Authors: William Wister Haines
“How… if we don’t tell him?” asked Dennis warily.
“Let him be happy with today’s pictures. Tomorrow we’ll knock off Fendelhorst. Then Monday, when he orders his usual month-end milk run to Calais or Dunkirk we’ll go back and clean up Schweinhafen.”
It was so exactly what Dennis had been thinking himself that he could not suppress a guilty start. Of course it was natural; his mind and Ted’s had been working together for fifteen years. Even now Ted was watching him measuring it, following his clear understanding that it was a workable expedient. The return of Haley gave him a minute more.
“Sixty-sixth Wing reports both of today’s reconnaissance planes now four hours overdue, sir.”
Dennis cleared his head with a hard shake. “Keep that battle damage coming. I’ll call General Kane myself, Haley.”
This time as Haley closed the door Martin jumped up, placing himself between Dennis and the phones on the desk.
“Casey, today it’s recce planes; six weeks from now it will be whole divisions unless we finish this job.”
“We’ll finish, Ted. We’ll make him finish.”
He confronted Martin a second more, his face muscles struggling with his effort to make them show more assurance than he felt. He knew that he should take more time to think this through but he did not dare. He stepped past Martin decisively now; he had to do it and he had to do it fast, before he did think any more. Martin’s face was aghast under its powder smoke as he picked up the phone.
“You’re going to tell him?”
“He’s the Chief.”
Chapter 6
Long before the late nightfall of the British summer the Division Headquarters and its outlying stations again took on the accelerating pulsations of activity.
There was a rhythmic cycle in this life that began its slow rise once more from the final counting in after the mission. For the combat crews this was an ending; another mission checked off, another restorative interlude for the brief unreality of food and sleep, of music, games, or women. Especially after a second successive long mission pure fatigue claimed most of them.
Only a hardy few, those whose natural energy was inexhaustible, those whose nervous structures could not unwind, those who had taken benzedrine too late, lingered on at the mess, thumbed through the records in the lounge, changing them after the first few bars of each tune, and then sat looking numbly at the barren expanse of the V-mail blanks or, taking their bicycles from the racks, wheeled out of the station in quest of different excitement.
Most of the men, with a headshake at that serene twilight sky, made straight for the sack, there to snore or lie tense, trying to evoke the smell of hamburger in juke joints or the patterns of moonlight on country club terraces as the fragments of the phonograph tunes echoed on the corrugated iron roofs.
In the villages around them girls who had learned the new portents of peaceful heavens saw the hope vanishing and settled again to another twenty-four hours of dread. And through their ears, as through those of farmers and villagers, of crews tossing in their cots, of hares and partridge chicks and foxes prowling the beetroot and kale patches in the Lincolnshire gloaming, there drummed now from every side in universal chorus the rising hum of myriad motors tuning.
For now the work of the base personnel rose with a jerky tempo to the tune of the motors. Along the lanes muffled jeep lights bounced crazily over bumps their dim projection had not revealed. Down by the bomb dumps panting tractors chugged the dollies into place. Then their crews cut their switches and paced off through the cool grass the requisite distance for smoking while they watched the coming of the evening stars and waited the details of the loading decision.
Along every highway, through every station, around every perimeter track, and to every parking stand the petrol trucks rumbled on the last lap of the journey that had brought their cargo through sub-haunted waters from Arabia and the Caribbean. Deft hands and wrenches maneuvered the hoses. Then with the soft whirring of still more motors the weary truck tires began to contract again and the bulbous doughnuts of the Fortresses spread and distended under the inflowing burden as dry tanks gurgled and burped.
Now above and around the Forts themselves, on platforms and catwalks and cowlings, with chain hoists that lifted motors like matches and wrenches smaller than matches, the crews clambered and cursed and toiled in a disciplined frenzy of activity. Motors coughed and spluttered, roared into thunder or choked into vacuums of quick silence. Starting engines whined and squealed, generators purred. Hammers and scissors, files and hacksaws and riveters, incised with sure surgery around the gaping shot wounds, ripping, replacing, restoring, and finally polishing new strength and surface into the old contours of the bodies. In the motors themselves men stripped and dismantled and searched, deeper and ever deeper seeking with calipers and gauges and electric pulsations the subtler maladies of friction and metal fatigue.
In the gloom muffled work lamps twinkled like fireflies. Wrenches slipped, skin vanished into long bleeding cuts. Lungs coughed with protest against ubiquitous monoxide. Voices rose with cursing or exultation. Hurrying chiefs looked oftener and oftener at their watches. Every passing bicycle or jeep slowed up to receive or pass on with blasphemy the information that there was as yet no further information.
In the cook shacks other men waited for the word. Already the standard things were done. Bread was baking, beans boiling, stew meat and potatoes poured from the machines into rising conicles in the great caldrons. Cans gasped under the knives and then yielded their contents with a gurgle. But there too the absence of final word delayed the final arrangements. The padlocks guarding the combat crews’ fresh eggs and oranges were still locked. Their keys remained deep in the pockets of scowling mess sergeants who pondered the comic strips in the
Stars and Stripes
spread out on their tables as they, too, waited.
Outside the staff offices at both Division and Group Headquarters the continuous opening and shutting of doors slashed the blackout with quick shards of the bright internal light, as men hurried to and fro, exchanging with each other the news that there was no news yet.
They too were cursing the delay. The chairs were set and the blackboard sponged against the morning’s briefing. But the tiered cords of maps waited in their bins until it was decided which particular acres of them must be folded and marked long before take-off. In other rooms men fingered and studied blankly the miniature planes whose numbers duplicated those on the monsters now gutted for repair work on the parking stands. Each phone call was a resurrection, moving one of the symbols into its place in the toy formation on the blackboard which would precede and dictate tomorrow’s formation in the sky… if there was to be a formation.
Through all of these and a hundred other forms of preparation men worked always with uncertainty in their minds, measuring everything they did by it. Every part of the process could be brought so far, and nightly was brought so far, toward the final forms of preparation. This in itself was more than enough to occupy most of the men most of the night. But in itself this also was only a preliminary to the final frenzy which would begin with the certainty of a mission and then the unfolding final details of bomb load, gas load, degrees of repair, destination, courses, timings, frequencies, and all the other innumerable and vital details which must somehow be worked out through the steadily dwindling interval to the deadline of the take-off.
2
Dennis knew very well not only the continuously changing physical condition of his command throughout this vigil but its emotional and nervous state. It had been his life’s work to control and manage the energies of other men, training and restraining them until orders gave them final release in purpose for which there never could be entirely adequate preparation.
The job was, of course, too big for any one man and the service his country had created to cope with it understood this. No one man did it. Dennis, like the rest, was only part of it, as dependent upon orders from above as the men who now cursed him were dependent upon orders from him. Kane might be dead in a ditch, drunk in a boudoir, stalemated in passionate dispute with still Higher Command, or cutting his fingernails; it did not matter. He had left an order with Dennis not to send out the field order until he returned.
The whole Division knew, of course, that Dennis had kept every phone it possessed hot in his search for Kane. But, by an ethical code as strong as the order itself, it did not know and could never know that Dennis was powerless to act until he could find his superior. The Division might think what it wanted. Dennis knew the army well enough to know that it probably thought him afraid to act until he could pin responsibility on Kane, but it would never know from him the truth of why he was waiting, under a more wearing tension than any of the men who chafed around him. By the same token he realized that he himself might never know why Kane was waiting; there were always more reasons than met the eye. In the meantime he could do nothing more than wring from every minute the maximum possible preparation that could be made in the present situation and then try to set the others an example of composure and equanimity while he, too, waited. Not since the beginning of the war had he permitted himself to ponder the deeper reasons of why he waited.
Dennis had been the only son of a promising young doctor in a small Middle Western city. He had idolized the father who often played baseball with the neighborhood kids on the dusty lots and set fingers with competence and jocular reassurance in the gaslit office in their house. In the morning he was allowed to help his father into a linen duster before they started, together, the brassbound, leather-strapped car that was the wonder of the neighborhood.
As he grew older Dennis himself was allowed to open the brass petcocks and pour compounds of benzine and ether into the cylinders. They both loved the car and though Mrs. Dennis predicted with mournful pride that their experiments would blow up the whole city, they never did. Sometimes they cranked it until their arms ached; then suddenly its motor caught with resounding bursts and the doctor waved back triumphantly as he roared off at a giddy twenty miles an hour to the hospital where he was worshiped. Everywhere Dennis went, from the trackworkers’ shanties down by the yard to the glittering marble edifice of the bank, he was greeted with affection, respect, and a solicitude that warmed the casual words of the universal “How’s the doc?”
Since earliest recollection his one determination had been to study medicine and practice with his father. While he was waiting for this there had been another war in which fourteen-year-old boys were not wanted. The doc had become Captain Dennis of the Medical Reserve and while they were in the first pride of his duty overseas he had been killed in a forward dressing station in the Argonne, leaving the young doctor’s normal legacy of debts and good will, and a prematurely serious son.
Dennis might still have gone to medical school but he was aware of the sacrifices it would have entailed for his mother and even more aware, within himself, that the soldier had begun to overshadow the doctor in his memory of his father. When part of his heritage of good will crystallized into the offer of an appointment to the Military Academy he had accepted with a feeling of consecration.
He had become a First Classman before his expanding view had been seriously troubled by the prospect of life in a peacetime army. By then the government was offering a selected few from his class flying training.
He was fully aware that it was the uniform which had made him an aviator. It was more than a fair bargain; it was a binding pact. He was still a young man when the lucrative world of civil aviation first beckoned and then begged him greedily, but for him the decision was a simple one. The government had educated him; the obligation became all the graver with his dawning realization that only men like himself could hope to educate the government.
After that realization there had not only been no further doubts; there had been no time to doubt. Each step in his own steady progress from proficiency to eminence in an exacting profession was only a tactical victory in the interminable campaign against the entrenched tradition. The real fight was never with the finite problems of momentum and gravity but with the anachronistic power of saber and broadside. It had been a struggle to save the propeller from the sword, against the certain time when only the propeller could save the sword. But the time had come upon them with the struggle still undecided internally. Now the propellers were buying more time, at a price.
Dennis knew it was not immodesty which made him consider himself one of the few competent judges of the precariousness, the desperate uncertainty of even this bargain for time. He was one of the small earnest fraternity who had foreseen the essential outlines of this struggle long before the cries from Europe and then the thunderclap from Pearl Harbor had finally awakened even the dullest of his superiors. It was why they had sent him here, to buy them time with a minimum of the propellers for which he had worked and begged so long.
He had come with the conviction that it could be done. He had faith in the planes which carried years of his own work in most of their essential parts. He had faith in his crews and in the people from which they came, faith in the capacity of an awakened country to produce enough more planes and crews, with time.
But time was always the essence of it. His first perception of the jet plane, now panting on the threshold of operational use, had revised even his own narrow estimate of the time margin against which he was working. In this development of the jet principle he had seen and accepted a revolution that would make propellers themselves as obsolete as they had made the kind of thought that still governed them.
Realization of this had only brought him to the other side, the never-ending duality of the struggle. It was never enough to realize it; the struggle was in forcing the realization upon other people—in this case, paradoxically, upon Kane, who had been himself a legend among the pioneers for propellers. He not only had to make Kane see it, he had to make him act upon it in time. Minute by minute the decisive time, the present ephemeral gift of this favorable weather, was ticking away while his people waited for him and he, with an inner compounding of the gathering tension around him, waited for General Kane.