Air Force Eagles (30 page)

"Amerikanski?"

Marshall nodded yes, apprehensive. He had to stall them until some military people arrived, someone who'd realize he should be questioned and not killed on the spot.

The crowd of North Koreans was growing rapidly, surrounding him, the mumbles growing louder like a lynch scene in a B-movie, but no one coming closer. Something was holding them back. Standing as still as possible to minimize the pain from his arm, he realized that he had his issue .38 pistol strapped to his left leg.

The biggest man in the crowd slowly detached himself and came forward to stand with his face close to Marshall's, his breath laden with the garlicky smell of kimchee, the fermented cabbage that was such an important part of the Korean diet.

Marshall smiled again. The man smiled back and moved away slightly, pointing politely at the holster. The gun was worse than useless to Marshall, so he nodded, and the big farmer grabbed it, and stepped back, full of bluster. Raising the pistol straight up, he pulled the trigger. The safety was on, and, embarrassed, he looked fiercely at Marshall, who used his right forefinger to push the safety off. The man repeated the act, this time firing two rounds into the sky. He had assumed control.

Almost an hour later, a North Korean Army truck pulled up, and the big man was still holding off the crowd as Marshall sat slumped on the wing, nauseated and trying to fight off shock. When the truck came into view, his guard had pocketed the gun and disappeared into the fast-dispersing crowd. Marshall saw why—the troops were indiscriminately handing out blows as if they were breaking up a riot.

A small soldier came up and stood at attention, saying in halting English, "You are a prisoner of war. We will not harm you."

A flood of relief welled over Marshall. He had no idea of how wrong the man was.

*

Suwon, Korea/September 23, 1952

The young pilot stood swaying at the door to Coleman's room in the tar paper shanty, face drawn, fists clenched, his rage as ill-contained as milk boiling over a small saucepan. Anticipating his visit. Cole-man had readied his arguments.

Coleman skittered like a water spider across the surface tension of military courtesy. "That's right; that makes six for me. It's a great feeling to be an ace at last. But I want to compliment you on the way you shook the MiGs off your tail. They were honchos, for sure."

"The gun camera film showed two MiGs going down. It's already been sent forward to Fifth Air Force. But you can ask Fitzpatrick."

Coleman knew that Fitzpatrick would back him up—Fitz had been the one to destroy Coleman's gun camera film immediately after landing, telling the armament troops that he had to do it because it showed they were violating Chinese territory near the Feng-Cheng air base.

"Damn convenient. I won't talk to Fitzpatrick, but I will call my buddy at Fifth headquarters and get some independent verification."

Coleman was silent for a moment. Menard had just raised the ante a lethal amount. Then he barked, "Lieutenant, that's enough of your insults. If Captain Marshall got two MiGs, we'll put in a claim for them. But you went off and got snockered last night before anybody could debrief you. How the hell am I supposed to know what went on in your flight? You were his wingman—you should have kept him from getting shot down."

It was the killer point, driving Menard's reaction. Bones's death was his fault, no question—that's why he'd gotten drunk. The young pilot was suddenly embarrassed and confused. He had no idea what had gone on in Coleman's flight. He'd seen only Bones's two MiGs go down. After he'd shaken off his own attackers, he'd made his way back to K-13 alone. Maybe Coleman had scored then.

Contrition flooded him. "Jesus, I'm sorry, Major. I've made a fool out of myself. I apologize."

Coleman quickly adopted a fatherly tone. "Don't sweat it, son. I know you are upset. It's tough losing an old friend like Bones. Tell you what, are you up to flying?"

"Yes, sir."

"Best thing to do after something like this is to go up and do a little hassling around in the sky. I'll call down and schedule a proficiency flight, just the two of us. When we come back you'll be fine. You can put in the claims for Bones then."

Twenty minutes later Coleman grabbed Menard by the arm as they walked out underneath the stylized pagoda on the flight line that was inscribed this way to mig alley. Now his voice and manner were totally different.

"This is more than a practice flight, Lieutenant. You were flying wing on one of our best men, and we lost him because of you. I need to see if you've got what it takes. I want you to stick with me, no matter what I do. If you can't hack it, maybe this isn't the place for you."

Stung by the sudden change in manner, Menard saluted and turned toward his airplane, flooded again with guilt. Coleman was right—if he'd done his job, he wouldn't have lost Bones, the best friend he'd ever had. Maybe he didn't deserve to be there, after all.

Forty minutes after they were airborne, Menard conceded that Coleman was a master pilot. They had started with simple formation, then some light maneuvers, wingovers, pullups, some easy rolls all done at 2 Gs or less. Then Coleman had gotten serious, pulling 3 Gs, then 4 Gs, tightening the turns, doing quick reversals; it took all Menard's concentration to hang on, and as the level of difficulty increased, his enjoyment rose and resentment decreased. Coleman was teaching him something, he didn't know what, but the flying was therapy for him.

They were in a tight 4-G turn when Coleman swung outside, reversed, so that they were canopy to canopy, then dropped back.

Coleman, his tone still harsh, barked, "Not bad. Now let's do a little rat-racing. Stay with me."

The silver F-86 rolled and split-S'd. Menard followed, mind and body fused in concentration, Marshall and the hangover forgotten, aware only of the airplane dancing ahead of him against a revolving green background. The controls were heavy in his hands as he caressed the stick to bring the two-plane embrace even closer. The Sabre filled his windscreen; he could read Coleman's name stenciled beneath the canopy. Unable to chance a look inside his own cockpit, he was indifferent to speed or altitude as long as he stayed glued in position. He became Coleman's shadow, trusting him completely, pledging to stay tied in no matter how Coleman maneuvered.

Coleman climbed on turns to the right to give Menard ground clearance, his Sabre outlined clean against the bright blue sky. On turns to the left, Coleman's airplane was a silver blur against the flash of green, rice fields at first and then craggy scrub-covered foothills.

After a hard 360-degree turn that he spent scanning the empty sky, Coleman darted into the half-mile-wide mouth of a familiar valley, hurtling down it in a gentle climb as the floor rose and the walls narrowed, Menard tucked in tight to his right rear. Coleman led them at four hundred knots toward a ridge line where a two-hundred-foot-long catenary dip linked two gigantic rock out-croppings. In an instant, Coleman had passed through the right side of the dip, as Menard merged with the rocks.

At the debriefing, a badly shaken Coleman told Ostrowski what had happened. His voice broke as he told how Menard had been flying perfect formation when he suddenly rolled, inverted, and dove to the ground.

"It looked like he started a recovery. He"—Coleman stopped to pull himself together—"didn't quite make the pull-out."

Everyone knew that the accident investigation would be useless. All that was left at the site was the circular impression of an explosion, and a rockslide mixed with oily, burned debris. After two days of sifting they would find the only evidence of Menard, the blackened Swiss Army knife he carried on a lanyard.

Coleman poured a drink, his shaking hands clinking the bottle against the glass. "Bullshit, the kid couldn't hack it. He lost Bones one day, killed himself the next. Shit, it happens all the time."

"You're right, you've put your finger on it. I'm sick of depending on that smart-ass Ruddick. I want to make it on my own. I'm an ace now, and that'll help."

"Make it on your own? For Christ's sake, Stan, you're an ace because you claimed two victories from Marshall. You're talking nonsense."

"Don't give me that, Fitzpatrick, you confirmed those victories yourself. All that matters is that I'm an ace and Ruddick had nothing to do with it."

Fitzpatrick stared at him. It was incredible, but the man believed what he was saying. Stealing the two kills and dragging off Menard meant nothing to him; they were just means to his ends.

"Well, screw you, buddy, I'm fed up with it." Fitzpatrick whirled and left the tent, disgusted with Coleman, despising himself.

Coleman sat, heavy-lidded eyes defiant, rugged jaws working. He knew that Fitz couldn't get along without him; he'd long since have been court-martialed if he hadn't been protecting him.

Coleman really couldn't expect Fitz to understand how he felt about still taking Ruddick's help even after catching Ginny and that big black bastard in bed. He'd never told Fitz about that, or anyone else either, not even Elsie.

Fitz would come around. If not, he'd find somebody else to be his number two. He was an ace now, and his career would begin to move. On his own terms. Screw Fitzpatrick. And screw Ruddick, too!

*

North Korea/September 25, 1952

His arm aching with the same fierce intensity of a freshly broken tooth, Bones almost passed out, not sure where he was or how long he could go on. Since the North Korean Army truck had arrived, he had been shuttled from one headquarters to the next, unable to tell if it was because he was a prize or because they couldn't determine what to do with him.

Even in his pain the fundamental poverty of the country came through to him. The roads were mere graveled slits gouged out from the rocky cliffs, edged by hovels where a tin roof was a luxury. The countryside was free of debris, for at every hut the detritus of war—food cans, bits of canvas webbing—served as homemade household goods.

My God, he thought, what a colorless country—it's like a black and white film. The rough landscape, its near horizon blocked by sharply angled mountains, was a muddy shading of brown and gray, with only an occasional slash of dirty green. On rare occasions, one of the village huts would have a red tile roof, overlaid like everything else with a thick grouting of dust.

Even the people seemed made of stone, their faces impassive, overcast like their clothes with the same ugly coating that covered trees and buildings. He saw no interest in their eyes, no hope; they seemed as inanimate as the rocks and the shrubs.

He heard an explosion of rage inside the command post, and a Korean officer came roaring out.

"You, get in now!" The Korean pointed to the filthy truck and they began an agonizing ride back toward his aircraft.

Unable to understand the sudden anger, Bones tried to calm himself, arguing that if they were going to kill him, there was nothing he could do. Yet the degree of his fear bothered him; he thought he'd been frightened before, flying in combat, but it was nothing like this jellylike capitulation of strength and bowels to utter helplessness and certain punishment. At times, he almost appreciated the insistent reality of the pain that distracted him momentarily from his wild apprehensions about the future.

At the crash site they were met by Colonel Kim, a large man for a Korean. His frothing rage impaired his English, but Marshall gathered that a soldier had blown his hand off in the cockpit of the F-86.

The colonel paid no attention to him at all, playing to the crowd that had gathered around, screaming at him in Korean. Marshall was so inexpressibly weary that tears kept forming in his eyes. He hated to show weakness, but he couldn't control himself.

An older man, a retired official of some rank, judging by the people clustered around him, detached himself from the crowd and climbed into the F-86's seat.

Marshall wearily raised his good arm and said, "Donf! Tell him to get out of there."