What It Takes

by Richard Ben Cramer

THEY WERE ALL KIDS on the San Jacinto. Just past his twentieth birthday, Lieutenant George Bush looked so young he didn’t seem ready to operate a car, much less the biggest bomber aircraft in the Pacific fleet. He was only a year past winning his wings as the youngest flier in the Navy. He was tall and skinny, with a high forehead and wide-set eyes that looked out at the world with a precocious gravity from under soft and delicately curved brows. The rest of his face—the narrow cheeks and the line of his long, slender jaw—was hairless and smooth, saved from prettiness only by a generous, slightly cleft chin and the quick, lopsided, aw-heck grin that dismissed his own good looks and made him, so readily, one of the guys. Still, as he sat up from a slouch in his steel chair in the ready room, and peered at the coordinates on the board, then bent to his own course calculations, he had the same buckle-down, teen-in-a-hurry look his Andover masters saw two years before, when Captain Poppy had to hustle through a history quiz, to get out to practice for the Exeter game.

  But today it was a job: one more crack at Chichi Jima. They’d gone at it yesterday but couldn’t wipe out the target: a radio tower and four outbuildings. They ran into a hail of flak and lost a plane. Today was their last shot: the task force would be steaming south, right after the raid, out of the sector altogether, to link up with Admiral Halsey for the landings on the Palau Islands. The radio tower on Chichi was the Japanese link to the Palaus.

  Bush grabbed his gear and started for the deck. He liked to get up there early to check over his plane ... but Ted White stopped him on his way out: he’d been after Bush for weeks to take him along on a mission. Ted was a ship’s gunnery officer, not a flier. Leo Nadeau was Bush’s turret gunner. It was always Bush and Nadeau, and the radio man, Jack Delaney. They’d been a crew since they were stateside. But Ted was older than Bush, a family friend, a buddy of Poppy’s Walker uncles, a Yale man like them, a good, quiet fellow. Bush would be glad to take him up ... but why’d he have to pick today? Ted had to know, it was gonna be rough. ... Still, Bush didn’t like to say no to a friend. He told White to check it out with Skipper Melvin. But he’d better step on it!

  That was one more mark of the mission’s import: Don Melvin would fly lead today. Melvin was the squadron skipper, the man who taught them to do things with their bulky TBM Avengers that they never learned in flight school. The guys used to say they ought to win the Bent Nail—instead of the Iron Cross—for serving in his squadron, VT-51. D.J. Melvin liked catapult takeoffs and tight formations: he liked his pilots cool, clear-eyed, more levelheaded and determined than kids should have to be.

  On deck now, Leo Nadeau got the word to stand down. An officer was going up in his place, “to check out the turrets.” Leo knew that was bullshit. You check that stuff on deck. But he was just an enlisted man, so he stood down, as Ted White strapped into the turret on top, behind Bush, and Delaney climbed into his regular spot in the belly of the TBM.

  Anyway, there wasn’t time to argue: Bush had the plane in the catapult and they were off, pressed back against their seats by the rush, as the TBM climbed into formation—tight formation, the way Melvin liked it. They had an hour’s run to the island and a linkup with planes from other ships. The sky was clear, hazy blue, just a few broken clouds—too few: there’d be no cover over Chichi.

  They came in at fourteen thousand, then pushed over in a shallow dive to pick up speed before they got to attack altitude, eight thousand feet. They pushed into bombing dives, an angle of thirty-five degrees. They were falling against their shoulder belts. Leo Nadeau used to say the Avenger could fall faster than it could fly. The ground was rushing toward Bush, but the flak ... black bursts of smoke all over the sky ... the worst flak he’d ever seen. He was third man in. He aimed his plane’s nose on the tail of the man ahead—Doug West—and pushed over. There was the tower, and Melvin’s plane dropping straight for it, West and Bush after him. The buildings around the tower, communication buildings, had to be hit, if the skipper got the tower. ... Bush was hung against his harness, his plane gaining speed as it fell, a ton of bombs racked below, his eyes locked on the gathering ground, eight thousand, seven, six ... flak on all sides and above ... he could see the walls of the buildings ... just a minute now, and ...

  He felt a jarring lurch, a crunch, and his plane leapt forward, like a giant had struck it from below with a fist. Smoke started to fill the cockpit. He saw a tongue of flame streaming down the right wing toward the crease. Christ! The fuel tanks!

  He called to Delaney and White—We been hit! He was diving. Melvin hit the tower dead on—four five-hundred-pounders. West was on the same beam. Bush could have pulled out. Have to get rid of these bombs. Keep the dive ... a few seconds ...

  He dropped on the target and let ’em fly. The bombs spun down, the plane shrugged with release, and Bush banked away hard to the east. No way he’d get to the rendezvous point with Melvin. The smoke was so bad he couldn’t see his gauges. Was he climbing? Have to get to the water. They were dead if they bailed out over land. The Japs killed pilots. Gonna have to get out. Bush radioed the skipper, called to his crew. No answer. Does White know how to get to his chute? Bush looked back for an instant. God, was White hit? He was yelling the order to bail out, turning right rudder to take the slipstream off their hatch ... had to get himself out. He leveled off over water, only a few miles from the island ... more, ought to get out farther ... that’s it, got to be now. ... He flicked the red toggle switch on the dash—the IFF, Identification Friend or Foe—supposed to alert any U.S. ship, send a special frequency back to his own carrier ... no other way to communicate, had to get out now, had to be ... NOW.

  Wind of a hundred twenty miles an hour tore away his canopy, tore at him like the claws of a beast, ripped him back at the tail of his plane, which he HIT ... and then it was quiet. ... Hope to God Sayer packed the damn chute right.

  By rote, he found the ripcord, and the chute opened, but it was torn. He was falling fast. He’d hit his head and chute on the tail stabilizer. He was bleeding. He had to get out of the chute ... if he got tangled up in the water, he’d drown before he could get to his raft. Where’s the raft? Where’s Delaney? And White? God, was White hit? There were no chutes on the water in front, but he couldn’t yank around to see the other side. His head hurt like hell. His hands scrabbled at the chute release, a question mark of steel he had to open. Where were Delaney and White? The water rushed up to grab him.

  The water, green water, was over his head. He was out of the chute and it drifted away as he kicked up for air, air—green water—air. It was all he could see, no raft, just water and sky. ... Have to swim, swim where? He was gulping water, coughing and gulping. He heard noise over him, a plane, an Avenger, Melvin! Skipper! He was diving for Bush. No, not for Bush ... over there, diving and climbing and diving again to the same spot. The raft. The raft! Bush kicked and scrambled through the water. There it was. Oh, God, let it inflate. ... He draped his arms on the side of the raft and hauled himself out of the green. Now there were other planes overhead, another Avenger, and fighters, Hellcats. The Avenger was diving—Doug West. He’d seen the blood on Bush’s face, dropped a medical kit. Bush hand-paddled for it.

  There was no paddle. There was no fresh water: the container on the raft had broken in the fall. Bush was paddling with both hands, puking from fear and sea water, bleeding from the head. He got the med-kit, and with a shaky left hand, swabbed at himself with iodine. He got out his .38 revolver and checked it. Fat lot of good it would do him. The wind was blowing him back to the beach. He had to keep splashing, beating the sea with his hands. If the Japanese got him, they’d kill him, for sure.

  He scanned the rolling green horizon on all sides, the boundary of his fearful new world. No yellow rafts. Just air, green water. The planes were gone. They had to get back to the squadron, the carrier, the task force. They’d radio back his position. Probably had the news on the bridge already, and at his CIC, Combat Information Center. Someone would come back. There were three men out here somewhere
. If he could just hold on, keep beating the water, stay away from the island, find White and Delaney, they’d have to come back. Then he remembered—the briefing: this was the last chance ... the task force was turning south this morning, down to the Palaus, out of the sector. ... They were not coming back. They knew he was down. But they were not coming back!

  On the deck of the San Jacinto, word spread that someone was down. News leaked from the bridge, like it always did, but they never really knew until the planes came back. And here they were, circling into a string for the landing: the fighters looked all right, but only three Avengers ... and they landed, one after the other: Skipper ... West ... Moore. Then they knew. And the pilots on deck took this news like they always did. What was there to say? Someone muttered: “Jesus ... George Herbert Walker Bush.”

  That was his nickname aboard the San Jacinto: George Herbert Walker Bush.

  Everybody had a nickname. Stan Butchart was, naturally, Butch; Milt Moore, their first replacement pilot, was renamed Gracie, after the famous comedienne of the day; the hairless wardroom officer, D.E. Garrett, was called Skin; even the revered Skipper Melvin got a handle, in consequence of his bad overbite: behind his back he was Mortimer. That was the way it had to be on a ship like that: the San Jacinto was tiny for a carrier, just a flattop on a light cruiser hull, only thirty-three planes aboard. With just thirteen bomber pilots in the squadron, with so many hours together on missions and patrol, with their shared loss when one of their guys didn’t come back, with so much endless waiting together, so many games of acey-deucy, volleyball in the hangar wells, sunning on the forecastle, movies on the hangar deck, so many mornings in the ready room, three meals a day in the wardroom, together, for week, after week, after week, every bit of that narrow life layered with familiarity, an accretion of common memory and private slang. So flying as fourth man in formation, directly below and behind the lead plane, was called “flying snifter,” a term Bush invented. So the spot where they sunned, behind windbreaks on the forecastle, became the “front porch.” And a certain kind of ice-cream sundae, available belowdecks, became a “gee-dunk.” (No one could remember why.)

  It wasn’t a bad way to spend a war. No officer on the San Jacinto ever handled a shovel, spent a night in a foxhole, or had to be deloused. There was a daily ship’s paper with wire reports on the news of the world, and a phonograph in the wardroom with Glenn Miller records. Coffee and toast, with real butter, or peanut butter, was available in the wardroom twenty-four hours a day. Officers ate three meals on white tablecloths, served by stewards in white coats, who’d offer each dish on silver trays, from which the gentlemen could take what they wanted. They had foods unavailable at home: roast beef and steak for supper, bacon and eggs in the morning, fruit juice, cream for their coffee. The ship made its own ice cream. The ship’s baker made bread daily. They had a pastry chef from the Hilton in New York, for pies, cakes, sweet rolls, crullers.

  Withal, there was a brilliant clarity to the life, a sense of purpose and progress that was the greatest comfort to twenty-year-olds: they were out to beat the Japs; the Japs were evil, killers, yellow lesser-lives who started it all with a sneak attack. Hadn’t the boys sailed into Pearl? They’d seen the evidence themselves! There were no shades of gray in the picture. They were a team, with a mission. They had a job, beyond survival. That was the only thing that made sense when a plane didn’t come back ... one of their thirteen, just gone. ... What was there to say? The guy was gone. There was his chair. They didn’t replace him right away. The chair would be there, empty, for weeks. Meanwhile, there was still the war. There was always, thank God, a job to do. Once, coming back from a mission over Guam, the bombers circled and settled on the deck, one after the other, all accounted for. But as Bush watched the fighters land, one of the pilots missed the trip wire. His plane spun over the slick steel, into a gun turret manned by four seamen. The gun crew was wiped out in a fiery instant, and there, just a few yards from Bush on deck, was the severed leg of a sailor. ... George Bush, nineteen years old, just stared at the thing. ... The shoe is still on it. ... Then, the chief petty officer bellowed: “Awright, you bastards. We still got planes up there, and they can’t land in this goddam mess.” There was still, there was always, a job.

  Problem was, on the bombing runs, they were never on their own, or even in the lead. They were such a small air group, they were always the tagalongs, joining a larger force from other ships. There were four carriers in their group and four groups in the task force. That meant hundreds of planes, and missions divvied up among the ships, according to a plan that no one seemed to know—no one on their ship, anyway. It was sobering: how huge was the war, and how small were they, their ship, their squadron, their own plane. Sometimes, it was hard to feel that what you did—you, your own mother’s son—meant a good goddam in the whole million-mauling maw of the war.

  But not for Bush. Hell, he didn’t have any doubts, you could see that. He said it, too: he liked being part of a team. Liked the cahm-rah-deree of his three-man plane. On shipboard, he seemed to know more of the enlisted men than other pilots did. The Navy tried to discourage that: too much fraternization could lead to a breakdown of discipline ... chain of command, see. In the air, that pilot was the captain of his vessel: the Navy wanted a minimum of chat, and instant obedience from the crew. But Bush would chat about anything—airplanes, baseball, the food back home ... his girlfriend back home. ... Despite regulations, her name was painted on the side of the plane—Barbara.

  It wasn’t that he bucked the rules; he always accommodated the rules. But his captaincy sat easy on him, and he didn’t mind having fun. Sometimes, coming back from patrol, when the plane to relieve him was already in the air, Bush would get on the intercom and tell Delaney to drop a flare. So Delaney would cram a smoke flare down the tube, and when it hit the water, Bush would wheel the TBM around and throw it into a dive for the water, so his men could have a good time with their guns. In the ready room, after general quarters, if he wasn’t on the first mission and running to his plane, he’d stand up from his seat in the second row and turn, always with a grin and a wave, and wander back to the enlisted men, with a “Hey, Tony ... Jake ...”

  That was the thing they all saw about Bush: he was a good Joe, no stickler for rank. He was not like that. That was the point about the nickname: it was like calling a bald guy Curly. ... His four names, his boys’ school slang, his Big-Family-Back-East roots ... he was trying so hard to be not that way. He was so eager to be a friend to all ... that they just had to stick him with it: George Herbert Walker Bush. ...

  What they never knew, what they couldn’t have known, was how thoroughly Bush was trained to be Not Like That. It was the central tenet of Poppy’s world in Greenwich. The Bushes were always Not That Way.

  You see, they so easily could have been. After all, Grandfather Walker moved the family from St. Louis to play with the Harrimans and Vanderbilts and Astors. Pops Walker had gone off to school at Stonyhurst, in England, with his valet (rhymed with “mallet”), and ever after had a taste for the life of the polo-and-ponies crowd. By the time Poppy came along, Gampy Walker not only had the Point, up in Maine, he also had the big shooting place, an old plantation in South Carolina, where the family used to gather for Christmas, and that palace out on Long Island, with the marble floors, the swimming pool, two butlers ... you didn’t often see two butlers, even in the thirties. Or, for that matter, two Rolls-Royces: Pops had one, and one for Grandmother. Ganny Walker never drove in her life. Not that she was happy about it. Her chauffeur, John, was the kind who was always talking. “Y’know, I don’t think I’d like bein’ President,” John was saying one day in the Rolls. “I don’t think I’d take th’job if they gave itta me, I wouldn’t ...” Ganny Walker just cranked up the glass that walled off the driver’s seat. “As if he ever could think,” she said.

  Still, there was a hint of Midwest breeze that lingered in the family air, in the vigor of their play, in their open, hard-knuckled
talk about business. That was the difference between the Walkers and New York’s forever-monied, the ownership class of America: Astor, Rockefeller, Ogden Phipps. (Ganny used to say, a bit breathlessly: “They own the very sidewalks that we walk on!”) The Walkers were only a few years removed from operation of the biggest dry-goods business west of the Mississippi. It was only in the span of G.H. Walker’s career that the family made the move from St. Louis, from the class of “good families” in the heartland who owned factories or stores, who actually made or sold merchandise, to the class of pure owners, who invested in such business. So the Walkers still had links with the few families in each town—Pittsburgh, Cleveland, Akron, Detroit—who somehow knew one another, from business or from school (back East), or from some cotillion long ago. ... And so it was, when Pops Walker’s children grew up, they married children from the good Midwest: Herbie Walker married Mary Carter, of St. Louis; Johnny married Louise Mead, Dayton; Jimmy wed Sarah Mitchell, Detroit; Lou married Grace White, from St. Louis; and, of course, Dottie married Prescott Bush, the son of an officer in the Buckeye Steel Castings Co., of Columbus, O.

  In Pres she found the apotheosis of midwestern virtue. Prescott Bush spent the bulk of his adult life in the monied sanctum of the Harrimans themselves: he was a managing partner of Brown Brothers Harriman, private bankers to the owning class. He belonged to the clubs of New York’s forever-monied. He lived among them in Greenwich (his daily commuting pal was a Rockefeller). But Pres was forever Not Like That. Couldn’t care less for anything ritzy. One time he got roped into a cruise with Averell Harriman and Pops Walker on their new boat, The Pawnee, a hundred-fifty-foot miracle of shining brass and mahogany, fireplace in the salon, crew of a score or so ... the best of everything afloat. Pres was bored to death, couldn’t wait to get off. He never could stand a lot of fussy feeding and primping. What was the fun in that?