General Spaatz acknowledged their greetings with self-deprecating waves of his hands as he came halfway down the stairs. He seemed to be looking over the crowd for someone. He stopped, looked right at me standing in the corner, waved, and shouted, “Hi, Robin! God it’s good to see you. Glad you made it.”
A murmur of disbelief followed him as he ignored everyone else and came across the room to my corner.
He put his arm around my shoulders and led me away, saying, “Come on, let’s go into my poker room. We can’t talk in here, and I have lots to tell you. Then I want to hear all about you.”
Needless to say, I was flabbergasted, but the Old Man put me at ease as we entered the game room and sat at his green-covered poker table. An enlisted aide brought him a cocktail and asked if I wanted anything. I declined, thinking I’d better keep my wits about me.
After telling me my father would have been proud of me (which brought a lump to my throat), General Spaatz went on to relate his experiences at the surrender ceremony. He described how the Russians had toasted every signature with a shot of vodka, which naturally had to be answered in kind. By the time the envoy from Lithuania had his turn, his aides had to help him to the signing table. The general laughed and confessed he wasn’t feeling too spry himself by that time and was glad his signature was one of the first. He went on to tell me of the new weapons of war the Germans had been developing: manned rocket interceptors, larger V-2s, better fighters, and a host of equipment that might well have prolonged the war by years. Apparently, the Allied crossing of the Rhine was not just timely, but extremely decisive.
I felt as though General Spaatz were my father. His manner was warm and personal, not at all military. He looked at me a moment and said, “Robin, I have some advice for you. You’ve told me you intend staying in the service. That’s good and I’m glad. Now, I know advice is cheap and often suspect, but here goes. You’ve had a good start and there’s a long road in front of you, but always remember this: Your most difficult problem will be the people. In the military, they mostly divide themselves into four major categories: There are the ‘me-firsters,’ the ‘me-tooers,’ the ‘deadwood,’ and the ‘dedicated.’ You are among the minority, the ‘dedicated.’ Stick with them, search them out, and work hard to be worthy of their company. You won’t be popular with a lot of your bosses who act dedicated but really aren’t, and that can make life difficult at times. Beware of the ‘deadwood.’ Most of them mean well and, in their own way, try hard, are loyal, and are even useful. But too often they’ll botch things up and get you and your outfit in trouble.
“Watch out for the ‘me-tooers.’ These guys will tell you whatever they think you want to hear. They borrow thoughts and ideas from others and present them to you as though they were their own. They are the opportunists who look for every avenue to advance themselves, without sticking their own necks out. They ride someone’s coattails and try to make themselves indispensible to the boss. Believe me, they are not to be trusted. You don’t want yes-men around you, but you can’t always avoid them.”
Spaatz went on to warn, “The worst and most dangerous are the ‘me-firsters.” Most of them are intelligent and totally ruthless. They use the service for their own gain and will not hesitate to stick a knife in your back at the slightest indication you might stand in their way. They seem arrogant, but don’t be fooled. They are really completely lacking in true self-confidence. Do you understand all that?”
I nodded, knowing that if I didn’t understand all of it in that moment, I sure as hell would remember and understand it in the future.
General Spaatz smiled and stood up. He reached out and shook my hand as he said, “Well, I’ve kept those great people out there waiting long enough.”
He reached into the inside pocket of his Eisenhower jacket and pulled out a large bundle of francs neatly wrapped by a rubber band. “Here, Robin, take this. Those guys out there don’t know their contributions at this poker table will be used to aid and abet the delinquency of a junior officer. Don’t try to refuse. I’ve had Sally set up a driver and a staff car for you. It’s out front. Get out of here and get lost in Paris. I’m sure you’ll find lots to amuse yourself.”
A general is not to be disobeyed. In Paris the money could buy a lot. I wound up with six bottles of champagne and three very affectionate girls who may have been professionals at this sort of thing. In the morning the girls were gone. So were my watch and wallet. My clothes, however, were cleaned, pressed, and neatly folded beside the bed. The hotel owner took pity on me, fed me for the remainder of my stay, and then had his wife drive me to the airdrome. I pondered General Spaatz’s words during that flight home. In fact, I pondered his words for the rest of my career.
When I returned to Wattisham, six days past my authorized two-day leave, serious instruction and orientation for the South Pacific ensued. The men endured long lectures about mosquitoes, snakes, and lice, how to purify water, read maps, and avoid malaria and yellow fever, all while fighting the Asian enemy. We watched films on how to survive in the jungle, how to not get venereal diseases (far more interesting films than how to avoid bug bites), and a couple of shorts on Japan, reminding us why we were at war. Mixed in with this serious stuff were orders on increasing exercise. We all took that very seriously. Volleyball games became brutal. Men got hurt playing softball. Boxing matches drew blood. The enlisted men returned to the rifle range and remembered they were in the army. Pilots studied stacks of photos of Japanese aircraft and flew a few training missions. Best of all, some of our pilots who had been POWs came back for a quick visit before heading home. Imagine our happiness at seeing Hub Zemke, Al Tucker, Frank Keller, Tom Neeley, Ronald Maley, and Ossie Duval. Many pints of ale were downed and spilled as we greeted our missing pals.
June brought more training, more exercise, more inspections, longer showers, more pub crawling, three-day and longer passes, personnel transfers, and the establishment of the Wattisham Kennel Club for the many pampered dogs collected over the months. A station field day was held, involving three-legged races, bicycle obstacle races, volleyball tournaments, and even an air show put on by four of us. Major Pierce juiced up the performance by making a spectacular forced landing when his engine went out over the field. A picnic of fried chicken and ice cream was followed by a baseball game, dancing, beer, and quite probably the conception of a few children. Toward the end of the month came the official announcement that the group would leave England sometime in September. Based on May and June, how in the hell would we keep busy enough to stay out of trouble for two more months?
Life at Wattisham took on a form of normalcy for the rest of the summer. The news about going to the Pacific for the invasion of Japan was reinforced by the assignment of some fourteen brand-new P-47Ms to my squadron. Though no formal announcement was made, we were told to check ourselves out and do some training in these new birds, just in case. Since we still had more than a full complement of P-51s, about thirty of them, plus what we called “war wearies,” and since none of us had anything else to do, we flew our butts off. Dogfights right above the base were a common occurrence as we sought to establish bragging rights in the different types of birds.
Part of our time was spent ferrying aircraft to Liverpool or to a base called Langford Lodge near Belfast. I took a P-38 over there one beautiful day. The bird had less than twenty hours’ flying time on it and even smelled new. Before I had even finished signing all the transfer paperwork at Langford, a scruffy bunch of workers cut the tail booms off with acetylene torches and pushed it off to a trash heap. I nearly cried at the waste of a wonderful airplane.
The weeks wore on. We flew and we played volleyball. We went to London pubs and staggered back to base to fly some more. We partied at other bases and threw parties at ours. We weren’t bored but, without making a big deal out of it, we missed the excitement and sense of danger that had anchored our existence for the previous year. I suppose it happens after every great conflict, but we found ourselves
somehow adrift. We weren’t unhappy; we just felt in limbo, impatient for direction and meaning.
August came, and with it screaming black headlines:
ATOMIC BOMB DROPPED ON JAPAN!
Then three days later: SECOND GIANT BOMB HITS NAGASAKI!
Then on September 2: JAPAN SURRENDERS. V-J DAY CELEBRATED AROUND THE WORLD!
Just as on V-E Day, we were confined to the base. It didn’t make us feel too good to see the pictures in the British tabloids of celebrations in Times Square, Trafalgar Square, and Piccadilly Circus, women being mobbed by soldiers and sailors and a lot of vice versa. In the squadron ready room, someone muttered, “What’s that goddamn sailor doing in Times Square? Why isn’t he aboard ship somewhere?” To say we were jealous would be putting it mildly.
The rest of August following the bombing of Japan passed without fanfare. We continued to fly, but there was no enthusiasm in it. Those who had the tour points went home. There were celebrations, but no farewells. People I had fought alongside or had known in the squadron were there one day and gone the next.
As always, rumors abounded: The squadron was being sent to the occupation forces in Germany instead of the Pacific and volunteers were needed to stay on. I volunteered but couldn’t find anyone to accept my offer. By the end of the month, morale had gone down the tubes. Everyone was now anxious to get on with it, whether that meant a new assignment or a long-awaited return to civilian life and a job at home.
At the end of August, the group adjutant called. “Come over to my office, Robin. Your orders have arrived.”
I hustled over and Lieutenant Colonel Stenton handed me a TWX. I stared at it.
MAJOR ROBIN OLDS, USAAF, FR26046, WILL PROCEED ON OR ABOUT 010945 TO THE ZONE OF INTERIOR AND REPORT TO THE COMMANDING GENERAL OF THE PORT OF DEBARKATION FOR FURTHER ORDERS. AIR TRANSPORTATION IS AUTHORIZED.
This was followed by the usual hieroglyphics spelling out travel and payment authority for those who knew and cared about such things. There was no signature, and no further information.
I stared at the paper in disbelief. Hell, I didn’t want to go home. Sure, the war was over here in Europe and in the Pacific, but life was good, the flying great, and I enjoyed being the CO of the 434th Fighter Squadron. Why go home? To what?
“Colonel, what’s this about?” Obviously someone wanted me, but didn’t want me to know anything until I returned Stateside. There had to be an answer.
“Beats me, Robin. You know as much as I do. See this? That symbol means the message came from the Pentagon. I figure somebody wants you real bad. Wish I could tell you more.” He rose and shook my hand. “Good luck. Maybe we’ll be seeing each other again someday, maybe not. In any event I wish you the best.”
I found our group commander, Colonel Riddle, and tried to plead my case. Riddle looked at the paper, thought for a moment, and said, “Looks like they want you for something, Robin. Guess you’re going to have to go.”
That was the end of that. No more 434th, no more unrestricted flying and camaraderie, no more trips to London, just this new beginning, totally mysterious and unknown. Parting was too abrupt to allow time to feel emotional. I disappeared from the BOQ and Wattisham in the same invisible fashion as those before me.
Someone flew me up to Prestwick on the west coast of Scotland. There were a few hours spent processing paperwork, but still no clue about my final destination. There were several raised eyebrows at the form and wording of my orders, but what the hell, the war was over and everything was in turmoil. Everybody wanted to go home, and a single major’s fate was about as important as a grain of sand on the beach. The next morning I was on a C-54 headed for the States.
The canvas seats lining the sides of the four-engine C-54 were not exactly the lap of luxury. They were designed for quick conversion to cargo or litters for wounded; but no invention of man except a sandpaper-covered toilet seat could have been more uncomfortable. It worked for airborne troops loaded with equipment and sitting on their parachutes. You felt as though your butt were drooped in a washbowl with the front edges cutting into the backs of your legs. A webbing of sorts provided no back support at all, and the ribs of the fuselage gouged if you leaned back.
Well, at least it’s for only seventeen, maybe eighteen hours, I thought as I tried to squirm into a more comfortable position. After three or four hours of misery I gave up, took the thin seat cushion for a pillow, and stretched out on the metal flooring. Nearly everyone else followed suit, grabbed duffels as pillows and lay down on the floor, to the dismay of the loadmaster. The crusty old sergeant tried to enforce regulations and get us back into our seats. Finally, he got the aircraft commander involved. We told them both to go to hell. What were they going to do, throw us out? The pilot angrily slammed the door to the cockpit and the loadmaster shrugged. He’d done his duty and the problem had been successfully passed up the line in good GI fashion. His last avenue for discipline was to leave the cabin lights full bright. We didn’t care. We were bone tired, war weary, physically and emotionally spent. This was the beginning of an adrenaline letdown and combat decompression.
Nothing much mattered. We were going home, strangers all, sharing the emotion without any talk. Each of us looked around, hoping to see a kindred soul, or at least someone who looked as though he had been in the same part of the war. You might have thought we’d be exuberant or excited. Not so. I think we were all too tired, immersed in our own thoughts, withdrawn. I lay on that metal floor and thought of the fate that had taken so many of my friends and left me physically unharmed yet emotionally drained. This last surprised me. I don’t think any of us were aware of our psychological condition as long as we were together in the squadron. Perhaps it had been a holdover from those evenings when we didn’t count the empty chairs, when death was something that happened to others, not you. Suppression of your emotions allows you to cope, but it isn’t necessarily good for you.
The tension among us gradually disappeared as the plane flew on above the featureless North Atlantic. Most of the men slept fitfully. The hours passed slowly for those of us unable to sleep. The drone of the engines and the steady vibration of the aircraft faded into the background. I felt as though I were in a semihypnotic trance. There was nothing to do but stare up at the cabin ceiling and wait for this to end. I hadn’t thought to bring a book. I couldn’t get at the notepaper in my luggage, and conversation with my fellow passengers had ceased. I finally fell asleep, but awoke when I sensed a change in the engines’ power settings. We were letting down into Keflavík, Iceland, a welcome break in the monotony of the flight. We were allowed off to stretch our legs. The place hadn’t changed since December 1944. Once again, I thanked God I had never been stationed there.
The break was brief, and then we were back on board for the long final leg home. On we droned through a black night. After several hours, there was a stir of excitement as someone yelled, “Land!” We pulled ourselves up off the floor and seats to press our faces to the tiny windows on the starboard side of the ship. We were rewarded with a formless black mass, unpunctuated by any discernible features, not even a solitary light. We had to be over the northeast coast of Canada. Our journey was still far from over. In those monotonous hours, I grew to dislike that C-54 as though it were a living thing. Except for the fact that it hadn’t fallen into the Atlantic, it had nothing to recommend it. I again gave silent thanks to the Fates for making me a fighter pilot.
Finally, as the dark faded into a gray gloom, we saw twinklings of the coast of New England and then the blazing lights of New York City. I remember trying to control a lump in my throat, not from elation, but from a sudden wave of gratitude at being alive mixed with sadness at the thought of the thousands and thousands of young Americans who would never return.
With an audible chirp of tires our big bird settled onto the runway at LaGuardia, taxied in, and stopped. We were home! The engines shut down and we all stood, preparing to disembark. Not so fast! We were told to sit. The door at the fron
t of the plane opened and an officious-looking army captain entered. He carried a clipboard and literally quivered with self-importance as he made his way toward the rear of the cabin handing each of us a sheet of instructions. He returned to the front and announced that we had landed at LaGuardia. No shit? Then he gave us a lecture on the importance of the “in-processing” we would be receiving at Fort Hamilton. We were admonished that our behavior would be closely monitored by the military police, and we were advised that appointments and locations on our handout sheet should be scrupulously followed. His Good Conduct Medal fairly palpitated as we gave him a royal raspberry. I noted his newly created Victory Medal and kind of envied him. None of us had one yet.
We were herded off the plane in a sorry semblance of military order, all of us in tacit agreement to give the little prick a hard time. We knew we’d ultimately follow what was ordained, but there was no point in making life easy for him. To hell with that! Any semblance of order quickly disappeared as we spontaneously broke into a dead run for the soda fountain someone spotted at the end of the terminal. The soda jerk saw us coming and immediately lined his counter with bottles of milk. He knew the syndrome well. The milk in Europe had been taboo according to the docs, the powdered stuff was like paste, and we longed for the fresh American farm product. That fountain guy could have made a small fortune if he’d wanted to. I know I would have paid three times what he asked, without question.
Our milk cravings satisfied, we boarded the waiting bus in better humor. Somehow a dull spell had been cast aside, and there was laughter and shouting as the bus proceeded across Brooklyn to Fort Hamilton. Once there, we were ushered into an empty bay in a two-story barracks building, told to find a cot, pointed to the location of the latrine, and advised that reveille would be at 5:00 A.M. Reveille, for God’s sake? None of us had been subjected to that horror since cadet days. If mission briefing was scheduled at 5:00 A.M. we’d be there. If we weren’t flying that day, we slept in. Simple. But this? Reveille? Christ almighty.
Fighter Pilot Page 18
