On Seas So Crimson

by James Young

  Pensacola Naval Air Station

  1100 Eastern (0600 Hawaiian Time)

  The room was so quiet that Adam could actually hear the clock ticking above and behind him on the wall. Both hands on the lectern, he took a moment to survey the gathered young pilots before him. VMF-21, as a fighter squadron, had four more pilots than it did planes, meaning that the classroom was quite packed with twenty testosterone-laden neophytes.

  Green as grass, every last one of them, Adam thought, his blue eyes scanning over each face as he looked around the room’s white walls. Well, let’s get the introductions over with.

  “Gentlemen, I am your new commander, Major Adam Haynes,” Adam began. “I’ve been informed that the better connected among you have already made some discreet inquiries as to who the Hell I am.”

  Adam stopped and stared directly at the two individuals he was speaking of. Both young captains suddenly realized that they had obviously overestimated their contacts’ discrection.

  “To ensure everyone who doesn’t have an admiral father or uncle is as informed, let me state up front that I did not exist as a Marine prior to this previous December,” Adam stated bluntly.

  Well that got everyone’s attention, Adam noted.

  “Some of you may think that this little fact is a travesty or somehow makes me unqualified to lead this squadron,” Adam continued, his voice almost a growl. “Indeed, some of you were foolish enough to say this aloud and in public.”

  There was a rustle as several officers shifted uncomfortably.

  “Let me state this once, and only once, gentlemen,” Adam said, his tone icy. “Your opinion on my pedigree is of no concern. What is of importance is that you went outside of the chain-of-command. That bullshit stops effective immediately, and the next man who does it better pray to God or sacrifice a virgin, because I’ll make you wish your mother had joined a convent.”

  All twenty men in front of him stiffened, with a couple even starting to glare at him in defiance. He met the eyes of one and held the gaze until the junior officer flinched away.

  Bowles, Adam thought. Going to have to break that man, I see. I get the feeling he’ll give me a chance sooner rather than later.

  “Unless there’s something missing from your personnel jackets, I’m the only man in this room whom has actually put a burst of fire into an enemy aircraft and got to watch the poor bastard burn all the way to the ground,” Adam snarled. “So sorry if you think four years sitting in some finishing school on the Severn means you get to look down on me, but I care even less than the Krauts we will be fighting do about where you went to school.”

  Looking over the group, Adam saw that he had gotten most of the group’s attention.

  “Since very few of you gentlemen have ever seen death, outside of some elderly relative lying all pretty in a coffin, I assure you that when some experten jumps you it will be neither a quaint nor noble demise,” Adam continued, his eyes swinging until he locked gazes with Bowles again.

  “There won’t be many open casket funerals, provided your remains are even found. You will die screaming for your mothers, choking to death on your own blood, or looking down at the mess between your legs that used to be your balls because you weren’t paying fucking attention,” Adam said. “Or because some stupid bastard who thinks having an admiral daddy means he doesn’t have to earn squadron command forgets to clear your tail.”

  Adam might as well have slapped Captain Bowles with a gauntlet. The junior officers nostrils flared even as he struggled to keep his face passive.

  Good, I seem to have gotten their attention, Adam thought. Let’s see how many of them might be worth saving. Adam stepped from behind the podium, looking at his watch as the second hand finished its journey.

  “I have 1120 hours,” Adam stated. “The squadron flight roster has been posted in the ready room with the fifteen of you flying with me today checked off. At 1150, you will be at the flight line with your gear, preflight complete, and ready to take off. Group, attention!”

  The majority of the men sprang up as one. Adam noted the four or five, taking their cue from Bowles, who were a tad bit slower.

  Well, well, well, looks like the rumors about ol’ Bowles being a bit presumptuous about lucking into a squadron were true, Adam thought. He let the gathered group stay locked at attention for a few moments.

  “Gentlemen, if you’re here to fly and fight, you’ll be on time to the flight line,” Adam reiterated. “If you’re too damn yellow or too damn stupid to want to fight in the war that’s coming, you’ll be late—and I’ll stop wasting my time on you. Dismissed!”

  Without a second look, the young men began heading for the exits. There were slight murmurs and pensive glances as they moved through the two doors. The door swung closed only briefly before it was pushed open by an arm clad in Royal Air Force blue. Adam’s eyes narrowed until the arm’s owner stepped all the way into the room, then suddenly brightened as the newcomer spoke.

  “A stirring speech, if I do say myself, Squadron Leader Haynes,” Connor O’Rourke said in his Irish brogue. “Now once the gentlemen finish cleaning their underwear, I’m sure they’ll be quite ready to follow you into battle.”

  “You rat bastard!” Adam cried, rushing forward to embrace his old comrade.

  “Easy mate, the skin grafts still stretch crazy if you catch them wrong,” Connor said, throwing his arms around his friend. Adam stepped back after the first hug, looking over his friend’s face.

  “Amazing what they can do with plastic surgery these days,” Connor said grimly. “Or I guess I should truthfully say at least I don’t make small children scream the minute they see me.”

  Adam wanted to disagree with his friend, but didn’t have it in his heart to tell an obvious lie. Connor had been an incredibly dashing man the last time the two men had seen each other. What had been ruggedly handsome face with piercing blue eyes and reddish brown hair had been forever altered by the 20-mm shell that had ignited the Spitfire’s fuel tank.

  “A face made for radio, eh?” Connor said, smiling. From his moustache up, the man’s face looked only slightly blemished. From there down, however, it looked as if someone had melted him with hot wax, then tried to force the pieces together.

  “How bad was it?” Adam asked.

  “Doctors said I was lucky to live,” Connor replied brightly. “Don’t know about all that. Be nice to see Margaret, Mum and Sarah, maybe get away from all this.”

  I at least hope it was quick for them, Adam said. Especially Sarah. No one deserves to die burning to death, nevermind as a newborn.

  “I’m so sorry,” Adam said, his voice catching. “I went…”

  “I know,” Connor said. “Commander Slade came to visit our rehab center in Toronto, try to cheer us chaps up. Thank you for that.”

  Adam simply nodded, not trusting himself to speak.

  “I see that the Commonwealth has finally decided to give you rank commensurate with your flying abilities,” Adam said, changing the subject.

  “Well, we always said no one over Squadron Leader could fly a glider, nevermind a Spit,” Connor observed. “Here’s to hoping we were exaggerating a little bit.”

  The Irishman looked Adam over.

  “I find it hard to believe that the Colonial Marines are in dire enough straits that they are allowing such disreputable characters as you to take command of squadrons,” Connor responded dryly, his Irish brogue adding a slight lilt to the words. Adam started to punch him in the arm, then caught himself.

  Adam shrugged.

  “Seems killing Germans for fun and profit has secondary benefits,” Adam observed. “Although I had to sit in Canada for a few weeks because of it. Didn’t get a chance to talk to my mother again.”

  Connor nodded sympathetically. The roar of engines passing overhead caused Adam to look at his watch.

  “We need to walk towards the flight line,” he said. Connor nodded, letting Adam lead him out of the classroom, then the building i
tself. The two men strode quickly, saluting passing Marine and Navy officers as they walked.

  “Good thing your President sprung you all,” Connor observed after a few minutes. “These blokes all look so young.”

  “That’s because they are,” Adam said grimly. “There was some consternation about me even being given a squadron because of my age.”

  “What?” Connor asked incredulously. “If Douglas Bader, God rest his soul, was given a second chance with artificial legs, certainly your age shouldn’t disqualify you.”

  “Yes, well, thankfully it was made clear to some folks who wanted to put me in a training unit that I wasn’t made a Marine to teach pilots which switches to turn on.”

  “Besides, given some of the blokes we flew for, it’s been proven you can teach a monkey to do acrobatics,” Connor spat. “It takes a real man to keep his head out in a dog fight.”

  “You sound like Sailor,” Adam said.

  “You know he’s here with me along with Stanford Tuck, right?”

  “What?! I thought South Africa voted to sit the rest of this one out?! How is Sailor here?” Adam replied, amazed.

  “South Africa did,” Connor replied. “One Wing Commander Malan, not so much. He’s basically a man without a country now.”

  “I know that feeling. I rented a house off post, you guys need to come visit,” Adam said. “How long are you guys going to be here?”

  “Don’t know,” Connor said. “We were supposed to give a lecture to some of your squadron leaders along with a couple of your blokes just back from China. But now the Training Command is talking about us training some Fleet Air Arm chaps on the new Seafire. Be nice if I knew how to fly one myself, of course, but that’s supposed to be getting fixed here in the next couple of days.”

  “Interesting,” Adam thought, his mind awake to some possibilities.

  “Speaking of your house, do you have an extra room?” Connor asked. “I was told I needed to be on my best behavior if I stayed at the hotel our representative set us up with. I’d rather actually go out and live a little.”

  What he really means is that he doesn’t want to disturb anyone with his screaming, Adam thought. Some of us know a thing or two about nightmares.

  “Sounds good to me,” Adam replied. “I was thinking I’d have to play Russian Roulette with roommates here soon.”

  A small white lie, but he doesn’t need to know that, Adam thought .

  “Knowing your luck, you’d end up with some buxom blonde with loose morals,” Connor said with a grin.

  A shadow of pain flitted over Adam’s face.

  “I haven’t exactly had the best luck with women as of late,” Adam said. “But if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got to try and save the lives of some very inexperienced young men.”

  “Funny, I feel in the mood for a scrap,” Connor said, a twinkle in his eye. “I figure since I could beat your arse if we were both in Spitfires, embarrassing you in that junk heap you call a fighter plane should be fairly easy.”

  Adam bared his teeth in a slight smile.

  “In a few days, I’ll be happy to take you up on that offer,” Adam said. “First, however, I’ve got to see what I’m working with. If these idiots can’t keep simple formation, I’m not going to take my chances with them in a dogfight given what happened to my predecessor.”

  “Terrible thing that,” Connor observed. “From what I am told, they could hear his wingman screaming the whole way down.”

  Adam shrugged.

  “Well, it happens. Let’s say another week at least, and I suggest you bring Sailor or someone to cover your tail…I’ll be gunning for you.”

  Connor snorted as they reached the VMF-21 squadron area.

  “With that bunch of fresh meat you have there, a wingman will hardly be necessary for me. I’ll be at the Officer’s Club when you get done,” Connor said.

  At precisely 1150, Adam stood in front of his light gray Wildcat in full flight gear. A monoplane fighter with a short, stubby frame, the Wildcat was the standard fighter of the Navy and Marine Corps. With its very narrow undercarriage holding up its tubby frame, the Wildcat looked like an ugly duck. In the case of VMF-21, the group flew the most recent model, the F4F-4. This meant the fighter’s mid-fuselage mounted wing carried six machine guns instead of the earlier model’s four, plus had numerous improvements such as cockpit armor and folding wings.

  Four guns or six, it’s still a dog, Adam thought bitterly. About as good as a Hurricane, and that thing has been meat on the table since 1941. Twenty knots too slow, can’t climb worth a damn, and it looks like your buddy’s sister that your taking to the prom just so she won’t feel bad.

  Clearing those thoughts from his mind, Adam turned from looking at his fighter to staring at the three captains who stood in front of him. They were the most senior members of the squadron present, with Captains Bowles, Kennedy, and West having decided that punctuality was a principle of little importance.

  I have half a mind to replace Bowles and his friends with the spare pilots, but that would probably start a shit storm I’m not quite ready to unleash, Adam thought grimly.

  “Gentlemen, I judge by the fact that you are standing here that my instructions were clear?” Adam stated. “Since it is apparent that the previous flight, correction, division leaders do not speak English as their first language, they will have to be put in a position where they can learn simple concepts, such as telling time.”

  “Sir, I think Captain Bowles had to go to the mess hall to grab lunch,” Captain Keith Seidel said, his Southern drawl somewhat tremulous. The stocky, black-haired officer looked rather nervous, as if he was about to get drawn into a fight he wanted no part of.

  “Interesting,” Adam said. “Tell me, Captain Seidel, did you grab lunch?” Adam asked.

  “No sir,” Seidel replied, his brown eyes briefly narrowing as he thought about Adam’s query.

  “Captain Walters, how about you?” Adam said, turning to the tall, rangy brown haired officer standing to Seidel’s right.

  “No sir,” Walters replied easily.

  “I’m guessing Captain Kennedy’s wife made his lunch for him,” Adam said, causing Kennedy to briefly look astonished.

  At least the poor bastard before me had a good personnel book even if his luck was shit, Adam thought. Lots of interesting facts in there.

  “So, as I was saying, Captain Walters will take Green Division, Seidel will take Blue, Kennedy will take yellow,” Adam said evenly. “Captain Seidel, your second section will be led by Lieutenant Mathias, while Captain Kennedy’s second section leader will be Lieutenant Terrell.”

  Seidel and Kennedy glanced down the flight line to where the two first lieutenants were waiting by their fighters, then back at Adam.

  “There is Captain Bowles,” Captain Walters said, his voice full of relief. Adam turned and fixed the man with a baleful glare.

  “Are you a hound dog, Captain Walters?” Adam asked quietly.

  “Uh, no sir?” Walters stated.

  “Good, because that will be the last time you point and yip like an excited retriever,” Adam snapped. “I believe you have your orders, so I do not understand why you are still standing here.”

  All three men came to attention at that, saluting. Adam returned the salute, then turned to head towards his own fighter.

  “Sir, is there something I should know about?” Master Sergeant Seaver, VMF-21’s senior crew chief, asked. “It appears that some officers are heading for the wrong fighters.”

  Adam smiled, and it was a look that would have scared most men.

  “Nothing that you probably won’t hear the explanation for in a moment if you listen close,” Adam replied as Seaver began helping him strap in. Seaver’s lined, tanned face split into a smile at that comment.

  “Always happy to get free entertainment, sir,” Seaver replied, running a hand through his gray hair.

  “Major Haynes!” Bowles shouted, moving down the tarmac towards Adam’s fight
er. Adam saw several heads snap around in their own cockpits at the obviously agitated officer’s tone.

  Oh good, witnesses, Adam thought, pointedly ignoring the man as he reached the Wildcat’s starboard wingtip.

  “Major Haynes!” Bowles barked as Seavers hopped off the fighter’s port wing.

  “I am quite certain, Captain Bowles,” Adam said, his voice dripping menace, “that you are merely projecting your voice in fear that my engine might soon drown you out and most assuredly not speaking to me in an insubordinate tone.”

  Bowles opened his mouth, almost assuredly to tell Adam just what he thought about his projection when Captain West saved his friend.

  “Sir, there appears to have been a misunderstanding,” West said, his voice dripping forced politeness. Fair haired and blue eyed, West looked a slightly overweight boxer, complete with a crooked nose.

  “Interesting,” Adam replied. “Given that there are apparently twelve other officers who comprehended me quite clearly, perhaps the issue isn’t understanding but condescension?”

  The sound of several engines turning over almost made Adam smile.

  Looks like Master Sergeant Seavers is goading the angry bucks, Adam thought.

  “Sir! The wing commander clearly stated in his policy that seniority…” Bowles started to shout. Checking to make sure the propeller on his fighter was clear, Adam signaled to Seavers that he was about to start up the Wildcat’s Pratt & Whitney engine.

  “I suggest you gentlemen get to your planes,” Adam called. “Unless you’re planning on flapping your wings to get to altitude.”

  With that, Adam pressed the ignition switch. With a puff of black smoke and sound of its shotgun shell starter, the radial engine began to turn over. Out of the corner of his eye, Adam saw Bowles start to take a step towards his fighter before West grabbed him. Shoving off his companion’s grasp, Bowles turned and stalked back towards his own mount.

  Probably doesn’t realize I’m not really too concerned about his Daddy, Adam thought. When my own father calls the Commandant and Chief of Naval Operations by their first names, pretty sure I hold trump.