Air Force Eagles (19 page)

As he cleared the ridge line, glad to be away from that valley of death, a battery of 37-mm flak guns blasted his aircraft, shattering the rear of his canopy and stitching holes through his wing and fuselage. He tried calling "Dallas Two, I'm hit," but his radio was dead. Circling above, Fitzpatrick saw the flash of fire embrace the Mustang.

"Boxcar, relay to Base, heavy flak batteries at south end of valley."

Fitzpatrick's mouth suddenly went so dry he barely croaked, "Uh, Dallas, send another flight. Dallas One was hit on his second pass and is streaming fuel. Doubt if he'll make it back."

The FAC said, "Roger," and switched frequencies to call "Mosquito Mellow," the airborne controller.

Marshall's Mustang shuddered like a snapping whip as the big Merlin engine backfired. He leveled off at eleven thousand in an eerie mouse-gray translucence where vaporous columns of moisture drooped like stalactites from the lighter ceiling above to the ominous black deck of clouds below.

The barrage of shells must have missed his radiator—the engine was still running cool. If he was lucky, he might be able to nurse it back. He glanced to his left rear, vainly hoping to see Fitzpatrick on his wing. If he went down, it would be nice to have someone to know where.

Slowing the airplane down to 140, he reached forward to twist the knob that would cage the tumbling artificial horizon and lock it into position to stabilize. When he released the caging knob, the instrument's face tilted crazily again, rotating slowly like a bright coin dropped into deep, clear water. If he got back, it would be on basic instruments, the "needle, speedle, and airball" of flying school. Using the magnetic compass, he set a course of 170 degrees to take him along the coast, back close enough to the base for the Detrola automatic direction finder to guide him in. He'd just fly till he was sure he was well out to sea, then let down and creep back to the shore. He might be able to make it if the engine kept turning and the Detrola did not. He mentally computed his odds as about one in five.

Time stretched out like drooping strands of taffy as Marshall repeatedly checked his wristwatch. After an eternity, he figured he was in position and throttled back, praying that the engine would pick up power when he needed it.

The battered Mustang slipped into the enveloping black clouds like a spoon into pudding. Ordinarily so docile, the tired fighter protested its wounds, groaning and swaying beneath his hands. At the lower left of the instrument panel, diagonally below the useless artificial horizon, was the turn needle, no bigger than a paper match. His inner ear deceived him, telling him that he was turning, and it took a force of will to apply the strong stick and rudder forces necessary to keep the needle standing straight above the gunmetal ball centered in its liquid race. It was a primitive instrument, its fragile glass arc much like a hardware store level, and his life depended upon it.

He thought: The ceiling on takeoff was less than two hundred feet, but the rain was intense. Maybe it lifted.

He managed a wry laugh at himself.

Really whistling in the dark, now. If the ceiling wasn't high enough, he'd probably never know the difference and just disappear with a splash. The mean-green sea around Korea was cold, as harshly unforgiving as the country it surrounded.

A spot spread out below him, changing from hellhole black to a shiny ebony, and then, as he came closer, to a lacy green-white froth. He advanced the throttle, exulting as the faithful Merlin responded with grudging backfires. Pulling his oxygen mask aside, he gulped in the salt-tanged air, happy still to be flying. He looked hopefully at the Detrola. The needle should have been homing in on the K-10 beacon like a hound dog on point, but instead it rotated mindlessly.

He glanced around the panel. Uh-oh. Coolant temperature's finally rising. Not too much time left now.

His hands sweating beneath his gloves, mouth dry, Marshall visualized the coast again, mentally computing how far he'd flown. If he had calculated correctly, a right turn should take him toward K-10. If he'd gone too far, he'd be down in the drink; if he had not come far enough, he'd smash into one of the mountains that reached up like angry fists along the coast.

And no one would
ever
know. The lonely thought oppressed him. It was bad enough to die, but to go anonymously like this, spat out of an alien sky to be swallowed up by an alien sea was too evil. Saundra, his family, no one would ever hear of him; his body would . . .

Enough of that! I'm going to drag this dog home!

Boxcar had relayed a message back to Fitzpatrick to return immediately. No relief flight could be launched because weather had shut down the base. When he was forty miles out, he called in "Base, Dallas Two."

"Roger, Dallas Two." Fitz recognized Coleman's voice. "Any word on Dallas One?"

"No, his radio's out or else he went in. Last I saw him, he was streaming fuel bad, heading due south along the coast."

"Roger, Dallas Two. We've alerted the rescue people. You're going to have to divert. We're socked in here. Suggest you try K-2, they're reporting a three-hundred-foot ceiling and a half a mile vis. Over."

"Thanks for nothing!".

Coleman put down the microphone and stepped outside the tent to the duckboard sidewalk. An airman from the orderly room brought him a tin dixie of coffee, and he walked back and forth.

He didn't see how he could be criticized; the mission had to go, and both men were qualified. Marshall should never have made the second pass; he knew better. And if it was anyone else but Fitz up there, he'd be worried, but Fitz was an old pro.

He thought it over very carefully; Marshall was almost certainly down. Well, it was war, and better him than a white man.

As he turned, thinking that as CO. he really ought to be a lieutenant colonel instead of just a newly promoted major, there was a flash and an explosion of fire at the end of the runway. A moment later another one erupted. Coleman saw Tommy Daniels, Marshall's crew chief, walking back from the fires.

"What's going on, Sarge?"

"I just set waste oil on fire in two fifty-five-gallon drums. Captain Marshall is coming back, and I wanted to give him something to shoot for."

Coleman's shutter-quick smile flashed. "Good man; it might be just what he needs."

It was.

As the derelict fighter groaned back over the waves Marshall saw the flames rear up like a waving flag, columns of black smoke merging with the overcast. He smiled to himself. "Old Coleman's all right, after all. He's expecting me."

The engine was bucking like an asphalt tamper, sending necklaces of blue-yellow flame backfiring from the exhaust stacks. The coolant temperature was off the peg, and he had no idea if the gear and flaps would lower—and he didn't care. Just the sight of the burning oil had fanned his hopes, sending adrenalin charging through him like a hormonal Paul Revere. He had a sudden irrational rush of sentiment, thinking of his battered foot locker, his tent home, safety.

With sensitive hands, he coaxed the crippled Mustang around in a sweeping curve that would give him a short final approach to the runway.

Marshall debated making a belly landing; it was probably the smarter move. If he dropped the gear and it didn't come all the way down, he'd be in more trouble, and he sure couldn't go around. But he knew that Coleman would criticize him if he damaged an airplane he could have saved.

He was lined up on the approach, just bumping under the cloud ceiling when he dropped the gear. He felt it grind to a halt midway, the red warning lights shining. There were no alternatives now.

Cinching up his belt and harness, Marshall added power to keep his speed up, afraid of a stall, thinking, I'll spike it on the end of the runway and pray.

Zero
Hero
hit just past the two barrels of burning oil, snapping off the gear and spinning the airplane to the right, no longer a flying machine but just metal thrashing in agony. His wing snagged a strip of PSP from the runway, cartwheeling him wingtip over wingtip until the Mustang flopped forward on its nose, poised there for an agonizing moment, then crashed over on its back.

Dazed with pain, Marshall hung upside down in the cockpit, the canopy crushed in over his head, mud oozing in through the holes from the flak. At touchdown, he had automatically cut the magneto and battery switches. It was strange to reach up to push the fuel selector off. There was no fire yet, but he could hear the ominous drip of fuel sizzling on hot metal as the fire trucks pulled up.

Chest aching, he gingerly checked his limbs for broken bones. When he reached to rub his sore back, he felt moisture. Blood, he thought, then realized his fingers were tingling cool, and he knew it was gasoline. He would have preferred blood, which did not burn.

Looking up and out, he could see Daniels digging ferociously with a shovel to get room to break the canopy away. Another man was shoving a brace under the fuselage to keep it from slipping.

Brave guys. One spark and we're all three barbecue.

The fire trucks began spraying foam as other men joined them. It took endless minutes of digging in relays, short chopping strokes, to keep ahead of the sliding mud and make room to break the canopy away. Marshall kept himself balled into a knot as they slammed the sledgehammer against the Plexiglas. When the hole was big enough, he released his seat belt and fell on his head, the helmet levering his chin into his neck, stretching and bending his neck. Daniels pulled him out bodily, and they hustled him off to the medics—and the waiting Major Coleman.

It was all anticlimactic. Coleman had questioned the doctor closely about the extent of Marshall's injuries. He'd been very lucky to survive the gunfire, weather, and crash and wind up only with some cracked ribs, a strained back, and a neck injury that demanded treatment in Japan.

Coleman looked at him with contempt.

"Marshall, I'm glad you survived this. But you should never have made that second pass. It makes me question your judgment. I'm relieving you as operations officer."

He spun around and left the room without another word.

Marshall looked up at the arched ceiling of the Quonset hut. Coleman had done a job on him. But, as his daddy always said, what goes around comes around. Coleman would get his.

*

Las Vegas, Nevada/September 5, 1950

Both Lyra and Ulrich had blossomed physically. It would have been difficult for them to do otherwise. Patty had insisted on their living with them in the big house in Salinas, and she showered them with attention. In the early days, Lyra would surreptitiously take food from the table, wrapping it in her handkerchief to eat later. It was weeks until she could free herself of the idea of permanent hunger and imminent starvation. The boy had grown, too, the rich whole milk and fruit acting like a tonic to his system. Still very quiet for his age, wary as a wild animal, he enjoyed playing alone on the grass-covered hills around the farm, seeming to come alive only when Riley visited.

They had been dating ever since the ill-starred meeting when Bandy had introduced them in Cleveland the year before. Uncomfortable because he knew Helmut, Bear had been miffed when he felt Lyra shudder as they shook hands. Yet Lyra's air of mystery intrigued him. She did not seem strong, and he began a patient pursuit. Over the next few months, he flew or drove to Salinas to court her, always being careful to have some present for Ulrich that made it difficult for her to refuse to see him. More than patient, the hospitable Bandfields conspired with him, believing that Lyra desperately needed a man in her life. And despite her reservations about pilots, Lyra was drawn more and more to Riley's quiet, persistent pursuit.

She had been talking about European casinos one evening, and Bear had jestingly invited her to go to Las Vegas. Lyra surprised him by accepting immediately; they had not yet been intimate, and he had really expected her to be offended. Riley decided to pull out the stops, renting a nine-dollar hotel room at the Flamingo and making reservations for the biggest shows. It was a sumptuary extravagance for an ill-paid Air Force captain used to hanging out in BOQs, but he knew it was now or never. His orders had just come in for transfer to a SAC F-84 outfit in Bergstrom, Texas, and he knew he had to make his move with Lyra now.

The drive up had been pleasant, but at lunch in Reno he decided to ask about something that had always bothered him.

"Lyra, when we were introduced in Cleveland, you seemed bothered when we shook hands. Why?"

Lyra put down her knife and fork and stared at him. "Ven ve met"—she paused, to control her accent—"when we met in Cleveland it was right after your race. Your flying suit stank of jet fuel, just as my husband's did. It was the shock of that smell, not you, that made me ill. But the truth is I don't like military men, and I don't like pilots."

"I don't know whether that makes me feel better or not. And I might as well tell you something else." Unconsciously, he looked around and lowered his voice, as if he were passing on state secrets.

"I haven't told you this before, but I know Helmut."

She stopped chewing, her face suddenly glazed over with fear.
"Lieber Gott.
How?"

"I worked with him during the Berlin Airlift. He did a good job, and the men liked him."

"Was he well?"

"He was still recovering from surgery, but he was getting stronger all the time. He showed me a picture of the three of you, when Ulrich was just a baby."

"Yes, I know the one. Ulrich was two weeks old."

Then, abruptly, "Do you know where he is now?"

"Yes. The U.S. government owed him a great deal—and so do I. We tried to repay him in part by getting him a job at McNaughton Aircraft."

She slumped in a chair. "Dear God, I can't believe they let him in this country. That's why I came here, to be away from him. Now he'll come for Ulrich. What am I going to do?"