Fighter Pilot

by Christina Olds

  The P-38 class was sent from Willie to 4th Air Force headquarters in San Francisco to await orders. Then we were routed to Los Angeles. I wondered why we were sent to San Francisco first and then Los Angeles rather than directly to the final destination, but what did a lowly second lieutenant understand about the mysteries of the army? L.A. was just an enroute stop. More orders sent us on to our final training base.

  The final leg of this circuitous journey was by train that headed up Cajon Pass east of L.A. At nightfall, we got off and found a place to sleep in a middle-of-nowhere high desert town called Barstow. At dawn we boarded another train that headed back northwest through the most desolate countryside I had ever seen. It was all rock and alkali basins, with only a few cacti and Joshua trees to break the monotony. At midafternoon the train wheezed to a halt and the conductor told us we had arrived. We debarked with our B-4 bags and stood on a platform attached to a deserted, weather-beaten building meant to be a train station. To our left was a water tank sort of leaning eastward above the horizon. It looked like it hadn’t been used in forty years. Nothing much around but sand and rocks. An unlucky jackrabbit or rattlesnake would have been the only other living thing. A single-wire line of telephone poles marched south beside a single-lane dirt road. Both disappeared over a rise about a mile south. We looked at each other. Someone said, “Shit.” That pretty much covered it all.

  As the train pulled away, I went into the deserted station and found a telephone hanging on the wall. At least it didn’t have a crank on one side. I picked it up. Without any operator responding, a voice asked how many of us were there. I told him seven and he said to hang on, a truck would come for us sooner or later. We sat in what shade we could find and waited. Sure enough, after about an hour, a truck trailing a cloud of dust came over the rise.

  The corporal driver greeted us with a laugh and said, “Welcome to Muroc Field, oasis of the desert and garden spot of the Mojave. Climb on board, you lucky bastards, and I’ll haul you to purgatory!” Off we went, bouncing down the dirt road at a pace that rattled our bones.

  I knew about Muroc Dry Lake because my father was been involved with building a bombing target there in the late 1930s. It was still there. Considering the ongoing rivalry at that time with the admirals in the surface navy, it didn’t surprise me that the target turned out to be a large wooden replica of a battleship.

  At Muroc Field we went through the usual check-in process, were assigned to a squadron, and were given directions to our quarters. Quarters? Little more than tarpaper nailed to a two-by-four squad tent frame, but it was home. Oh, what the hell, it was the flying that counted. Besides, we wouldn’t be here permanently, only as long as it took to complete this phase of training. Later, I thought of the permanent instructors at Muroc and felt a twinge of guilt comparing their situation to ours. Many of them had already completed a combat tour, and it must have been a tremendous letdown to be assigned to a base so far removed from anywhere just to train a bunch of green lieutenants.

  Flying and ground school. Then more ground school, flying, and still more flying. The P-38s were incredible. Our days were filled with the wonder of the machines, even though the bulk of them were bent and battered, not even worthy of the distinguished status of “war wearies.” There were D models and E models. There were even some earlier C models. Each was unique, with instruments never in the same location, the throttles, mixture, and rpm controls mixed around on the power quadrant, and switches all over the place. Each switch had a placard that hinted at a bewildering variety of functions, mostly mysteries to us, and I suspect also to our instructors, as they seldom mentioned them. The differences, however, could sometimes be quite frightening. On takeoff you’d be looking forward, reach to reduce the power and rpm, and suddenly realize you were pulling back the mixture controls, which of course could shut down the engines if inadvertently pulled back too far. At least the oil and engine coolant shutters on these fighters were automatic and required only an occasional cursory glance to be sure they were functioning.

  Accidents were common. One morning we were outside the quarters playing jungle volleyball when two P-38s pitched out above us for landing. The game paused as usual, all pilots being in the habit of mentally criticizing another pilot’s technique. We never knew who he was, but the second of the two rolled into his bank and kept right on rolling until he smashed into the ground not five hundred feet away. After the game, I flew my scheduled flight and then joined some others for a truck ride to the other side of the base for lunch. The road crossed the west end of the runway, where we had to stop for two birds taking off. One never got airborne. With smoking brakes he sailed right past our noses and on out into the desert. There, the nose gear collapsed; the pilot got out, turned, and waved to us that he was all right. Little did we know we hadn’t seen anything yet. Coming back from lunch we found two more P-38s nose up off the same end of the runway. Let’s see, that made four accidents so far. On the first flight of the afternoon there were two bailouts reported. Soon after that, someone tried to land with one engine out and botched it. He went bouncing off the east end of the runway and out onto the dry lakebed. There he stopped when the gear collapsed. Rumor had it he collapsed the gear on purpose, not wanting to face a longer walk back to his squadron. Finding humor in such situations was a macabre sort of pastime.

  Toward late afternoon, two trainees had a midair collision. Neither survived. Flying for the rest of the day was canceled. Who could blame the instruction staff? Nine accidents in one day were going to be hard to explain to the higher-ups.

  The remaining training days were a mixed bag of frustration and joy: frustration because we couldn’t get an assignment to combat, and joy because there was plenty of flying available. Every few weeks we were moved to another base. I guess headquarters didn’t know exactly what to do with this small batch of precious West Pointers. Finally, someone told us the Pentagon had ruled we would go overseas only as flight commanders. Fat chance of that! Then we heard that 4th Air Force headquarters decided future flight commanders in the units forming up could only be volunteers who had done a prior combat tour. What to do? Keep on flying, of course. Get as much time as we could beg, borrow, or steal.

  We went from Muroc to Salinas on Monterey Bay. From there we split up. Al Tucker and I were sent to a place called Lomita Flight Strip. The flying was still great. We discovered that the desert north of the San Gabriel Mountains was a wonderful place to buzz, and we got quite good at it.

  Our next stop was a strip right in the middle of the city of Glendale, for God’s sake. The place had been camouflaged for some reason or other, and from the air the runway looked like the continuation of one of the city streets. This proved to be quite challenging at first, but once we located the building containing our favorite bar just across the field, lining up for landing was easy.

  A few of the pilots from Muroc were now in Glendale. We teamed up for several evening forays into the dazzling lights of Hollywood Boulevard. As lieutenants we always seemed to run out of money by the middle of the month, so we pooled our resources, and selected one of our group to hold the cash and pay the bills. This usually stretched our cash for an extra week each month. Then we discovered we could always count on some old geezer in every bar who wanted to tell us he was too old to be in uniform but had done his stint back in World War I. As long as he fed us drinks we listened. I don’t remember feeling guilty about those evenings. In fact, they were delightful. We got to hear some great war stories; maybe some were even true.

  By December, we were all promoted to first lieutenant. This brought a pay increase, which was gladly accepted, but I worried that our exalted status would only make going to combat even more difficult.

  All was great until one day Al Tucker and I were hauled into ops and yelled at by the flight commander.

  “Olds, you and Tucker are grounded!”

  Just like a thunderclap, there it was. Grounded. No more flying. Why, for God’s sake?

  Th
e flight commander raged on. “4th Air Force found out you’ve been leading flights, teaching the replacements, and wasting valuable P-38 time allocated to this training squadron. You can’t even fly the BT-13 anymore since those two knot-heads ran into Lake Arrowhead yesterday, so none of you guys get to fly that either. No flying. Nothing.”

  “But, sir…”

  “No ‘buts,’” he shouted. “That’s an order!”

  So here we were, almost eight long months out of West Point, past Willie Field for P-38 checkout; Matagorda, Texas, for gunnery; Muroc, California, for replacement training; Lomita for more training; Salinas, ditto; Grand Central in Glendale, more ditto; out to Ontario, and more ditto. Finished with gunnery, through all the phases of combat training (several times), stuck out here among the vineyards of Ontario, and screwed by conflicting rules from two different levels of command. All we wanted to do was go to war. Was that so bad? Or did the paper pushers behind their desks think us unfit because we actually agitated to go? The Pentagon had ordained that henceforth and forevermore, no precious little West Pointer would go off to war unless he was going to fill a flight commander’s spot in a replacement unit. At least that’s what we were told. With direct jurisdiction over units in California, 4th Air Force up in San Francisco made the rule that all flight commander positions in the future would be filled only with volunteers who had already completed a combat tour in P-38s somewhere overseas. I was living Catch-22 decades before Joseph Heller would write about it.

  At this terrible news, Tuck and I looked at each other; anger on our faces and misery in our hearts. We had done our best. We hadn’t asked to stay here. Tuck was an exceptional pilot, and I wasn’t too bad either. In mock dogfights we had routinely waxed our instructors, all combat veterans. We flew better close formation, and stuck in there no matter what the instructor pilots tried to do. We understood and executed the combat formation and tactics we were taught (such as they were) better than they did. Those same instructors were the ones who had scheduled us to lead flights that were their responsibility. We did so gladly, while some of them didn’t even come to work for days on end after Tuck and I took over.

  What now? I could feel my stomach churning. My face felt hot. Tears of rage and frustration were close to the surface. I knew I was in no mood or condition to talk to the boss, but damn it all, what the hell did it matter now? Determined to do something, I marched down the hall to his open door, entered, and saluted.

  The major looked up from his desk with a cold expression. “What do you want, Olds?”

  I stared at a spot over his head. “Sir, I want to go on leave,” I almost shouted.

  “What?” His voice took on that menacing tone, the one adopted by squadron COs when sticky situations arose. “Where do you think you’re going? Don’t you know there’s a war going on?”

  “Sir, I’m going to Washington.”

  “And just what do you think you’re going to do there?”

  “Sir, I’m going to see General Arnold. He’s a friend of my dad’s. He’ll listen—”

  “Request denied.” The major looked back down at his desk. That was the end of that.

  I turned on my heel and went back down the hall and found Tuck at the ops desk. His face got grimmer as I told him my sad tale.

  “Let’s just go,” he said.

  “Where?” I asked, as we headed toward his old car.

  “L.A. Fighter Wing headquarters,” he replied.

  Wondering what we could possibly do there, but knowing we had to try something, I climbed in, and off we went.

  Wing headquarters was in downtown Los Angeles in an old requisitioned hotel building. I knew it rather well. A few months earlier, I had been caught buzzing and had received my first official punishment there in the general’s office. It seems I had erred in my hopeful understanding that replacement trainees who committed flagrant flying violations were sent to war forthwith. I had heard the story of the guy who did the loop around the Golden Gate Bridge and was sent off to the South Pacific. That was supposed to be Dick Bong, who was racking up the victories. All I got for my effort was a royal chewing out, an Article 104, and a fine, which no one since then seemed interested in collecting. Anyway, Tuck and I marched into the building and looked for someone important. We wound up in the personnel section in front of a sergeant’s desk. The sarge had a friendly face and seemed willing to listen to our tale of woe.

  “You mean you really want to go to combat?” He seemed surprised.

  “Damned right!” we replied together.

  The sarge looked at us for a moment, shook his head, and asked, “You two finished training?”

  “Yes, sir.” (Well, he WAS a lot older than we were.)

  “You’re both crazy, but I’m not going to ask you why, just where. So where in hell do you lieutenants want to go?”

  “England!” we chorused. I don’t know about Tuck, but I could have kissed the man. Hope sprang like a flame.

  The sergeant went over to a wall chart, stood a moment, and then came back to face us. “OK, there’s a group forming up right now. Three squadrons: Lomita, Palmdale, and Santa Rosa. They aren’t fully manned or trained yet, but they’re going. I’m not allowed to say where, but you won’t be disappointed. Any more of you in the same boat?”

  “Yes, sir, there are.” We named the five other classmates going through the same mess there in Southern California, and the good sarge started typing.

  Tuck and I tried to look nonchalant as our savior worked away on his machine. I guess we were both worried some major or colonel would walk by and ask us what the hell we thought we were doing, but the sergeant seemed totally unconcerned. The fifteen minutes it took him to finish typing seemed like an eternity, but when he finished he went over to a mimeograph machine, and soon he handed over a stack of orders covering all seven of us in the unit. It hadn’t occurred to us to ask the others whether or not they wanted to be included!

  Which proves that if you want to cut red tape and get something done in this man’s army, go to the NCOs.

  The orders were well crafted. Tuck and I wound up back at Lomita Flight Strip near Long Beach, with the newly formed 434th Squadron. The others in our gang, Nesselbush, Coursey, Waller, Rosness, and McClure, went to the 435th and 436th, all a part of the 479th Fighter Group. The outfit was slated to ship out and was in the final stages of preparation. We weren’t told where we were ultimately going, but it didn’t matter—England, the Mediterranean, or the South Pacific. We didn’t care, as long as it was to war. Personally, I was hoping for England, where I figured the best action would be.

  Over the brief time before shipping out, we did a lot more flying but stayed humble when we were forced to do an army forced march up the hill in Palos Verdes, complete with pup tents and canteens. Our bosses suffered through a rash of POMs (preparation for overseas movement inspections), which were meant to determine whether or not we lesser troops were properly trained. We thought we were ready, but we didn’t know how little we knew. Anyway, the three units, along with the group headquarters staff, gathered at Santa Maria base up north of Santa Barbara in late April. We went through more paperwork, more inspections, more delays, then a final squadron farewell party at a roadhouse out in the countryside. It was a hell of a party. In the morning we’d be off to war.

  4

  Off to War

  Oh God, I didn’t want to wake up. I didn’t want to move. My tongue felt like a corncob, my stomach was heaving, and my head pounded. My leg felt like it was in a vice. Loud voices sounded in the hall, and then pounding feet, noises outside.… Where was I? What was going on?

  Suddenly, it dawned on me. We were at the Santa Maria staging base. Early get up and muster for the ultimate roll call. Oh shit. We were to march to the railway siding and board a troop train for the East Coast and the port of embarkation. My God! What was I doing here on the floor? My eyes snapped open. The room was a shambles. The bunk bed was broken, the mattress was half over me, and my right leg
was thrust through the paperboard wall into the next room. What happened? Hazy memories surfaced of the going-away party, too many drinks, going outside for air and falling backward into the tall grass by a tower of some kind, lying there wondering if someone would find me when the party broke up. Last conscious thought was, Can’t miss that train! God, I can’t miss that train.

  I disentangled myself from the wreckage, got up, nearly fell back against the wall, grabbed my B-4 bag, threw my toilet kit into the middle, closed it, belted on my .45, and stumbled outside. The rest of the squadron was already lined up, so I fell into place in the rear. No one would speak to me or even look at me. Judging from my condition and the chaos in my barracks room, I could guess why.

  Roll call completed, we marched off to the rail yard and the awaiting troop train. It was more like the retreat from Moscow than a military formation. We all carried one or two heavy bags. No one was in step, but I couldn’t have done it anyway.

  Our B-4s were collected and stowed in a freight car. I thought of my toothbrush and wished I had used it. Confusion reigned as we boarded in groups … by headquarters people, by squadron, by flight, by rail car. We found seats in what must have been a vintage 1910 day coach. I wondered dully where we were going to sleep. Maybe not at all. It didn’t matter.

  The general buzz of excitement didn’t include me. I was deservedly miserable. A hammer pounded inside my head, focused somewhere behind my right eye. I don’t know whether I slept or passed out. Time must have passed, for when I finally opened my eyes we were slowly rolling down the Pacific Coast. I wondered if this would be the last time I saw the Pacific and quickly buried the thought. Gradually my senses returned, my head stopped pounding, and I got caught up in the mood of my squadron mates. I asked Elmo Sears what in hell had happened last night. He looked at me sadly and shook his head. Others did the same. I was still in limbo, but enough of the story came out for me to realize I had resisted being put to bed by my caring mates. I’d thought it a great sport, but my rescuers hadn’t shared my viewpoint. It explained my wake-up condition.