***
Chapter 5
Salinas, California/November 14, 1951
Hard work had burnished the wrinkles from his face as it siphoned away his paunch. Hadley looked ten years younger, fit, his skin bronzed by days on the ramp, his step as lively and enthusiastic as it used to be. He was even letting his snow-white hair grow long again, something he said he'd never do after his wife's death. Responding like an old sled dog to the snowstorm of contracts from Wright-Patterson, Roget contentedly loped the production lines from which refurbished North American F-51s, Douglas B-26s, and Curtiss C-46s were pouring, supervising everything. The big IRAN—Inspect and Repair as Necessary—facility suited his busybody talents perfectly, as he helped teach forgotten skills to a new work force. For some reason she could not explain herself, Patty had gone first class with the factory, diving deep into debt for a building that would serve for twenty years instead of trying to make do with modular metal prefabs.
Hadley was crowing, "It's better than the big war, Bandy! I never had so much fun in my life. No worries about whether it's a good design, no worries about competition—just fix the airplane and let them go."
Although his assessment was very different, Bandfield nodded agreement. Home on leave, he was contemplating a relaxing test flight behind the stick of a Mustang just as the wild-goose blare of the crash siren sounded. Responding in a way that had become chillingly familiar in the past few weeks, they leaped on the running board of the fire chiefs pickup as it headed for the runway's edge.
"There he is."
In the hazy sky, a cross and a smudge of gray-brown smoke drew nearer, a schoolboy's drawing of a plane in desperate trouble. The chiefs radio crackled, "Ah, Salinas tower, this is Air Force Nine Seven, four miles out, number one engine shut down and burning, losing power on number two."
"Roger, Nine Seven, you're cleared for a straight-in, emergency equipment standing by."
The B-26 grew larger, canted to the left, crabbing painfully as the pilot sought the field. Bandfield knew what the pilot was going through, sweat streaming from his face, left leg stiff on the rudder pedal, wheel cocked over, throttle jammed forward, eyes constantly switching between the airspeed indicator and the runway, praying hard all the while to keep the sick number two engine sputtering with enough power to stretch his glide to the field.
There was an involuntary cheer when the B-26 finally limped in to land on the end of the runway, the pilot immediately shutting the good engine down and standing on the brakes. Fear of fire tossed him out of the top hatch like toast from a toaster as the fire trucks began spraying foam.
"Look at him, he won't quit running until he hits the ocean!"
It was almost routine. The planes that staggered in for refurbishment were mostly derelict clunkers like this one, flying on onetime-flight ferry permits, their fabric-covered control surfaces tattered, with paint chipped and gaping holes where instruments had been. Apparently no airplane sat anywhere for more than ten minutes without scavengers savaging it.
Bandfield smiled and punched Roget on the arm. Another tired old B-26 was down safe.
Roget laughed, "We won't make any money on this one."
Bandfield agreed. It was tougher and tougher to get GFE, the Government Furnished Equipment, and spare parts prices were going up all the time. Still, the business gave him an enormous satisfaction, especially a beat-up crate like this one. The prop had hardly stopped ticking when one of their crews began breathing life back into the airplane. In three days, it would be stripped down, steam-cleaned, and fed into the two-block-long production line. Within a few weeks, the same airplane would emerge for its test flight, then be painted—ready for another war.
Patty was even more concerned with the financial risk than Bandy was, even though the first contracts had been very profitable. The Air Force was beginning to tighten up on its negotiations as more competitors entered the field, but there was still a decent margin. It was worth the risk to her to see Hadley and Bandy so happy that they were still a useful part of the aviation scene. It was important work—they were supplying airpower that wouldn't have been available otherwise, getting airplanes to Korea long before new equipment could be delivered. They were proud to do it—and would have done it for nothing if the Air Force had demanded it.
The job also pointed where they should go in the future. The Korean War wouldn't last forever—and when peace came, Roget Aircraft would be ready to go into the modification business, converting the old warbirds into executive transports, an idea Hadley had long been nourishing. Bandy, a native Californian, was more intrigued by an earlier idea—modifying some of the bigger planes to fight forest fires. The market was more assured—and he wouldn't have to be there to watch over it.
He had just walked into his second-floor office, which overlooked the line, when he saw the look on Patty's face.
"What's going on?"
"You just got a call from the Associated Press. Some senator named McCarthy has accused you of being a Communist, and is demanding that all our contracts be cancelled."
*
Nashville, Tennessee/February 14, 1952
Elsie was running late, and Stan was already outside on the sidewalk of the commercial terminal. She put her arms out to him saying, "Stan, you look terrible, what's wrong?"
He didn't answer, embracing her first as an old friend, then not relinquishing her. She'd sent him many signals in the past, and he had always put her off. Today he held her tight.
She sensed the change immediately and pulled him toward the car.
"What's happened, Stan—" He leaped across the seat at her like a lion on a piece of meat. Without a word, ignoring the people outside the car, her mouth met his willingly and they kissed deeply.
After a few moments Elsie pulled back. "Stan, you know I've wanted that ever since we met, and you've always been cold as a fish."
"Things have changed, Elsie. I wanted you before too, but..."
She guessed at once that he was having problems with Ginny, and it pleased her. She had plotted his seduction even before they'd met, purely as a way to spite Ginny. He had always been friendly but distant.
Wiping the lipstick off his face, Coleman snarled, "We've waited too long, honey, way too long. Let's go see Troy, and then we'll have a little party by ourselves somewhere."
The meeting in McNaughton's office began and ended curiously. Troy had looked at them both closely, eyes narrowed, obviously aware that there had been something going on, saying, "How was the canary you two cats have been eating?" Then, with the abstract proficiency of habit, he lit a cigarette and shifted it to the corner of his mouth.
"Damn, that's hot." He ground the cigarette out, then reached into his desk to put a little salve where the Camel usually drooped. There was a sore on his lip.
Troy went on: "I guess you know that Milo hasn't been able to prevent the Air Force from canceling the Manta. They're putting all their chips on the Atlas ICBM program, and it's too expensive to be able to afford us as a backup."
Coleman nodded with indifference. His entire philosophy of life had changed since the ugly scene in Little Rock. He had idealized and idolized Ginny, feeling that she was so far above him that he might have understood her infidelity with someone else. Finding her with Nathan had destroyed him.
McNaughton droned on. "But he's tossed us a juicy bone. We are going to be a subcontractor for the Boeing B-47, building center fuselage sections and inner wing panels. They are expanding the hell out of that program, bringing Lockheed and Douglas in as additional sources. It's not as good as producing something of our own design, but it'll keep the plant going, and it's going to be very profitable."
Coleman stared at him. A year ago he'd been hanging on his words, trying to see what advantage was lurking. Now it didn't matter.
"I want you to ask Ruddick to get you released from the Air Force. He can do it with a phone call."
Coleman laughed bitterly. "Why would I do that?"
&nb
sp; "So you can manage the B-47 component program."
"Hell, I'm no manager. You just want my connections."
It was a statement of the obvious.
Troy was terribly preoccupied, fingering his lip as one probes a sore tooth with a tongue, seemingly unable to marshal his usual salesman's persuasiveness. Elsie felt a sudden unease. Could that sore be a chancre?
"We need you, Stan."
"You don't need me. I just want to get back in combat."
Troy and Elsie looked at each other. They knew Coleman loved to fly, but getting back in combat was totally inconsistent.
Yet it was his story, and he stuck to it, frustrating Troy. Resigned, he told Elsie, "You see if you can persuade our friend. I'm catching a plane back to Washington in an hour."
As they left the factory grounds, Coleman slipped his hand beneath her skirt.
"Don't, honey, you'll get me so hot I'll run into something. We'll be there in a minute."
As soon as the guesthouse door closed behind them, Coleman threw himself on her, pulling her down in the hallway.
"Don't rip my blouse, honey, I'll—"
He closed her mouth with his own as he tore the white fabric away, then pulled at her skirt.
"Let me help, honey, don't be—"
Her Playtex Pink-Ice girdle, fashion's Maginot Line of chastity, slowed him momentarily, but she peeled out of it and he began flailing inside her in a demon-driven way, his eyes closed, breathing hard.
Later, he was sheepish as they finished undressing.
"I'm sorry I was so rough, Elsie. I was hot."
"Lord, honey, you're telling me you were hot? I hope that little romp on the rug was just for openers."
He nodded, half smiling. "I guess Ginny told you how I used to worry about saving myself. Not anymore."
Elsie reached for him, cuddling his head between her breasts. She had tasted jealousy in his mouth—his tongue, his whole body, had been probing for Ginny. Why?
He dropped off her and slept beside her for almost twenty minutes. Elsie stared at the ceiling, bemused that something she'd waited so long for could have been so disappointing. It had been a hard campaign, starting with a diet and exercise program she couldn't stick to. It took almost two years to get herself into shape to compete with Ginny—and Stan's reserve diminished her appetite for him. Yet the habit of conquest sustained her interest, and as part of the process, she saw to it that she and Ginny became "best friends." It had been easy—Ginny's vanity was as deep as her character was shallow. The better she knew Ginny, the more she wanted to screw Stan, just to show her. Elsie didn't just listen; she drew Ginny out like Stokowski drew out an orchestra, dropping just the gestures and the words to evoke an outpouring, never volunteering any of her own liberal views, content to let Ginny chatter on.
Discontented, she watched Stan snore, muttering to herself,
"What the hell does it all mean? What the hell am I doing here?" For the first time in her life she felt uneasy that she was involving herself with someone she didn't care for. She asked herself, "Ain't it enough that I've got Dick Baker to screw?"
Coleman woke up, saying sheepishly, "I guess you can tell, Ginny and I are through."
"Honey, you just tell your old Aunt Elsie all about it."
"It's such a mess—I just can't live with her anymore."
"What happened? Was she unfaithful?"
Coleman sat up. "No, nothing like that. Ginny would never do anything like that."
"Baloney, Stan. Something happened. If you don't want to tell me, that's fine. I really don't care." He must have walked in on Ginny while she was screwing somebody else. It happens.
She turned on her side, suddenly bored with the whole process. She felt a peculiar desire to be free of him, to be back in Dick Baker's trailer, not having to pretend about anything.
He put his hand on her shoulder and she turned, saying, "I'm getting too old for this."
"No, you're not, you're beautiful. I'm just a little tired and worn out."
Reflexively, she became the practiced courtesan, saying, "Honey, you just be quiet for a while. I'm going to talk a little French to Stan the Man here."
*
Los Angeles, California/April 10, 1952
After flying his 114th combat mission in F-84s, Marshall was sent home. Combat in Korea had been satisfying: dropping napalm, shooting up trucks and trains, and slinging bombs into tunnels. But there had been no more dogfights and no more victories. He knew he was an ace in his own mind, but the Air Force did not—could not—count the Egyptians as victories. His official score stood at three.
Despite his assignment as a flight commander with the 94th Fighter-Interceptor Squadron, Rickenbacker's old outfit, he immediately began applying for reassignment to combat in Korea.
He didn't tell Saundra that. Instead, he drove from George Air Force Base to Los Angeles each weekend, pleased-at first to spend time in the flat-roofed stucco crackerbox house she'd bought in Santa Monica. It was small, studded on a block with a dozen others as identical as the white dots of sugar on a licorice strip, but she loved it. At first they used to go down to Muscle Beach to buy hot dogs from the vendors and then eat them while watching the weight lifters. Afterward they'd stroll in the sand to admire the sunset—but day by day, week by week, she had less time for him.
Lack of time was only one of the disturbing changes in her. When he'd left, his wife had been frustrated with a failing little general store, struggling to sell her line of homemade cosmetics. When he came back, she was a business executive, running a small factory and building a sales organization. Strangest of all, she was a new woman in bed.
Their first night together had been remarkable, better than any of, his wartime fantasies. Saundra, always so shy in the past, was now as aggressive with her whole body as her tongue had once been, open to experimentation, eager to please. When they made love she quite literally took his breath away, kissing him so deeply that he gasped, "I need some oxygen, Babe. What's come over you?"
"Well, you just did, twice. And in a minute, I'm going to come over you."
"No, I'm serious. You're like a different woman. If I didn't know better, I'd say you had a lover while I was gone." Then, ruefully, "And a good one, too."
"You're lucky I know you're joking."
They lay quietly side by side, hands intertwined, his leg plopped over her thigh.
She yawned and stretched, then said, "But I am different now, in a lot of ways—I've had to be. The real world's taught me a lot."
"Maybe too much."
"Maybe. I guess the sad truth is I've gotten harder. Your sweet old Saundra has had her sweetness ground off in the tough business world."
She didn't have to tell him; he was sick of hearing her yammer about bad accounts, about people who paid late but took the 2 percent/10-day discounts anyway, boring stuff he never wanted to be involved with.
"The Air Force is pretty tough, too."
"I know, John, being shot at—"
"Christ Almighty"—the words shattered her; he'd never taken Jesus's name in vain with her before—"the combat was nothing. Try being snubbed by blond idiots like Stan Coleman. Try looking away and not saying anything when the other guys are talking about pretty girls—pretty white girls; try not hearing people tell nigger jokes, try not seeing them clam up when you come in."
"Well then, get out. Do what I'm doing, make some money ..."
The quarrel went on, but the marriage started to break down there, with the role reversal. He used to be the one who was preoccupied about making a living, who would quickly fall asleep after making love, and then wake up early, worrying. Now it was the other way around. One morning he had reached for her, to find a note saying only, Early morning meeting—see you about six.
It had been past ten p.m. when she returned, tired and out of sorts, passive about their lovemaking. From then on it seemed to him they were only going through the motions of being married.
His own schedule at G
eorge was full. He had to get as much flying time as possible in the F-86 to bring his experience level up, and the CO. had saddled him—as the new guy—with all the boring, time-consuming extra duties—Form 5s, Awards and Decorations, stupid stuff. He could only get away on the weekends, when she was either bone-tired or frantically busy. For the first time in their marriage, they began to have serious, sustained quarrels that didn't end with a romp in bed. One Friday night she told them they were going to a cocktail party and dinner with some clients.
"Look, Saundra, I've only got forty-eight hours. I don't want to go to a stupid party with your clients—I want to stay home with you.
"John, these people put the beans on the table—I have to go. Why don't you find some way to get more time off?"
It was a rhetorical question—she knew that the Air Force was as demanding of his time as her business was of hers.
Marshall felt as if he'd stepped outside his body, watching the argument build toward a critical point. He wanted to beg her to stop, to give in to her, to agree with anything, and could not. Instead he said, "I'm going to get plenty of time off—from you. I'm going back to Korea."
"Oh, what a big surprise. I'd never have guessed. The truth is you'd rather have a chance at getting two more kills than be with me."
Frustrated, Marshall lunged at her, fists clenched, "I'll beat some sense into you."
She laughed and he backed away, apologizing for his idiocy. Yet a week later he had his orders—and she had decided to talk to a lawyer about a divorce.
*
K-13, Suwon, Korea/May 26, 1952
When he'd arrived with Dave Menard at K-13, Bones had pointed them to a rope dangling from the rear door of the transport.
"Number one Korean service."
Korea had three seasons: mud, blazing heat, and freezing cold. The battered old C-54 had settled into the black gumbo like a washerwoman into old shoes. There was no way to get out except by the rope, so they dumped their gear and shinnied down hand over hand.
Air Force Eagles Page 18
