by Joe Weber
"Leigh Ann," Brad stammered, "I don't know what to say."
She stared into his eyes. "Tell me that you will write to me, and that you'll be true to me . . . and that you'll come back safely."
Brad walked her to a spot affording some privacy, then held her tightly. "Leigh Ann, I care deeply about you." They remained quiet, feeling the distress of separation.
"Brad, I need your address," she said as she handed him her home address. "I'll write every day, I promise."
Brad wrote his address on one of his calling cards and gave it to Leigh Ann. He unbuttoned his khaki shirt, removed his gold wings, replaced the snaps over the prongs, then held Leigh Ann.
"Come back to me," she said, wiping away a tear, "safely."
"Count on it," Brad replied, squeezing the gold wings into her small palm. "We belong together . . . forever."
"Oh, Brad, I'm scared."
Brad turned and walked to the taxi, not trusting his voice. His world had been shattered by the reality of leaving Leigh Ann, and the certainty of what he had to face over the skies of North Vietnam.
Chapter 19.
The KC-135 shrieked like a thousand banshees as it thundered down the long runway. The four Pratt & Whitney turbojets strained to propel the fully loaded tanker to takeoff speed. The noise was deafening.
Brad sat in a tip-down troop seat close to the darkened cockpit. He watched the pilots, then turned and looked the length of the long, windowless fuselage. Harry and Nick were already stretched out on the uncomfortable passenger seats.
After what seemed like an eternity, the heavy aircraft lifted smoothly off the pavement with 500 feet of runway to spare. Brad unclenched his sweaty palms, exercising his tense fingers.
The laboring tankers, fueled to maximum capacity, had to depart late at night or early in the morning. The pilots had to take advantage of the cooler temperatures in order to get the maximum thrust from their engines.
Letting out a sigh of relief, Brad opened his breast pocket and gently lifted out the pendant on a gold chain. Even in the drab lighting, he could distinguish the intricate design around the dove. He held the shiny ornament in his left hand and reached into his pocket again, extracting the picture of Leigh Ann.
Brad stared at her image as if to keep her close even though they would soon be worlds apart--he in his chaotic world of aerial warfare, and Leigh Ann in her more civilized surroundings. They had had so little time together. He hoped that she was peacefully asleep.
Harry Hutton leaned over, studying the photo. "She is absolutely beautiful."
"Yeah," Brad replied, opening his palm to view the pendant. "She is a beautiful person inside, too."
"What's that?" Hutton asked, pointing to the ornament.
"Something Leigh Ann gave me," Brad answered, carefully handing the delicate pendant and chain to Hutton. "That's a dove on the front."
Hutton ran his thumb over the design before turning to Brad. "Are you going to wear this?"
"Damn right I'm going to wear it," Brad replied, accepting the ornament back. "I'm going to hook it around my dog tags." "It's crazy," Hutton remarked, leaning against the fuselage. "What's crazy?"
"Brad Austin," Harry said slowly, "carrying a symbol of peace while he blasts fighters out of the skies."
Brad placed the photo and pendant back in his shirt pocket, then turned to Hutton. "Harry, I'll tell you what's crazy." He paused a moment. "No, I'll tell you the solution. This planet needs a new, consolidated rule book."
Harry laughed. "Written by Brad Austin, terror of the skies."
"You're damn right," Brad replied, buttoning his pocket. "If I ran this planet, there wouldn't be any more goddamn wars. You can count on that."
"My boy," Hutton said, giving Brad a strange look, "you've had too many trips to Disneyland."
They both remained quiet for a couple of minutes before Brad turned to his shipmate. "Harry, I'm in love with Leigh Ann." "You mean in lust."
Brad gave Harry a cold look.
Hutton raised his eyebrows. "You're serious."
"Serious as a ramp strike."
"Brad," Hutton counseled, glancing at the sleeping forms of Palmer and Lunsford, "you just met this girl . . . what, less than a day ago?"
"Harry," Brad responded irritably, "I may not be Einstein, but my primitive brain knows when a feeling registers."
"Okay," Harry replied, then watched Brad open his pocket again, extract the pendant, slip his dog tags over his head, then attach the gold memento to his chain.
The afternoon crowd was beginning to gather in the Cubi Point Officers' Club. Brad stood next to a row of phone booths, patiently waiting for the naval-base operator to place his call to Honolulu.
Nick Palmer, Russ Lunsford, and Harry Hutton were at the bar quaffing cold San Miguel beers. The four men had twenty-five minutes before they had to assemble at the carrier on-board delivery (COD) aircraft that would return them to their ship. Their two Phantoms had already been flown to the carrier.
Brad was listening to the clicks and hums emanating from the phone line when the Royal Hawaiian operator suddenly answered. She quickly connected him with the room occupied by Leigh Ann and her parents.
Mrs. Ladasau answered, expressing her regret that Brad had been called back to duty so unexpectedly. She wished him well, then called her daughter to the telephone.
"Hi, Brad!" Leigh Ann sounded excited. "Where are you?"
Covering his left ear, Brad spoke a little louder than normal. "I'm in the Philippines--at a naval air station. We're getting ready to fly out to the ship."
"Brad," she said, hearing the intermittent static in their connection, "I miss you . . . I really do. This just seems unbelievable." "What do your parents think about our relationship?" Leigh Ann laughed softly. "My father thinks it's one of those flash-in-the-pan romances."
Brad glanced at the bar. "And your mother?"
"Mother and I were discussing you when you called. She fully understands how we feel, and said that she fell in love with dad the first time she met him."
Seeing Palmer and Lunsford point to the arriving crew bus, Brad nodded. "Leigh Ann, I have to go. Just remember that I love you . . . and I'll be in touch."
"Brad, I miss you," she said above the phone-line interference, "and I wrote a letter--a long one--to you this morning."
"I can't wait," he almost shouted. "Gotta run. Take care of yourself."
"You, too, flyboy. I'll be waiting for you."
"God . . . damn!" Russ Lunsford exclaimed, jolted awake by the solid impact of the carrier landing. The sudden stop threw him sideways toward the front of the aircraft. Also startled awake, Brad, Harry, and Nick were groggy and disoriented.
"Holy shit," Hutton blurted, rubbing his eyes. "I believe we just arrived."
Lunsford turned to the youngster who served as the COD crew member. "Jesus Christ, do you think it might be a good idea to wake people before a crash landing on a carrier?"
"Yes, sir," the third-class petty officer mumbled. "I forgot. I'm sorry."
After the C-lA Trader was chocked and the engines were shut down, the men climbed out and entered the carrier through the forward hatch in the superstructure. They went below deck to their staterooms, deposited their gear, stopped at the head, then walked to the squadron ready room.
Entering the briefing room, the late arrivals were greeted with catcalls and good-natured banter. Dan Bailey motioned for them to come to the front of the narrow compartment. "Sorry, gents, but we need every warm body we've got."
The four sat down, while the CO told them what he had explained earlier to the squadron. In less than forty-eight hours they would be working with the carrier Intrepid in a combined operation to increase the pressure on North Vietnam. The rules of engagement would remain the same, but the intensity of bombing would be expanded.
After Bailey pointed out the primary target areas, Brad had a question. "Skipper, why are we hitting the same worthless targets we bombed before, with a larger amou
nt of ordnance?"
Bailey raised one hand. "Look, I know what you're saying, and I agree. We should pick out strategic targets and annihilate them, no question.
"However, referencing the discussion we had previously, the White House calls the shots. It's that simple . . . and not open for deliberation."
Brad strained to maintain his composure. His exposition of guiding principles found the meaningless and irrational bombings absurd. The message from Washington was clear. The civilian leadership, demonstrating no will to win in their policy of slow escalation, would drag the war on for an indeterminate period. The politicians, who were scrambling to cover their careers, could care less about the individuals they had sent to do battle.
"They believe," Bailey continued with a hint of disgust, "that a policy of gradualism . . . an intensified show of force will pressure Hanoi into capitulating."
"Sir," Brad said as silence filled the ready room, "with respect, we aren't going to make a dent in North Vietnam, or in the thinking of Ho Chi Minh, until we saturate bomb them around the clock with every airplane in the inventory--air force, navy, and marine."
"No question, Captain Austin," Bailey said, tight-lipped, "but the subject is not open for discussion."
"Yes, sir," Brad responded in a temperate voice. "I understand."
Inside, he was suffering agonies over the insanity of seeing more pilots and RIOs die in halfhearted strike efforts. That knowledge, along with the incomprehensible rules of aerial engagement, caused an enormous rift in his loyalties.
Bailey made a few more general remarks to the crew members, then left for the wardroom. Four of the junior officers resumed their acey-deucey games, while others followed the CO to the evening meal. Afterward, everyone would gather in the ready room for hot popcorn and the evening movie.
Brad walked out of the compartment and down to the air-conditioned passageway leading to his stateroom. He opened a soft drink, sat down at the desk, and listened to the sounds of the ship.
The ever-present creaks and groans of the massive hull were occasionally interrupted by bells ringing, whistles blowing, and announcements over the internal 1-MC loudspeakers. Letting his mind wander from the war to Leigh Ann, Brad tuned out all of the sounds in the carrier.
He started to write a letter to Leigh Ann, then dismissed the idea when he thought about his frustrations. He did not want his feelings about the war to come out on paper, especially not to Leigh Ann. She would probably agree with her father. The United States should not be bombing anyone.
Opening his shirt pocket, Brad pulled out Leigh Ann's picture. Looking at her smiling face helped erase the thoughts of the lunacy of the war. He placed the picture on the desk, vowing to have the ship's photo shop duplicate it. That way, Brad reasoned, he could keep one picture in his room and carry the other in the cockpit.
Harry Hutton walked in a minute later, happy as ever. "You hungry?"
"No, not really," Brad replied, setting down the cola can. "I don't have much of an appetite this evening."
Harry sat down on the bed and studied his friend. "Brad, this shit bag we're in is really getting to you."
Austin looked at his roommate and picked up the can of cola. "You want the rest of this?"
"You bet," Harry replied, accepting the cold can. Their portable refrigerator was worth its weight in gold.
"I'm going to take a walk," Brad said, reaching for his brown leather flight jacket.
Harry tilted up the can, finishing the last third of the cola, then tossed the can into their metal trash container. "Care for some company?" Harry said as he stood.
"Sure," Brad responded, slipping on his jacket. "Let's go up to the bow."
"I'm following you," Harry replied, reaching for his flight jacket.
They locked their stateroom door and walked through two passageways to the light trap and ladder leading up to the catwalk. They climbed the short stairs and stepped out onto the open grating that hugged the flight deck.
Brad looked down through the framework of the catwalk at the foamy bow wave. He felt the damp spray rushing up through the iron grating.
Harry inhaled the sea breeze, then let it out slowly. "If I close my eyes, and really work at it, I see ourselves on board a cruise ship, lolling away the hours with two sensuous nymphomaniacs."
Brad turned and smiled. "I think I know how you get by from day to day."
"Whatever works," Harry responded with a grin.
They walked forward to the port side of the bow. The sun had just dropped below the horizon when Brad and Harry reached their viewing spot.
Harry leaned on the edge of the railing. "After you left the ready room, Dirty Ernie told me that we're going into Yokosuka as soon as our relief is on station."
Brad turned around and leaned against the railing. His thoughts shifted to Leigh Ann. "When are we scheduled to be relieved?"
"It's up in the air right now. The Bonnie Dick," Harry said, referring to the aircraft carrier Bon Homme Richard, "is supposed to start warm-ups at Dixie Station in about a week or so."
Brad quickly calculated the number of days until the ship would leave the line. "Why are we going to Yokosuka?"
Hutton gave him a bewildered look. "Ernie said they have some kind of equipment in Yoko that they don't have at Subic.. . to work on the prop shafts, or something related to them. From what he said, they've got problems with the reduction gears on two of the shafts."
Brad gripped the rail. "I thought the reason we were yanked back from Hawaii was because they had this tub fixed."
"I don't know shafts from shit," Harry replied, staring at the destroyer escort off the port bow. "All I know is that our bird farm needs some maintenance."
"Yeah," Brad replied, gazing at the rows of aircraft chained to the flight deck, "this baby needs a lot of work, especially the catapults." They watched the horizon grow dark, each lost in his thoughts. After the stars were clearly visible, they decided to grab a quick bite at the gedunk.
Brad and Harry descended to the hangar deck and walked through the throng of men and airplanes to the small store. They both consumed a cheeseburger and a Coke, then carried their strawberry ice-cream cones to the ready room.
Brad and Harry entered the noisy compartment and sat down in the back row of seats. Mario Russo, the squadron popcorn officer, was dispensing brown bags of freshly popped corn. As soon as he was finished with the nightly ritual, Jon O'Meara started the movie.
Nick Palmer kept up a running commentary during the low-budget horror movie, making his comments when there was no dialogue. He had always narrated the love scenes at all ready-room movies, cracking up the entire group at every opportunity.
"Hey, O'Meara," a loud voice called from the front of the compartment, "can't the navy do any better than this horseshit?"
"Pipe down," Ernie Sheridan called out. "Can't you appreciate the intellectual stimulation the rest of us are experiencing?" The loud groans were audible throughout the room.
After a few minutes, Brad drifted back to the Hawaiian Islands. Forgetting the grisly movie, he formulated a plan to meet Leigh Ann after the carrier docked in Yokosuka, Japan.
Handing Harry the remainder of his popcorn, Brad quietly slipped out of the darkened compartment and walked to his stateroom. He took off his uniform and hung it in the small closet next to the washbasin. Donning a pair of gym shorts, Brad opened the desk and placed his stationery on top. He propped Leigh Ann's picture against the bulkhead in front of him and picked up his pen.
.
My Dear Leigh Ann, I am back on the carrier, missing you more than I can express in words. I will be anxiously looking forward to your first letter. Seeing our mail plane overhead is the highlight of our day.
Leigh Ann, how would you like to meet me in San Francisco? Rumor has it that we are going to Japan for more extensive work on the ship, so I thought I would fly from Tokyo to San Francisco, if you can arrange to meet me. There are so many things to see and do in the city, and I would
give anything to share the experience with you.
I will take care of your airline ticket, and all related expenses, if you can join me in approximately three weeks. I will have to let you know the exact date a little later.
We can stay at the Fairmont Hotel, ride the cable cars to Fisherman's Wharf, dine in Chinatown, and enjoy the sunset from the Fairmont Crown--a cocktail lounge on top of the hotel. Watching the sun settle below the Golden Gate Bridge is an unforgettable sight.
I look forward to hearing from you.
Love, Brad
P. S. I will not leave a forwarding address this time!
.
He carefully folded the letter and sealed it in an envelope, which he slid into a pocket on his flight jacket. Reclining on his bunk, Brad stared at the picture of the smiling brunette, then got up and began his daily calisthenics.
Chapter 20.
Watching the TACAN, Brad waited until another nautical mile ticked over. He added power, then raised the nose and banked to the left. He continued the wide orbit until Nick Palmer coasted alongside in Joker 207. Harry Hutton waved from the backseat of the F-4.
When they passed over the carrier, Brad turned on course and scanned the sky for their tankers. Climbing through 16,000 feet, he spotted the two KA-3B Skywarriors four miles ahead. They were in loose formation in the standard refueling track.
Extending his fueling probe, he eased back on the twin throttles. The Phantoms flown by Jack Carella and Lincoln Durham had just plugged into the Whales. Brad would time his rendezvous with the tankers to coincide with the departure of the first two F-4s.
Brad and Nick would provide target combat air patrol on the left side of the strike group. Carella and Durham would patrol on the right flank. Fifteen miles in front of the formation, four additional Phantoms crisscrossed the hazy sky on their way to the targets around Haiphong.
"Joker Two Oh Seven," Brad radioed to Palmer, "come up tanker freq."
"Two Oh Seven."
The two F-4s closed to less than 100 yards behind Jocko Carella's aircraft. They held their position fifteen seconds while both squadron mates topped off their tanks. Carella dropped off the lower Whale, followed seconds later by Bull Durham from the other KA-3B.
