably due to embark and sail sooner than Air Group Eight, a
vital bit of intelligence.

“Yes, sir. I
hear I was transferred to replace a guy in the brig.”

“House arrest
only. Don’t believe everything you hear.” Jack glanced down at his
desk. The jacket lay open to the hastily written fitness report.
“Lieutenant Commander Deal says your attitude and cooperativeness
aren’t up to par. What do you have to say about that?”

Fred looked
sincerely puzzled. “I don’t think he liked me very much. I never
quite understood him.” He wondered if his little act was successful
and was relieved when the squadron commander tore the fitness
report out of the folder, wadded it into a tight little ball, and
dispatched it into a wastebasket behind the desk.

“Jerry Deal and
his boys are the worst bunch of crazies this side of
Tongatabu.”

Fred smiled.
“That’s funny. He said almost the same thing about VF-20.”

“Let me guess
how he put it. The worst bunch of screw-ups this side of Vella
Lavella?”

“Yo-yos this
side of Bora-Bora.”

Jack sighed and
stretched, then put his hands behind his head. Suddenly he looked
very serious. “Jerry Deal loses more pilots than any other
skipper,” he said. “He teaches them to go charging off after
anything in the air without thinking about the consequences. They
get into fixes they can’t get out of, and the guys they’re supposed
to protect get clobbered. I’ve seen it happen.” He thought for a
moment. “Don’t repeat that to anyone.” Fred nodded. “I teach
cohesion,” Jack went on. “Clearly stated objectives and control to
achieve those objectives, with sections sticking together like glue
and divisions doing what they’re told. I teach radio discipline.
Last year we almost lost the
Enterprise
because the pilots jammed the
circuits with bullshit, and they couldn’t vector us onto the
incoming Jap planes.” Jack shut his eyes for a moment, remembering
that violent day.

There was a
lull. Fred spoke first. “Any word as to when we’ll be sailing?”

“Only
scuttlebutt, but it shouldn’t be too long.
Ironsides
has been in Pearl over a
month,” Jack said, using
Constitution
’s nickname.

“Good,” said
Fred. Then, to offset the implication that he was overeager for
killing: “I’ve seen all of Hawaii. A change of scenery might be
nice.”

“You’re not
alone. Most of the guys are anxious to leave, even though they
don’t say as much.”

Aircraft
engines sputtered and roared to life outside the building, and Fred
looked toward the window.

“Well,” said
Jack, “back to work. Have you moved to this side of the island
yet?”

“Not yet,
Skipper.”

Jack pressed a
button on his desk, and a harried-looking enlisted man in working
whites opened the door. Jack told him to get a driver and a vehicle
for Fred and to have a room prepared at the BOQ with the rest of
the squadron. The enlisted man disappeared.

“Take the rest
of the day off to get settled,” Jack said. “Tomorrow’s Sunday and
we don’t fly. Monday morning we do. Check in with the XO and he’ll
assign you to a plane and fill you in on details.” Jack stood; the
interview was over. “Nice having you in the squadron.” They shook
hands.

“Yes, sir,”
said Fred. When he reached the door, he looked back at the squadron
commander. He felt good about him and expected a smile or at least
a nod. But Jack Hardigan was already hard at work.

Ensign Fred Trusteau
was unofficially but overwhelmingly accepted into the squadron of
Fighting Twenty on the Saturday night of his arrival. His
initiation concerned a cherry stem and a girl.

After driving
across the island of Oahu to retrieve his uniforms and toilet gear,
Fred checked into the BOQ near the air station and got a small but
well-furnished room for two with a view of Pearl Harbor—if you
leaned far enough out the window. It was just after four and nobody
was around, so Fred went out for a walk in the hot sunshine, happy
to have the good fortune of a few hours to himself. The little air
base was smaller than the Kaneohe station but large enough to have
its own base exchange. His last liquor ration had been wasted on
people he hadn’t felt like drinking with, but now that he was a
member of VF-20 he had another ration to enjoy. Thanking his lucky
stars for this precipitous turn of events, he bought two bottles of
overpriced Scotch and headed back to the BOQ, having been out for
about an hour. There, he found that a party was underway in the
room next to his. He considered the alternatives and decided to
take the plunge.

Feeling very
much like an intruder, Fred pushed open the door and stepped
inside. Twelve sweaty faces turned to look and silence fell with
unnatural swiftness. “Good afternoon,” said Fred. He pulled the two
bottles of Scotch from the paper bag and held them up. “I’m the new
kid from down the block and I brought something for the party.” A
roar of approval went up and a boozy, reeling pilot with a beefy
face staggered over to Fred and threw an arm around his
shoulders.

“Name’s Fred
Trusteau,” said Fred.

“Fuck the
introductions,” said the drunken pilot, “let’s crack them bottles.”
The bottles disappeared into the crowd, and Fred was given a place
to sit on a bunk between a gangly man with a big nose and a stocky,
black-haired man with small features and tufts of black hair
peeking out the top of his T-shirt. When Fred was seated, the
stocky man shoved a half-filled water glass into his hands and
said, “That was such a nice thing to do, I could just kiss you,”
and he gave Fred a scratchy peck on the cheek. Fred decided the
pilot was juiced beyond rational thinking—no small accomplishment
for less than an hour’s drinking.

“I’m Frank
Hammerstein,” said the thin man. “Looks like you made a hit with
the squadron.”

“Fred Trusteau.
But will they still love me tomorrow?”

Frank laughed
and raised his glass in a salute, and they drank together.

Looking around
the room, Fred could see several lieutenants, a bunch of j.g.’s,
and the usual collection of ensigns. The experienced pilots mixed
easily with the new ones, and Fred decided he would like flying
with this group. They were certainly friendly enough after
hours.

“In case you’re
wondering,” said Frank Hammerstein, talking loudly to override the
babble of voices, “this is our Saturday afternoon strategy
conference.”

“Conference?”

“We do this
every Saturday night, while we try to decide on what we’re going to
do the rest of the weekend.”

“You mean on
Sunday.”

“Yeah, but
sometimes we get too far along and end up right here all Saturday
night.”

“Sounds like
fun.” Fred emptied his glass. “How do you get a refill?” he
asked.