by Murray Pura
“Uh. It is the Kate, sir.”
“And what does that mean, Lieutenant?”
“It means…B5N, sir. Nakajima B5N.”
“What’re its weapons, Juggler? Hashi—chopsticks?”
Juggler reddened while the others laughed. “Torpedoes, sir. It’s a torpedo bomber.”
“Thank you.” Skipp’s eyes darkened. “Okay, Lockjaw, our latest defector, if you think flying off carriers in an ocean swell is duck soup, why don’t you tell us what this is?” Skipp’s face was tight.
Lockjaw protested. “I’m army all the way, Colonel.”
“Is that right? Well, I have to approve all transfer of personnel to other units, so maybe you and I had better have a chat after this briefing.”
“Yes, sir.”
Skipp scanned the group. “That goes for any of you who are thinking of going Navy. Anybody who wants to fly Grummans when they could be flying P-40s. See me first. Or you may be surprised by what’s in your sock this Christmas. Understood?”
As one, the pilots responded, “YES, SIR!”
“That’s given you enough time to think. What’s the silhouette, Lockjaw?”
“The, uh, the…” Lockjaw seemed flustered by Skipp’s aggressiveness. “The Val, Colonel. The Aichi D3A. Dive bomber.”
“Tell me more, navy boy.”
“It…uh…it…has a maximum speed of two hundred forty-two miles per hour. Ceiling of thirty thousand five hundred feet. Uh—two machine guns in the wings, seven-point-seven millimeter. One facing the rear, manned by a gunner, also seven-point-seven millimeter.”
“Range?”
“Range? Range is—is something like nine hundred miles.”
Skipp’s eyes slitted. “Something like?”
“Nine hundred and change, sir.”
“How many nautical miles?”
Lockjaw chewed furiously on a Chiclet. “I don’t know that, sir.”
“You want to be a naval aviator and you don’t know nautical miles, Lockjaw?”
“No, sir.”
“Exactly seven hundred and ninety-five. Even a dumb army officer knows that, Lieutenant.”
“Yes, sir.”
Skipp tapped the chart with his piece of chalk. “You haven’t said a thing about the payload.”
“Uh…I…I’m not sure—”
“Not sure?”
“No, sir, I—”
“A five-hundred-and-fifty-one pounder, sir.” Raven’s voice was clear. “Or a couple of hundred-and-thirty-two pound bombs.”
“Thank you, Thunderbird. I don’t recall asking for your help.”
“You didn’t need to, sir. I’m Lockjaw’s wingman. It’s my duty to cover him in all combat situations. I don’t need to be told to do that.”
Skipp stared at Raven. His eyes were made of rock. Then a slow smile made its way across his face. “That is correct. Thank you for reminding me of that, Lieutenant Raven.” He turned back to the chart. “We’ll cover the scouting aircraft in a moment. Let’s go back to the Zeke, the Zero.” He drew a white circle around its silhouette on the chart with his chalk. “The A5M wasn’t that hard for the Chinese to bring down using their Russian-built aircraft. But in August 1940 the A6M2 saw action in Chungking and totally dominated the skies, bringing down Polikarpov I-16s and I-153s with ease. In one engagement thirteen A6M2 Zeros flamed twenty-seven I-15s and I-16s in less than three minutes without losing a plane. I kid you not. Of course they have yet to meet up with British or American fighters. Maybe Washington will make peace with Tokyo and the Japanese and American fighter pilots will never meet. But my hunch is we’ll be seeing action in the new year.”
Skipp faced them, putting his hands behind his back. “To tell you the truth, I don’t really care if you go navy or army. Just remember this. We don’t know much about the Zero except that it’s deadly. The few times over the past year when the Chinese have scored some successes it’s been because they hit the Zero with good strong bursts, not short and fast ones. That’s what I’ve picked up from the intelligence reports. The Zero is light and quick and highly maneuverable. So if it’s light it probably can’t absorb a lot of punishment. Don’t try to out-twist or out-turn it. Dive on it, get it in your sights, put as many shells into it as fast as you can, and get out of there. If the pilot is in your sights, kill him. He’ll zip around and get on your tail and do it to you if you don’t do it to him first. Questions?”
There were a few moments of silence before Shooter spoke up. “Is the Enterprise coming back, sir?”
“That’s a navy matter.”
“Is it?”
“The Big E is on a routine training exercise. Nothing more. She’ll be back at her berth by Sunday or Monday.”
“What if she isn’t?”
Skipp folded his arms over his chest and shrugged. “You can place odds on it if you like. I’ll spot you twenty bucks she’ll be home-sweet-home when you fly over Pearl on Tuesday morning.”
Shooter smiled. “You’re on, sir. I’ll give you three to one. I have a twenty says she’ll be hundreds of miles away by Tuesday.”
“All right.” Skipp looked over the squadron. “Anyone else have something on their mind?”
Juggler half lifted his hand. “Are we going anywhere ourselves, Colonel?”
“Not before Christmas. So maybe this is a good time to talk about our Christmas dance. I want—”
“Are we going to the Philippines in the new year, sir?”
Skipp tilted his head. “I don’t know, Juggler. I told you chances were good we’d be mixing it up with the Empire of Japan in ’42. If I’m right we won’t be leaving the Army Air Forces on this rock. I expect we’ll be deployed to places like Wake or Guam. Or Manila Bay. I have a hunch if it boils over with Japan it’ll boil over with Germany too. For all I know this squadron could be sent to England. With brand new P-40s for everyone. Including you, Thunderbird.”
Raven shook his head. “My P-36 can knock anything out of the sky, Colonel. I’ll stick with it until you cut my fuel line.”
“Never mind Thunderbird’s rocking chair,” said Wizard. “I’m interested in this dance you mentioned, Colonel.”
“I’ve set the date for the third Saturday in December, the twentieth, just three weeks from today. I want this well organized. Wizard, Lockjaw, Whistler, you’re on balloons and streamers—and the tree—I want a beautiful pine tree with silver balls all over it.”
“A pine tree?” Wizard looked at the others. “Sir, where do you expect us to find a pine tree on Oahu? This ain’t Minnesota or Montana.”
“I don’t care, Wiz. Just find it and decorate it. That’s an order. Batman. Work with Juggler and get us a band. A really good band. Jimmy Dorsey or Glenn Miller.”
Batman smiled. “Not a problem, sir. If it’s the ‘Chattanooga Choo Choo’ you want, you’ll get it.”
“Actually I was thinking more along the lines of ‘By the Light of the Silvery Moon,’ Lieutenant. Sweet and slow for Mrs. Skipp.”
“Easy as pie.”
Juggler looked at Batman. “What?”
“Have no fear. If we can’t get an army band we’ll get a navy band.”
“What if that doesn’t work either?”
“We’ll take trumpet lessons.”
“Food!” Skipp clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Food and drink. Can’t have a Christmas party without that. Thunderbird. Shooter. Grab whoever you need and get the grub—I’m sure Boxcars and Bandit have time on their hands. The dishes can be Hawaiian or American. I don’t care. So long as it tastes good and there’s plenty of it. Hit up your girlfriends for help, if you need to. You go to that Pastor Thor’s church, don’t you, Thunderbird?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Maybe some of the ladies there can help.”
“Well, they’re having a beach party on December sixth, Colonel. Right on Waikiki by the Royal Hawaiian. Why don’t you drop by and ask them yourself? A colonel in full dress uniform should motivate dozens of them to
cook whatever we might want.”
“Me? In a church?”
“It’s on the beach, sir. Ocean, sand, palm trees.”
“I’ll think it over, Thunderbird. Okay, that’s about it. We’ll do the Japanese scouting planes next time. Have a good weekend. Some of you have instrument checks, so get gassed up. Dismissed. Lockjaw—let’s have that fatherly chat.”
“What about you, sir?” asked Shooter.
“What about me? You want me to increase my bet on the Enterprise?”
“Sure. You sound pretty confident about where it’s gonna be next week.”
“In harbor.”
“Right. But I’m thinking more along the lines of this Christmas dance you’re so hepped up about. You’ve got us running after pine trees and the Glenn Miller Band and prize turkeys and geese—it sounds like you want Christmas in New Hampshire.”
Skipp grinned. “Not a bad idea, Shooter.”
“So while we’re making the impossible happen, what will you be doing?”
“I’m glad you asked. Sending out the invitations. Admiral Kimmel and General Short will be just two of my invitees. Would you like the job of going to them and asking them to attend?”
Shooter put on his aviators and stood up. “No, thanks, sir. You win this round. We’ll see how you do with the Enterprise.”
“I’ll do just fine. Keep your greenbacks handy.”
“Yes, sir.” Shooter fell in step with Raven, who had picked up a parachute and was walking toward his airplane. “Do you think that church of yours will give us a hand?”
“I’m pretty sure they will. But the old man has to give us some idea of numbers—are we feeding a hundred, two hundred, five hundred?”
“My girlfriend can help out.”
“Peggy?”
“No, Megs. Peggy took up with a marine corps pilot.”
“Before or after you took up with Megs?”
Shooter lifted one shoulder in a shrug. “How about Becky? Can she cook?”
They reached Raven’s P-36. A member of the ground crew gave him thumbs-up. The canopy was open and Raven tossed his parachute into the cockpit.
“I don’t know, Shooter. Her mother and aunt can cook up a storm. What Beck can do I’m not sure.”
“Ask her.”
“Sure I’ll ask her. Next time I see her.”
“Wouldn’t that be now?”
“What are you talking about?”
“Isn’t that her? Looks like her.”
Raven followed Shooter’s gaze to the far end of the airfield where a jeep had stopped by the hangar they’d just left. It was now racing across the runway toward them. The driver’s bright blond hair was flying and the sun glinted off her sunglasses. Her face was a mask of determination, set in stone.
“Yeah.” Raven took off his glasses and squinted. “That’s her.”
“Maybe she’s coming so quick just to settle my nerves and tell me, ‘Hey, Shooter, it’s your lucky day. Twenty prime geese, plucked, gutted, stuffed, and roasted. Delivery December twentieth.’”
“I’m sure that’s what she’s going to say.”
Raven had no idea what she was going to say. He had no idea what she was doing at Wheeler Field. He knew she was booked solid right through December with students on both Saturdays and Sundays—and today, the last Saturday in November, was no different. Flapjack always let her book off church time on Sunday mornings so he had expected to see her at church tomorrow and hopefully tomorrow night. It had been a couple of days and he missed her. But he had no idea what the mad ride across the airstrip was about.
The jeep skidded to a stop and Becky jumped out. “Hey.”
“Hey,” Raven responded.
She was in her flight jacket, white tee, and Levi Strauss jeans. “How’s it going, Shooter?”
“Great.”
“Thunderbird?”
“Can’t complain.”
“You going up?” she asked.
“Yeah. Instrument check.” He looked at her as she stood there in the Hawaiian heat, Ray-Bans on her small face, freckles scattered across her nose. “What’s up? I thought you had students from dawn to dusk.”
“I do. This won’t take long.”
“What won’t take long?” Raven asked.
“Just this.” Becky approached him. “You need to know you achieved what I thought was impossible. You made me fall for you. Long and hard. Now I can’t live without you. No matter what the risk.”
“What?” Raven glanced to Shooter who cleared his throat and said, “Maybe I should—”
“It’s all right, Shooter,” Becky said. “I don’t care who knows.”
She put her arms around Raven’s neck and pulled him into a kiss.
He squirmed a second, then, not knowing what to do with his hands, finally placed them on the back of her leather jacket and hung on until Becky pulled back.
“I love you,” she said. “You need to know that.”
TWENTY-TWO
Sunset sent up a burst of bronze and copper clouds from the sea. The sky glowed white for ten or fifteen minutes before the night rushed in like dark water. It glimmered with stars like minnows that sparkled as they rested in the deep. Becky, lying on her back in the sand, reached over to take Raven’s hand but he pulled it away sharply.
“Hey, hey. No touching until the moon is up.”
She let out her breath in a gust. “You and your games. The other week it was no kissing.”
“I like it. Heightens the anticipation.”
“My anticipation is already sky-high, in case you hadn’t noticed.”
“I know. Your eyes are smoldering.”
“My eyes are smoldering?” She rolled over on her stomach. “How can you tell in the dark?”
“The sparks.”
She threw her head back and laughed.
“I think mine are smoldering too,” he said.
“Really.”
“They’re unusually warm. Know what I mean?”
“No, I don’t. Come on. Relax the rules. I want to play. We haven’t seen each other since—well, since Saturday.”
“Since you told me you loved me.”
She dropped her eyes. “Yeah. That.”
“A pretty sweet moment.”
“Thank you. It took all my nerve.”
Raven pushed himself up on his elbows. “Why?”
“Because…because I was afraid to say it. I was afraid where saying it might take me. Might take us.”
“Well, I’m sure not. I didn’t need a plane to fly for the rest of the day. I haven’t needed a plane since, actually.”
“Yeah?” She looked up and he could see the white of her teeth in the tropical night. “You left me that note at Peterson’s explaining why you weren’t at church Sunday. You didn’t say anything about planes in it.”
“I had other things on my mind.”
“So I read.”
“Share the note with your mom and aunt?”
“Are you kidding?” She propped her elbows in the sand and rested her face between her hands. “So tell me what happened after I left you standing on the airstrip on Saturday. You haven’t said a thing about it.”
“How do you talk about a tidal wave?”
“Please.” She gave him the biggest smile she could. “How did your instrument check go?”
“Not that great. Considering I could hardly read the gauges or focus on the needles.”
“Ah. Sorry about that.”
“I do remember doing a victory roll over Pearl Harbor and Honolulu Harbor. I did it twice over the Taney until Harrison came out and waved his arms at me.”
“What was that about?”
“He told me weeks ago you liked me. I said you didn’t. It was kind of a bet, I guess. I said if you ever fell for me I’d do a victory roll over his ship.”
She grinned. “Is that all?”
“I owed him a plateful of bacon and beans. Had to give one of the mess cooks a fiver to get a plate big eno
ugh for him.”
“Bacon and beans? Is that how I’m going to be remembered? Not cake? Not wine? Not roses?”
She ran her hands back through her hair to get the bangs out of her eyes. Damp from a swim, it remained upright in a kind of wave.
“There.” Raven smiled as he looked at the wave. “That’s how you’re going to be remembered. As gorgeous under all conditions.”
She rolled her eyes up to try to see. “Oh, sure, gorgeous—with my hair sticking up in the air like a freak.”
“You’re stunning.”
“You see? You’re absolutely hopeless. You think I’m cute no matter what I look like.”
“Well, you always look the same.”
“I always look the same?”
“Yeah—beautiful. Like a Pacific sunrise. Or a sunset. A night with stars. The sea in a storm.”
“You’re a nut. I tell God you’re a nut.”
“And what does he say about that?”
“He says I should love you anyway.”
“Yeah? So do it.”
“Do it?”
“Love me anyway.”
She raised her eyebrows. “So I can touch you now?”
“The moon. The full moon. That’s what we’re waiting for. All week it’s going to look like a full moon. But the meteorologist told me Wednesday, December third, was the actual full moon. That’s why I dragged you here.”
“Dragged me here.” She made a sour face. “You’re the one who’s been playing hard to get.”
“Not my fault. Skipp had us do all this extra stuff with our planes on Sunday. Like he knew something was up. When the Enterprise didn’t show on Monday he really went into high gear. Way too many drills. Too much chalkboard talk. Flight patterns till we were sitting in our cockpits with our eyes closed and fast asleep.”
“I missed you.”
“Believe me, I missed you more. A guy doesn’t normally have a gal that looks like you come waltzing up, kiss him like a volcano, then disappear for a week.”
“A gal that looks like you. You always make so much of me.”
“It’s not hard to do.” He suddenly swung around. “Here it comes.” A Bible was holding down his uniform. He reached for it. “Now don’t do anything. I want to read you a verse.”
“Who can do anything? You have more rules than the Amish Ordnung.”
