“But it’s been a whole year already,” I said.
“And it’s getting better already. Isn’t it?” he asked.
I nodded but couldn’t bring myself to look him in the eye. I kept my head down and said, “If the war comes—”
“Don’t let’s talk about that tonight,” he interrupted. “Not on our anniversary.”
“But it’s been all this time and I’m still not in a family way.”
He shrugged, but the expression on his face wasn’t as unconcerned as he was trying to appear. “We don’t know that. Maybe you are. Maybe you are right now. Maybe that’s why you’re so emotional. I hear women get weepy when they’re having a baby. And even if you’re not, you will be soon,” he said reassuringly.
I took a deep breath and thought about Roger. How patient he’d been and how well he knew me, maybe even better than I knew myself. With my free hand, I reached under the tablecloth, found Roger’s knee, and laid my hand on it. I moved my fingers along the smooth fabric of his trousers, high up to his inseam. I lifted my head and saw the surprise in his eyes.
“Soon,” I said softly. “Maybe tonight.”
Roger grinned and shifted a little in his seat. “Can I pour you a drink?” he asked as he reached for the bottle of champagne.
I shook my head. “No. I don’t need it, Roger. Not tonight.”
10
Morgan
The Pacific—June 1942
It was my own fault. I’d been standing there, holding my chow tray and scanning the mess tent for an empty spot for a good minute and a half—the sure sign of a recent arrival. Seeing a not too crowded table in the far corner, I made a move toward it, trying to look like I knew where I was going. Too late.
Out of the corner of my eye, I saw a crowd of guys wearing flight jackets laughing, and talking, and checking me out. Pilots. Even sitting down, they possessed the unmistakable swagger of hotshots. The man at the end of the table, a redheaded fellow so tall I wondered how he managed to fold himself into the cramped confines of a cockpit, was looking at me hard. He elbowed the guy next to him and jerked his chin toward me with a sly “watch this” expression on his face.
Their table was directly along my path. As I approached, the red-haired pilot shouted, “Gentlemen! FNG at two o’clock!” With that, the whole bunch of them leaped to their feet accompanied by the clatter of spoons against chow trays and the scuffle of a dozen pairs of boots. Startled by the noise, I didn’t see the redhead’s boot stuck out directly in my path. I tripped. My tray went flying and I followed. The mess hall rumbled in laughter as I came down for a landing in a pile of mashed potatoes and beef gravy. The pilots laughed hardest of all and offered me advice.
“Better watch where you’re going there, FNG.”
“Hey! The uniform of the day doesn’t include gravy.”
“Hope he’s not my new navigator. This FNG can’t navigate his way through the chow line!”
The guys were enjoying themselves, and fresh ripples of laughter accompanied each witty remark. A new pair of boots moved into my field of vision, and the merriment ebbed as the pilots greeted the newcomer.
“Hey, Fountain! How you doing? Good run?”
I flexed my knee a couple of times to see if the pain in it was anything serious. In an elegant drawl of the Deep South, the voice that belonged to the boots said, “It was A-OK, gentlemen. Another Jap bought the farm.”
A murmur of congratulations greeted this information. “Who’s this guy on the deck?” he asked, obviously referring to me.
“FNG,” the redhead responded.
“An FNG? You sure?” I was already starting to get up, but the speaker, Fountain, reached down, gripped me by the shoulder and helped haul me to my feet. A big, open face topped by a shock of white-blond hair looked into mine. He turned so his back was toward his buddies, brushed invisible dust from my shoulders, and gave me a conspiratorial wink.
“You bunch of yahoos!” he barked. “This is no FNG! This is my cousin.”
“Your cousin?” The redhead said, an edge of doubt creeping into his voice. The guy they called Fountain sounded really mad.
“Yeah! My cousin! Wee, what are you doing, tripping my cousin and messin’ up his uniform? Give him your handkerchief so he can clean himself up,” he ordered. The redhead he’d addressed as Wee quickly complied.
“Thanks,” I said as I used the handkerchief to sop up the gravy on my shirt.
Wee furrowed his brow. “He’s your cousin? His accent isn’t anything like yours.”
“Well, that’s because my cousin is from the Texas branch of the family, isn’t that right, Cousin ... Cousin ... ?” He paused a moment, waiting for me to fill in the blank.
“Morgan. Morgan Glennon. And I’m from Oklahoma,” I said and handed the gravy-soaked handkerchief back to Wee, who dropped it on the table with a splat.
“That’s right,” Fountain continued without missing a beat. “Like I said—Cousin Morgan. From the Oklahoma branch of the family. Our grandfathers were brothers. They were both graduates of the Citadel, but that was before Cousin Morgan’s grandfather left South Carolina to find and seek his fortune in the oil fields of Oklahoma.”
“The Citadel,” one of the guys called out. “Wasn’t that the college they expelled you from?”
“I wasn’t expelled,” Fountain explained calmly. “The president merely suggested that a natural-born leader like myself would best serve our country by enlisting immediately rather than wasting two more years in college.”
“Was that before or after he found you and his daughter steaming up the windows of his Pontiac?” the other guy asked. Fountain grinned broadly, and all the pilots burst into raucous laughter.
“So, this guy’s your cousin. That right, F.W.?” Realizing he’d been duped, annoyance and amusement battled in Wee’s face. Amusement won out. He smiled and stuck out his hand. “Nice to meet you, Cuz. Bill Williamson. Also known as Wee Willy Williamson, or just Wee for short.”
“It certainly is,” Fountain commented.
Wee punched him in the shoulder but without any real malice. He was obviously used to his nickname by now. “Very funny.”
“Wee is the section leader of these fine gentlemen,” Fountain said. I nodded to the assembled group. “And I will be your section leader, which, naturally, makes you a member of the hottest section on base.” He grinned and extended his hand. “Fountain Walker the Third, known to my friends as F.W., of Goose Creek, South Carolina. That’s near Charleston.”
“Nice to meet you.”
“I heard you were coming, but wasn’t expecting you until to morrow.”
“There was room on an earlier transport.”
“That’s good. We’ve been shorthanded. Could have used your help today. We took out a couple of Zeros but not before they put some holes in our planes. One of my guys kind of limped back home, but everybody made it.”
“Where were you stationed before this, Morgan?”
“Lackland,” I answered. The other pilots laughed when they heard this. Wee laughed the loudest.
“You just graduated from Lackland? This is your first combat posting?” I nodded. “What’d I tell you, Fountain? Your cousin’s an FNG!”
I looked at Fountain, who was laughing with the others. “What’s an FNG?” I asked.
“F***ing New Guy,” he said and clapped me on the back. “That’s all right. I can tell already that you’re going to be one hell of a good wing man. You’re quiet, and that’s what counts. Remember, there’s only two things a good wing man needs to say. ‘Your tail’s on fire,’ and, ‘I’ll take the ugly one.’” The guys guffawed, and I smiled, too. “Trust me. You’ve got the top section leader in the squadron. With my guidance, you’ll be an ace in no time.”
“That right?” said Wee. “As of yesterday I had five kills to your four, which officially made me an ace. You got another today, so now you’re a member of the club, too, but that still leaves us tied.”
“Oh, d
idn’t I tell you?” Fountain said in a voice as smooth as southern loomed cotton. “I took out two Japs today. Two.” He held up dual fingers to emphasize his point.
“That right?” Wee smiled and then looked around the table. “Well, gentlemen, I guess that means we’d better finish up here and get to our briefing.” Wee and his crew gathered up their gear. As he left, Wee grinned at Fountain.
“Enjoy that title, Ace, because you’ll not be at the top heap for long. There’s Japs out there today. I can smell ’em, and I’m going to get ’em.”
The two pilots shook hands. “See you when you get back,” Fountain said seriously.
“See you. Oh, you boys can keep that handkerchief. I’ve got others.” He nodded to me. “Nice to meet you, kid. Welcome to the Thirtieth.”
That was the first and last time I saw Bill Williamson. His plane was shot down the same night.
I didn’t know about it right away, not until a week later, when I commented that I hadn’t seen Wee around and asked Fountain if he was still the top section leader or if the other pilots had caught up to him. Stony-faced, Fountain told me that Wee had bought the farm a few hours after our conversation.
“You’re kidding,” I said incredulously, but the look on Fountain’s face told me he wasn’t. “But you never said anything. At breakfast the next day everyone seemed fine. They all just sat there drinking coffee and eating scrambled eggs.”
“The Thirtieth Fighting Squadron has a high casualty rate. We’re good pilots. The best. So we get sent on the most dangerous missions. Somebody at Lackland must have thought you were some kind of hotshot to send you here with no combat experience. From what I’ve seen so far, they were right.
“We’ve lost a lot of guys. Unless we can win the war quick, we’ll lose a whole lot more. So we do the job, we fly the tough missions, because winning the war is the best chance we have for getting home alive. When somebody buys the farm we don’t talk about it. If we did, it’s all we’d ever talk about. We can’t do that and still get the job done. Understand?”
I nodded.
“Good,” Fountain said. “Now, let’s go get some chow.”
11
Morgan
The Pacific—November 1942
Dear Morgan,
Guess what? Dwyer’s got a few cans of real coffee in yesterday and I bought one. I wanted to buy two, but Mrs. Dwyer wouldn’t sell them to me. She said that wouldn’t be fair, but it seems to me that she should have let me since I was there first. Oh well. Anyway, I’m going to save it for when you come home. Do you think you’ll get leave soon?
The weather has been good here. The harvest was good but it was hard getting it in with so many men gone into the service. Vivian Carver and I went to a dance at the Grange in Hadley, but it wasn’t any fun. All the boys were kids. I don’t think any of them was more than sixteen. We left and went to the picture show instead. We saw KING’S ROW. It was my third time, but I didn’t mind. I think that Ronald Reagan is just the best. Have you seen it yet?
I saw your mother driving into Cheevers filling station the other day. I waved to her but don’t think she saw me. Have you told her that we’re writing?
I hope you can come home for Christmas. It would be so romantic if we could go flying again. I’ve got a very special present for you when you get here. Will you have something special for me? It seems like I’ve been waiting for you for such a long time, but you’re worth it. I’ll wait for you as long as it takes.
I hope you’re well. Write soon. I know you must be so busy, but it worries me when I don’t hear from you.
Love,
Virginia
“Isn’t that sweet,” Fountain said as he leaned over my bunk and snatched the piece of pink stationery out of my hand. “She signs her name with little hearts over the ‘i’s.” He lifted the paper to his nose and sniffed. “Doused in perfume. Lavender, I believe. Morgan, this seems serious. Look what it says here—she’s got a special present for you. Mmmm-mmm! Sounds like my kind of girl! You told me she was writing, but clearly you left out some of the pertinent details. Did you do this girl before you left home, Glennon? Or is she just hoping you will when you get home? How come you never told me about this? You’re my best friend and bunkmate. Are you keeping things from me?” He shook his head and made a tsk-tsk sound.
“Knock it off, F.W. Gimme that,” I reached for the letter, but he held it high out of my reach.
“Uh oh.” He frowned as he continued reading. “She’s asking if you’ll have anything special for her. In case you weren’t aware of it, in female-speak that translates into ‘engagement ring.’ Brother, every girl that’s been dating a fellow more than three weeks thinks that come Christmastime, he ought to buy her a ring. Why is that? Well, don’t you do it, Morgan. You’re a young man yet. Far too young and far too fine a pilot to get yourself entangled with any old ball-and-chain.”
I jumped off my bunk and grabbed the letter. “Thanks for the advice, but I’ve no plans to marry in the immediate future. Virginia’s nice enough. When I was in high school I thought she might be the one, but now that I’m older ... I don’t know. She seems kind of goofy. She’s crazy over movies. Spends all her spare time and money at the pictures.” I opened the door of my locker and looked at the picture of Virginia I’d taped inside the door.
“Well, buddy, she might not be the crispest cracker in the barrel, but who cares? That is one fine-looking flower of womanhood.” Fountain whistled low. “If I was you, I’d be figuring out a way to get myself back to Oklahoma for Christmas so I could open that present.”
“I don’t know if I love her,” I said, half to myself. “I know she’s counting on me asking her to marry her when I get back, but I’m just not sure. It doesn’t seem fair to keep her hanging on, waiting for me. I’ve thought about breaking up, but I can’t bring myself to do it.”
Fountain was sitting on the edge of my bunk, not kidding me anymore. “Sounds like she’s got some kind of hold on you,” he said.
“Yeah, but it’s not the kind of hold she thinks it is. I know I ought to let her go, but if I do, then I won’t have anybody. I look forward to her letters. I like thinking somebody back home is waiting for me, planning for our future. It makes me think there is a future to go home to.” I was quiet for a moment, waiting for him to say something.
“Do you think I’m a jerk for leading her on?” I finally asked.
“Hell, no!” Fountain exclaimed. “Just a pilot who is far from home and needs somebody to remind him what home is all about. If Virginia Pratt helps you remember to fly smart so you can get back to Oklahoma in one piece, then I say ‘amen’ to that.” Fountain raised his hands and voice during this last, in a tremulous imitation of the Reverend Warren E. Plowshare, pastor of his home church, the Goose Creek Third Baptist Church, an impersonation he performed frequently and well. I smiled in spite of myself.
“Really, Morgan,” Fountain said in his natural voice, “I don’t see that you’re doing this girl any harm. You read her letter. It’s not like she’s got a lot of other prospects. All the eligible male residents of Dillon, Oklahoma, have left for the glories of war. You’re not keeping her from finding true love or anything. And, as you say, you’re not sure how you feel about her. Maybe by the time you get home you’ll be sure. Then you’ll either marry her and live happily ever after, or let her go so she can take her pick from the crop of returning G.I.s. And believe me, a girl that looks like that is going to have plenty to pick from.”
“Maybe. It still doesn’t seem fair to her—”
Fountain interrupted, “Now, don’t go getting all serious and guilt-ridden on me. Next thing you know you’ll be asking her to marry you out of pure remorse, and that’s no good. I told you before, a married pilot is a pilot who’s either lost his edge or is about to. Makes a guy too cautious. I need you to stay at the top of your game.”
Fountain slapped his hands on his thighs, signaling that as far as he was concerned, all issues had been re
solved. “Speaking of which, a guy trying to stay on the top of his game needs a little recreation from time to time. To which end, my friend, I have secured us a twenty-four-hour pass beginning on Thursday night. Holmes and Franklin are coming along. We are going to have a steak dinner in a fine restaurant, consume several bottles of well-aged grain alcohol, and enjoy the companionship of some women of breathtaking beauty and easy virtue—not necessarily in that order.”
I grinned. One thing I had to say for Fountain, he had style. Right up until he’d gotten himself expelled from the Citadel, he’d had the finest education that money could buy, and it showed. Fountain Walker III could make twenty-four hours of drinking and debauchery sound as sophisticated and edifying as a grand tour of Europe.
“As appealing as that sounds, F.W., I think I might pass.”
“Morgan! You’ve got to come. I’m not taking no for an answer!”
I thought about it for a minute. It would be nice to get off base, even if it was just for a few hours, but I wasn’t quite ready for the kind of evening that Fountain was proposing. “Tell you what, I’ll come along to chaperone. We can have dinner and a couple of beers, and then you three can go engage in whatever foolishness you want to. I’ll be there to make sure you get back to base before they send the MPs out looking for you.”
“Really? You’d do that for me? Are you sure I can’t tempt you to sample the favors of some belle of the Pacific? I’m buying.”
“No thanks. Besides, I’d have to take the ugly one anyway.”
Fountain slapped me on the back. “Morgan! You’re the best wing man in the military! I knew it from the first. When I saw you, laying on the mess hall floor facedown in a mound of mashed potatoes, I took one look at you and said to myself, ‘F.W., that is a man of exceptional talent.’”
On Wings Of The Morning Page 9
