He had slept most of the way over on the airliner. The flight from Atlanta to Gatwick took a little over eight hours. Shuffling through customs was like trying to walk down Bourbon Street on New Year's Eve; half a step at a time, shoulder to shoulder with some drunk. Apparently, international travelers like their alcohol. Navigating through Gatwick had been difficult, he wished someone had waited for him with his name on a sign to pick him up. Perhaps that was asking a bit too much. Eventually, he worked his way through the maze of Customs and Immigration and found his way to the bus.
He was rested and during the long ride on the bus, had plenty of time to reflect on things. The last two days had been a whirlwind; to work it out with Bethany, racing back to Baton Rouge to pack and get his passport. Flights out of Baton Rouge to Atlanta were booked, so he had to return to New Orleans and fly out of there. It was an amazing opportunity for him that he couldn’t pass up. He was upset Bethany couldn’t come. Well, she could have come. She chose not to. Jason chided himself.
That’s not fair, she has dreams too.
It was unfortunate that her meeting with this director was the same week as this England trip. Who the hell was this director, anyway? If this movie works out for her, they faced some challenges ahead.
When he returned, he would work on their relationship. They had to before he left for pilot training. If they didn’t have that solid foundation, that mutual understanding of each other’s dreams, ambitions, and goals, their marriage would never survive the cut-throat worlds of pilot-training and acting. Could they make it work? He hoped so. He was scheduled to go to Columbus Air Force Base in two months. The Mississippi base was easily within driving distance. If she made it big, well, they’d just have to cross that bridge when they came to it.
The red double-decker bus pulled up to the gate at Fairford RAFB, and the security guard checked Jason's identity against their list. Fortunately, he was expected, and the guard put a check by his name. The bus continued toward the flight-line. Three oversized white tents were set up, long lines extended from the openings of each. In the distance, the flightline was peppered with World War II-era aircraft. He didn't realize it, but he grinned from ear to ear. The bus stopped in the parking lot, and the door opened.
“Okay, blokes. Off you go,” the driver barked.
Jason grabbed his gym bag, it was all he brought, and raced down the stairs. He didn’t know who would meet him, but he was too excited to worry. He stepped off the bus and was immediately approached by a gentleman in an olive green short-sleeved shirt and khaki pants. His short curly hair was flecked with more gray, than not.
“Jason Conrad?”
“Yes,” Jason said, extending his hand.
“Bill Wesson. I’m your mother’s friend.” The two shook hands.
“Sir, I’m grateful for this opportunity. This is very exciting.”
"My pleasure. When your mom told me you were a pilot and were about to attend UPT, I couldn't help but extend the offer. I was fortunate enough to fly on an old warbird before I went to UPT. It was a great motivator."
The two exchanged stories as they walked to the briefing room to sign Jason in and pick up his line badge. He clipped it to the blue lanyard they gave him and hung it around his neck.
“You can leave your bag here. We’ll walk out to the airplane and show you around before we go to the hotel.”
“Awesome.”
They walked out of the hangar to the ramp toward the collection of warbirds. B-17s, C-47s, B-24s, B-25s, a P-38, and a P-51. Two British Spitfire’s were parked off to the side as well.
“There’s a lot going on for this D-Day celebration. We had the main briefing earlier today. Planes are taking off from four different airfields here in England. We’ll form up on this side of the English Channel, then head toward Normandy. The pageantry for the folks on the ground is something we didn’t want to be a part of. We’ll talk more about that tomorrow morning.” He stopped walking. “Here’s my bird.” He thumbed at the B-25 to his left.
“It’s . . . amazing.” Jason’s eyes traced over every inch of the classic medium range bomber. Mounted on tricycle landing gear, the two-engine propeller driven aircraft sported a unique twin-tail.
“Thanks,” Bill said. The two walked to the bomber. “I take a lot of pride in keeping this thing airworthy. Takes a lot of time. And a lot of money. Sure, I cut costs when I can. I had to install standard fuel tanks, instead of the bullet-proof rubber ones used in the war. But that savings allowed me to modify the inside to take passengers for rides.
“We did get a sponsor to finance this trip for us. You’ll meet him at the hotel. I’ve got to warn you up front, he’s kind of a strange bird. Doesn’t say much of anything for a while, then starts rattling question after question. He has a hard time understanding who runs the show on the airplane.”
“How’s that?”
“Awww, he’s just arrogant, I guess. We met a couple of weeks ago to finalize the deal. He insisted on a flight to see what the airplane was like. Wanted to sit in the seat some, to learn about how it handles. That wasn’t a big deal.
“But he keeps insisting on a timeline. I try to tell him, I don’t control the timeline. It controls us. He doesn’t want to listen. Hell, I flew his damn luggage over here on the airplane and he showed up with more. Says he’s gonna use the stuff I brought to fly back with. Just left it on the airplane. Pisses me off. I should dump the stuff.”
They walked around the exterior of the airplane. Jason admired the detail he had put in to the restored bird. All the markings and warnings were posted in the correct spots. He especially liked the nose art. A beautiful brunette, in high heels and a mini-skirt, wearing a leather pilot jacket. Kimmie-Loo Choo-Choo emblazoned over the woman’s head. Jason loved World War Two nose art. It personalized the airplanes and the men who flew them. Plus, most of the artwork was easy on the eyes.
“Want to climb inside?”
“Hell, yeah,” Jason said.
Bill climbed up the ladder behind the nose gear, and Jason followed.
“Grab the yellow handle to pull yourself in. It’s kind of cramped in here.” Jason pulled himself into the belly of the plane. The first thing he saw was the two pilot’s seats. Underneath the left seat, a small tunnel for access to the nose bubble, where a gunner would have sat.
Bill pointed out the different areas of the tight bomber. There were two seats in the area they stood, behind the pilot seats. On the side of the fuselage was a five-gallon water jug, a roll of para-cord, and several rolls of duct tape. Above and behind the two passenger seats, another tunnel led to the mid-station gunner positions. Bill explained that is where they stored their luggage and other supplies. Beyond that, another tighter tunnel to the tail bubble, where an aft gunner would sit.
After twenty minutes of show and tell, they walked back to the hangar. Bill gave Jason a quick rundown of the sequence of events for tomorrow morning’s flight, and what the formation would look like.
“This is impressive,” Jason said.
“Yeah, it’s a huge undertaking, but nothing compared to what those guys did fifty years ago.”
Jason pondered the statement. It was true. They weren't called "The Greatest Generation" for nothing. The magnitude of what took place here and across the channel during the invasion of Normandy was mind-boggling. He was excited yet humbled, to be a part of this historic event.
"What do you say we head to the hotel? The beer light will be on soon, and we've only got so much time before we have to stop drinking."
“Sounds good to me,” Jason said.
They climbed in Bill’s car and drove to the hotel. It was his first time in the front seat on the “wrong side” of the road. He was attentive, trying to absorb the concept, in case he had to drive over here at some point. They didn’t speak much on the way to the hotel, Jason figured Bill focused on his driving too.
In twenty minutes, they reached the round-about that went straight to their hotel. It looked mor
e like a large house, with rooms for rent. The bar was downstairs across from the front desk. Bill handed Jason his key.
“You’re in room 204. Go drop off your bag and meet us down here in the bar.”
“Okay, look forward to meeting the other guys. Be back in a second.”
Jason hurried up the stairs and found room 204. Once inside, he was surprised. The room was small. Really small. The queen-sized bed he was told about looked more like a small double. And there was little room to maneuver around the edge of the bed. The chest of drawers had to be opened from the side; and if someone sat at the desk, they would have to be sideways. There was an older television and VCR. He wondered if they worked. The bathroom was even smaller. The sink had no countertop for toiletries, and the toilet had a basin, five-feet off the ground, with a handle that hung from a chain to flush it. The shower was big enough to stand in . . . if you didn't try to turn around.
After he dumped his bag on the bed, Jason washed his face and headed to the pub. The carpet covered stairwell squeaked as he descended the steps. He must have been too excited when he raced upstairs to notice. The squeaking was soon drowned out by the activity from the pub milling around the lobby. The pub was small; able to seat about twenty people. Cigar and cigarette smoke floated throughout the pub, drowning out the scent of the stale beer that had been spilled on the floor. Unfortunately, there were over thirty people inside, and more meandered around the lobby. Jason found Bill and the others at one of the tables. It was noisy, the excitement of the upcoming event clearly the most popular topic.
"Jason," Bill said loudly, "come meet the guys. This is my co-pilot, Harry McCallum. He's a retired Marine A-4 guy." Jason shook hands with Harry, who handed him a pint of British ale. He took a sip, and the bitter brew was pleasant, but the temperature of the beer surprised him. He must have made a face when he tasted it.
“Sorry about the beer,” Harry said. “The Brits don’t appreciate refrigeration like us colonials.”
“No problem here.” Jason took a sip of the British ale.
“I took the liberty of ordering you some fish and chips as well. You’ll be through a few beers before it shows up.”
“Thanks, I’m starving.” Jason took another swig of the beer and turned back to Bill.
“And this man,” Bill said, “is the one who enabled us to make this journey, our financer, Philip Ashford.” Jason extended his hand, but Ashford ignored him.
“That’s his way of saying I pay for everything,” Ashford said, sneering at Jason.
“Hey,” Harry said. “I bought the beer.”.
“Mister Wesson, I again, must argue against bringing any extra passengers. This is not what I financed this trip for. We cannot carry any passengers.”
“Okay, Mister Ashford. We aren’t carrying any. Young Jason here is part of the crew.”
“Really?” His voice reeked of drippy sarcasm.
Jason began to understand Bill’s description of Philip Ashford.
“What exactly is his role?” Ashford said.
“Well, Jason is a pilot. Which means he understands airplanes a hell of a lot better than you do. We are going to be flying in a formation with a lot of other aircraft, some of which are piloted by men or women who have zero experience flying in formation. Young Jason will be sitting in the top bubble, clearing around us letting me know if any of those bozos are getting too close to Kimmie Loo.”
Ashford huffed, left the table, and walked to the bar. Bill winked at Jason, who couldn’t help but smile. His short exposure to pilots had shown him they are problem solvers. Bill Wesson was no exception. Philip Ashford, however, was one who should be watched.
10
June 5, 1994
* * *
They sat in the pub for over an hour, telling stories. Jason mostly listened. He had finished his second beer before his fish and chips arrived. He scarfed them down after dowsing them with a hefty bit of malt vinegar and downed a third pint with his meal. The crunchy crusted cod was delicious. Eating his chips, or French Fries, with malt vinegar instead of ketchup was different, but he liked it. His first night in England—hanging out in a pub with a bunch of pilots talking about pilot shit, drinking beer and eating fish and chips. Perfect.
The bar began to thin out early. Jason noticed the difference with the older clientele. Their duration wasn’t as long, but the damage they did was still impressive.
"It's about that time," Harry said, looking at his watch.
“Yeah,” Bill said. “We’ll push at zero-four-hundred.”
“The sun’s still up,” Jason observed.
"Twelve hours, bottle to throttle," Bill said. "You'll get used to that soon enough." Bill pulled out a VHS tape and handed it to Jason. "If you have time, watch this. It'll give you some background on the airplane. It's in PAL format, so it will work on your TV upstairs." PAL was the version of VHS tapes in Europe. The video industry had yet to find a universal solution to the VHS issue of standardization.
“Thanks.” Jason took the tape and read the label: How to Fly the B-25 - Department of the Navy.
“You need a wake-up call in the morning?” Bill said.
“No, I’m good. I’ve got an alarm with me.”
The three left the bar and climbed the stairs to the second floor. Jason entered his room, exhausted, yet excited. He went straight to the television, turned it on, as well as the VCR, and put in the tape. After a few minutes, he figured out how to source the VCR. In no time, the television flickered with the old black and white, World War Two training film. It was kind of "hokey," he thought but contained some valuable information. How to land the plane, for instance. And he never realized these guys dropped bombs in a dive, especially with a max speed of three-hundred-twenty knots.
The tape was twenty-two minutes long. When it ended, it popped out of the VCR. Before he pushed it back in, he decided to call Bethany. It would be after one-thirty in the afternoon back in Baton Rouge. She would go to work soon, and her meeting with the director was two days away.
The hotel operator connected him to an international line and dialed the number through. It would cost a small fortune to make the call, but he needed to talk to her. The phone rang and rang, but no answer. Eventually, the operator came on and asked if he wanted to keep trying. Jason had her redial, in case there’d been a mistake. Same result. Jason hung up, disappointed he missed her. He wanted to share his excitement with her.
He had the operator connect him with his mother's number, and she answered immediately, giving him faith the system worked.
“Mom?”
“Jason, I’m so glad you called. I had no idea how to reach you. I take it you made it there safely?”
"Yeah, everything is incredible here, mom. Bill Wesson is a great guy, and he's taking good care of me."
“That’s nice to hear, I knew he would.”
“I wanted to call and let you know I made it, and to say thanks. Again. This is an awesome experience.”
“I’m glad you’re enjoying it.” She said. “Listen, when you get a chance, have Bill call me.”
“Sure. Is everything okay?”
“Yes . . . I think so. It’s just . . .”
“Mom?”
She sighed over the phone. “I did some investigating after you left. On the philanthropist financing the trip for Bill. His name is Philip Ashford.”
“Yeah, I’ve met him.”
“Maybe it’s nothing. It’s not my business. But you’re there now, which makes it my business.”
“Makes what your business, mom?”
She paused. “I looked into Philip Ashford’s background. He was a wealthy philanthropist. Two months ago, his wife and two sons were killed in Rwanda.” She paused again.
“That’s terrible,” he said. “I can’t imagine how that feels.”
"He's apparently had a nervous breakdown. His in-laws complained about his disappearing for long stretches of time. He's become somewhat of a recluse since his family was m
urdered. He was under psychiatric care for a couple of weeks but hasn't been back."
“All that sounds normal, doesn’t it?”
“Yes. What worries me, at least about Bill, is that Philip Ashford’s fortune is gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes. The man is broke. Never mind he doesn’t have anything to donate to the museum in New Orleans, I’m concerned he doesn’t have the funding to pay for Bill’s trip.”
“How’d you find this out?”
“I contacted a friend. He’s actually one of your father’s Bohemian friends from San Francisco. Banker type.”
“Bohemian?”
“Never mind. Too long a story at two dollars a minute. Anyway, the financial concern is what led me to the other information.”
“Do you want me to say anything?” Jason said.
“No, no. Just tell Bill to call me. He doesn’t need to be blindsided by something like this. Do me a favor, if they have some programs, grab me a stack. The museum committee wants them to show the city their concept is relevant.”
Jason said he would, and they hung up. He contemplated what his mother had said for a few moments. His finger pushed the tape back into the VCR, and he laid his head on the pillow. By the time the tape cycled through again, he'd fallen asleep.
Philip Ashford sat on his bed, his back against the headboard, his knees pulled up to his chest. Tears ran down his cheeks as he rocked forward and back, his hands over his ears, fighting off the voices. He tried drowning them out with Irish whisky—it didn’t work.
The voices, he’d told the psychiatrist, started a week after his family’s murder. He hadn’t slept much during that week, and the shrink said he was having a nervous breakdown. Ashford decided the shrink was the problem. The medication helped him sleep a little but clouded his mind and helped block the voices. The voices that pointed him in the right direction. Two days after seeing the shrink in Dallas, he was on a plane back to Rwanda. He wasn’t sure why—until he got there.
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