Rush to Glory

by Robert L Hecker

  Since entering the gate, they had been passing more green pastures dotted with ancient oaks and patches of elms. It seemed to Hal that they followed the winding road for most of a mile before they came to a scattering of low, half-round Quonset huts made of corrugated steel. The rusting metal of the huts was broken at regular intervals by painted-over windows.

  Looking like huge, half-buried oil drums, the buildings sprawled aimlessly on either side of narrow side roads, while around and behind the squat buildings, green pastures stretched into the haze. Two or three bicycles leaned disconsolately against the sides of the huts.

  They sped past two more clusters of Quonset huts before Hal saw a more substantial looking one-story wooden building sitting back from the road with a flagpole in front supporting a limp, fog-dampened American flag. The building was flanked on either side by two long Quonset huts and an outcropping of smaller wooden buildings. A sign above the large building’s doorway read: 401ST BOMB GROUP, 40TH COMBAT WING, 1ST BOMB DIVISION.

  “Headquarters,” the Corporal said as he pulled up in front of the building.

  Weems got out and opened the door for the girl, then went to take her bag from the trunk. Before she slid from the seat, the girl smiled at Hal and held out her hand. “Nice to have met you, Lt. Bailey.”

  Hal took her hand. Was she sincere? Or was she simply finding her manners? “You too, Miss . . . uh . . . Axley.”

  She got out of the car, and Hal watched her precede Weems toward headquarters. He liked the way she carried herself when she walked. His shoulders were back, and she took long, swinging strides, her toes pointed straight ahead, moving with purpose and confidence. Going to meet the colonel. She had to be someone important.

  When Weems came back and slid behind the wheel, he said, “Some doll, huh. I bet the colonel’s banging her?”

  The words sent a chill of disappointment through Hal. So, she was the colonel’s girlfriend. Or fiancée. That certainly put the damper on any romantic ideas he might have had unless Weems was wrong.

  “What makes you think so?”

  “I’ve seen her somewhere before. Maybe she’s a commando.”

  “Commando?” Weems had to be mistaken. She was far too soft to be a hardened combat veteran.

  Reading Hal’s blank expression, Weems added, “Piccadilly commando. You know. Prostitute. Whore.”

  Hal couldn’t have been more shocked if Weems had jabbed him with an ice pick. Prostitute! That pretty, vivacious girl? He quickly dismissed the thought. Impossible. There had to be another reason to see the colonel.

  The narrow macadam road, bordered by emerald grass, wound past other Quonset huts, but Hal still hadn’t seen more than two or three people. He asked, “Where is the field, the runway?”

  “Over there.” The Corporal jerked his thumb toward a line of low trees. “We got things dispersed here. Germans used to come over and clobber us.”

  “Were you here then?”

  “Sure. Me an’ a coupl’a others are the only ones left’a the old outfit. Everybody else’s dead, captured, or rotated back to the Z I.”

  “How about you? You have twenty-five missions.”

  The Corporal snorted. “I’m not goin’ back until we’ve whipped the asses off those bastards.”

  “Are you still flying?”

  “Shit no. I would, but the medics won’t let me. Battle fatigue, if you can believe that crap.” He spit expertly out the window. “Battle fatigue. Shit. I had that after one mission.”

  Hal stared at the corporal. This was probably the reason he was allowed his relaxed attitude. He was a survivor from the rough days of the air war. And if he did suffer from battle fatigue, his non-military conduct would be overlooked.

  The car swept off the main road, rounded a flat curve, and eased to a stop before a Quonset hut in another small complex of huts and wooden buildings set in a sea of green grass. A sign nailed over the Quonset’s door read, “HEADQUARTERS, 6l5th SQUADRON.” A short gravel walk led from the paved road to the door.

  The Corporal swung to the ground. Without waiting, he grabbed Hal’s bag from the trunk and crunched up to the door and pushed his way inside. Hal followed slowly, fighting sudden nervousness. He wondered what he should say to his brother, how he should act. After all, he was only a second lieutenant while Luke was a major, and his squadron commander at that. And Luke had always been a hard disciplinarian when he had been forced to take care of his little brother.

  Hal paused before entering to make sure his garrison-hat was on at the proper angle, and his jacket buttoned properly. He dusted his shoes on the back of his pant legs, took a deep breath, pushed open the door, and entered.

  He let his breath out in slow relief. He was in a small outer office. Two straight-backed chairs hugged one curved wall. Three large steel filing cabinets almost filled the remainder of the room. Pictures of B-17s on missions and reconnaissance photos of bombs hitting targets hung on the walls. A sprinkling of comic books and flight manuals cluttered the chairs and the top of the filing cabinets. A small radio made tinny musical noises that sounded vaguely like Harry James’ “Sleepy Lagoon.” Weems was already slumped in a chair reading a comic book. An overweight sergeant was sitting behind a desk close to the only other door studying a paperback edition of ‘God’s Little Acre.’ A carved wooden sign on the desk said that his name was Sgt. Leonard Spellman.

  “Go on in,” Spellman said without looking up. “He’s expecting you.”

  Hal opened the door and walked into the office of his brother: Major Luke Bailey, Squadron Commander.

  CHAPTER 2

  Hal’s first thought was that his brother hadn’t changed much. Sitting behind a battered wooden desk wearing an O.D. uniform, Luke was as solid-looking as ever. There were deeper lines in the flat planes of his face, but the regulation cap pushed back on his head had the accepted 50-mission crush, the stubby cigar clenched between his teeth hadn’t grown an inch, his curly light-brown hair still flopped across his wide forehead, and his khaki tie, pulled loose from his open collar, was still unevenly tied with the long end reaching to his web belt. An O.D. Eisenhower jacket was slung over the back of his chair.

  He saw Hal and stood up without smiling. “Hal, you bastard.” He stalked around the desk and grabbed Hal by both shoulders. “How’n hell did you ever get to be an officer? Hey, you’re almost as big as me. A little skinnier, maybe. How’n hell are you?”

  “Fine,” Hal said with a smile. As always, he was overwhelmed by his brother. But he didn’t mind. Luke’s loquaciousness had always saved Hal the chore of making conversation. Besides, it was seldom he had anything to say that Luke cared to hear. The five years that separated their ages had always seemed more like five decades, placing them in totally different worlds.

  Luke tapped a folder on his desk with a blunt finger, and Hal was surprised to see that Luke’s fingernail had been gnawed almost to the quick. It wasn’t like Luke to be nervous. “I was surprised as hell to find out this Bailey they were sending me was you,” Luke said, and Hal saw that the folder contained his 201 file. “If you ask me, you got here just in time. I figure this war isn’t going to last much longer, and if you’re going to get in on the promotion angle, you’ve got to get in some good combat time.” He stepped back and looked Hal over carefully. “Christ, you look like you just got outta pre-flight.”

  “I did,” Hal reminded him. “Practically.”

  “Yeah. Well, that won’t take long to rub off. How’d you get shoved into being a bombardier? Couldn’t you qualify for pilot?”

  “I qualified. But they needed bombardiers and navigators. They gave us a choice. I asked for bombardier.”

  “For Christ’s sake, what for? You out of your friggin’ mind? Pilots get the promotion breaks. You ever see a squadron or group commander who wasn’t a pilot? Hell, no. And you never will. I fi
gured when I got your letter, you’d washed outta pilot training, but . . . you picked it! What in Christ for? You should’a put up a friggin’ fight.”

  Hal shook his head. How could he explain so that Luke would understand? Luke, the pragmatist, who had dropped out of college in 1940 to join the Army because he was sure the war in Europe and Asia would suck in the U.S. and the fledgling Army Air Corps looked like a chance for quick promotions.

  “This was where I was needed. I thought. . . .”

  “Needed? What the hell is that supposed to mean?”

  “Just that every day this war goes on, people are dying on both sides. The sooner Germany is defeated, the sooner it stops. It’s the bombardiers who put the bombs on the target. So, I volunteered.”

  Luke took the cigar from his mouth and stubbed it savagely in an ashtray. “Why the hell didn’t you write and ask me? You know how long it takes a bombardier to make major? An’ if they end this friggin’ war too damn soon, you never will make it.”

  “What difference does it make? I’m not going to stay in after the war.”

  “Beside the point.” Luke walked back to his desk and sat down. “So, you stepped in it up to here. Okay. There’s nothing we can do about it now. Maybe if you get a good record over here . . .”

  He stopped, and for the first time, he grinned. “Yeah, you rack up a good record, then you can go back and take pilot training. If you’re lucky, we’ll still be fighting the Japs. You make major or colonel, you might change your mind about staying in.”

  Hal offered no response. He had never been able to make Luke change his mind once it was set. It would be like admitting he was wrong. And he could not remember the last time Luke did that.

  With a gesture of impatience, Luke turned to stare out a grimy window, his hands clasped behind his back. “This puts me in a hell of a hole,” he said.

  “How do you mean?”

  Luke turned to glare at him. “God-damn-it! Everybody’s gonna think I ask them to send you here—fuckin’ nepotism. Anything I do with you is going to make me look bad. Look here!” He walked over and slammed his hand down on Hal’s 201 file as though he wished it were Hal’s head. “You’ve got a damned good record. In fact, they’ve got you ticketed for a lead. Now, how the hell am I supposed to field that? If I make you sweat it out as a toggaleer for a few missions, the colonel will wonder why I haven’t made you lead. If I move you up too quick, everybody else’ll think I’m doing it because you’re my brother. I’m screwed no matter what I do.”

  “Toggaleer? What’s that?”

  “It’s new. We found out that we can get better bomb accuracy and better patterns with just one lead bombardier in a squadron. Everybody drops when he drops.”

  “What about the other bombardiers?”

  “They’re glorified gunners until the I.P.; then they’re toggaleers. Hell, some of the ships don’t even have bombsights.”

  What a waste of training, Hal thought. It cost thousands of dollars and months of training to get a bombardier ready for combat. Now, all that time and money was wasted unless they were on a lead crew. Toggaleer, for Christ’s sake. He certainly didn’t want that.

  Luke picked up the 201 file. “Maybe if I shove you in as lead right away, we can both get something out of it. You clobber a couple of targets right off the bat. That way, we’ll both look good.” Then he turned to Hal, the lines of his face drawn into hard ridges. “But if you fuck the detail, if you don’t come through, we’re both screwed. You got that?”

  Hal nodded. “Got it.”

  “Okay. I’ll make you squadron bombardier. You’ll replace Schultz on O’Reilly’s crew. He’s slated for lead. I’ll give Schultz to Hollister. He needs a toggaleer.”

  “Won’t that be pretty obvious?”

  “Who gives a shit? You’re as good a bombardier as anyone else, aren’t you?”

  “Well, yes. I had the lowest Circular Error in my class at Carlsbad.”

  “Okay. You’ll have to fly a practice mission to the rock. You do a good job, and it’ll justify me making you squadron lead. When you finish your thirty missions, I’ll get the colonel to recommend you for pilot training.”

  Another thought struck him. “Who knows. By that time, I may be group C.O. myself.”

  “I wouldn’t be surprised,” Hal answered, but Luke failed to catch the irony of his tone. Instead, he winked at Hal and said with a grin, “Don’t forget, there’s a war on. The C.O.s still got to fly missions. The son-of-a-bitch might get knocked off. And I’m next in line. You know,” he continued, lowering his voice slightly, “he’s been taking the tough ones. Either he’s got a death wish, or he figures a D.F.C. could move him up into Wing. I don’t give a damn which happens first.”

  Hal stared at his brother. Luke had always been ambitious, but never like this. To Luke, war was a business in which he meant to be head of the corporation. In 1940 and ‘41, he had pushed through pilot training at Kelly Field with grim ferocity. He had been vastly pleased when the Japanese bombed Pearl Harbor, and the U.S. had declared war on Japan and Germany. There had been a few anxious weeks when he thought he might be assigned to the Pacific Theater. He’d said, “The Air Corps isn’t going to do a damn thing in the Pacific. That’s a Navy war. You could sweat your balls off over there and never get a decent chance at the gold ring.”

  Luke had been home on leave when orders had arrived, assigning him to the European Theater, and Hal couldn’t remember ever seeing his brother so elated. He had roared through every bar in Fairview like a tornado, leaving a trail of broken jaws, for Luke was a belligerent drunk even when he was happy. Most of the fighting had been over women. Luke had never been bashful, and the Air Corps uniform with the silver wings was an effective aphrodisiac in a town the size of Fairview where the girls might not see another flier for the entire war. Oh, yes. Hal remembered well that week. Luke had said he would be a full colonel by the end of the war. Or, if he could get in enough missions, a general. But now, time was growing short. The allies were on the verge of breaking out from the Normandy peninsula and would soon be sweeping across France and Holland toward Germany. In the East, the Russians were on the move. The Nazis were putting up a fierce fight, but it was only a matter of time until the end. And Luke meant to make the most of that time. Although the 8th Air Force lost approximately ten percent of its bombers on every mission, failure did not occur to a man like Luke. Nor did it matter that the more missions he flew, the greater were his chances of being killed. Death was for others, not for Luke Bailey.

  Yes. Combat had changed Luke. He had always been direct and tough. He went after what he wanted with incredible intensity. But now . . . Luke hoped that his C.O. would be killed or captured, which would open the door for him to take over the group.

  Then Hal had a disturbing thought: Deep inside was he like his brother? Did the same genetic seeds of savage ambition lurk in him? How could any person know what mental demons the violence of war might unleash? The thought sent a shiver through him.

  The idea was too absurd to dwell upon. He and Luke might be brothers, but they were far from being identical twins. “When do I start flying?” he asked.

  “Let’s see. Today’s Friday.” Luke glanced at his watch. “Too late today. You can hit a practice mission first thing tomorrow. You do okay; you can lead the mission Sunday.” He grinned, and this time his eyes reflected the humor. “Wouldn’t want anybody knocked off before they made at least one Saturday night party.”

  “Saturday night party?”

  “Tradition. Girls come over from as far away as Birmingham and Coventry. It’s a kick in the ass.”

  Hal wondered what kind of girls would come so far to party with a bunch of American fliers who had to be in the prime of their sexual drives. Probably girls who were so ugly they couldn’t get a regular date. It had to be some party with each side pityin
g the other. “And you fly missions the next day?”

  “Hell yes. We’re the Air Corps. We got a reputation to hold up.” He stood up and grabbed his jacket. “Come on. Let’s hit the mess hall. You can meet O’Reilly.”

  Hal noticed that Luke had not said, “You can meet your crew.” This guy O’Reilly had to be something special.

  The mess hall was another long Quonset hut near group headquarters. As they got out of Luke’s jeep, Hal could hear the murmur of voices and the rattle of dishes and cutlery.

  Inside, the mess hall was much like those on any state-side airbase, with long tables running crosswise, leaving room for a central aisle. A line of men carrying trays cafeteria-style were being served from steam tables by bored white-aproned cooks.

  Hal’s attention was drawn to the Quonset hut’s curved walls. The walls had been divided into rectangles papered with poster paper. Painted on each was the name of an airplane: “Maasas Dragon,” “The Lone Star,” “Virgin Sturgeon,” “Rugged But Right,” “Baby Doll,” “Jezebel” and many others. The accompanying pictures were minor works of art, most of them featuring buxom, scantily clad female figures. Some of the crewmen seated at the tables were wearing leather A-2 jackets with their ship’s names and identifying artwork painted on the back along with bomb symbols indicating the number of missions the man had flown. He saw no jacket with less than five. That seemed to be the minimum number a man could show without feeling self-conscious.

  At the serving tables, Hal’s tray was slapped with string beans, runny mashed potatoes, and Spam.

  “Follow me,” Luke said. “I see O’Reilly.”

  Hal followed Luke toward four officers seated at a table in the far corner. They looked up as Luke approached, and a slender first lieutenant with an unruly mop of curly red hair and with pilot’s wings pinned to his shirt waved a languid hand. “Hail to Nero, our fearless leader. How about a three-day pass before my nerves give out?”