To Slip the Surly Bonds

by Chris Kennedy

  “Here, I’ll show you the route on the map…”

  * * *

  Benny applied a bit of pressure to his stick and compensated with the opposite rudder pedal to drop his P-80’s left wing while maintaining course. Several thousand feet below he saw flights of P-47 Thunderbolts diving on the jungle like piston-driven angels of vengeance. Explosions reverberated through the thick jungle air as the verdant tree top canopy was alternately consumed by clouds of fire from bombs then perforated by hailstorms of .50 caliber rounds. At this altitude, he couldn’t make out anything of the enemy ground force, but if the Jugs were even remotely accurate, the French were not having a good day.

  “Eight Bandits, ten o’clock low,” Hill announced. “Olds, Jakes, you got high flight, we’ll take low. Dive in on them, then lay on the throttle and get some distance before you reengage. If you get into real trouble, climb as soon as you can extend, we got ‘em beat for speed and ceiling.”

  Benny saw two flights of four Me 262s staggered in altitude by about two thousand feet, laterally by about five thousand. Rather than the Buck Rogers shape of the P-80s, the Me-262s followed much the same pattern as the propeller driven planes of the ‘40s. Their graceful lines were marred only by the massive jet engines slung under each wing. The French pilots were boring in on the P-47s, probably intent on relieving their comrades on the ground.

  “Roger, acknowledge all. Tally Bandits,” Olds answered. “Engaging.”

  Benny felt his stomach lurch in negative G as he put his P-80’s nose below the horizon and followed Olds’ dive. They didn’t need to talk, automatically sub-dividing their targets as they had a hundred times before in training.

  As they came close enough to see roundels on the Messerschmidt’s wings, Benny adjusted his approach to a more lateral vector. It added deflection to the shot, which made it trickier, but would allow him to engage the second target more easily.

  Applying fractional adjustments on the stick and rudder pedals, Benny put the gunsight piper right over the 262’s wing joint and squeezed the trigger on his control stick. Metallic clatter filled his ears, the sky before him burned with muzzle flashes, and the cockpit rocked with the recoil of six .50 caliber machine guns each firing twenty rounds per second. Red tracers lanced through the sky and tore into the first French jet’s fuselage. Benny was rewarded with an orange and black explosion followed by the sight of the 262’s right wing falling away. The remainder of the jet spun off toward the distant ground.

  That’s five, Benny grinned behind his oxygen mask. I’m a bona fide fucking ace!

  In his peripheral vision Benny saw Olds’ target burst into flames and plummet. The surviving French jets banked hard left then split, one climbing the other diving. Benny yanked his stick until his wings were perpendicular to the horizon to stay on the low man. Acceleration pressed him into his seat and his g-suit constricted around him, slowing the flow of blood toward his feet. He grunted as he fought the pipper out in front of the enemy. Once he judged the lead sufficient, he squeezed the trigger again, sending another burst from his six machine guns arcing toward his enemy. His P-80 was only one hundred meters away from the Frenchman when the 262’s canopy shattered from the impact of several dozen .50 caliber rounds, sending glittering fragments all about. The plane inverted less than a second later and began to spin to the ground.

  Six, Benny thought, as he pulled his P-80 about and climbed to regain his position on Olds’ tail. This is shaping up to be a good war.

  “Benny, get up here,” Olds said, his voice calm but strained. “I got a bandit at six.”

  Scanning the skies, it took Benny precious seconds to spot the 262 on Olds’ tail. Olds was maneuvering violently but the French pilot was staying with him, using his lower speed and tighter turn radius to keep Olds in front of him as they scissored back and forth across the sky. Benny opened his throttle to close the gap, his P-80 shooting up into the sky at thirty-five meters per second.

  “Break right and climb, Rob,” Benny said. “I’ve got him.”

  Olds’ P-80 banked hard and its nose shot skyward as instructed. This Me-262 pilot had better situational awareness than his friends, though, and after a missed snapshot at Olds, the jet dropped into a split S, falling out of Benny’s sight picture just as he pulled the trigger.

  Damn. Gravity pulled Benny against his restraints as he inverted his jet to get a better look down. Enemy in sight, he pulled his stick back and sacrificed altitude for energy, closing on the 262 in a dive. The 262 was still on his guard, though, and the Frenchman’s hard bank took him out of Benny’s gunsight again, forcing Benny to level off to maintain pursuit.

  This guy is a good stick, Benny thought. As he brought his nose up from the dive, the enemy pilot attempted another high-g bank, trying to get Benny to overshoot. Benny countered by pulling his nose up and then into a roll, completing a high yo-yo. It prevented an overshoot, but only barely as the 262 now filled Benny’s forward canopy and his plane shook with the enemy’s jetwash. At this range, there was no need to worry about the gun sight. Benny mashed the trigger, cutting his enemy to ribbons with a point blank stream of .50 caliber rounds.

  There was no time to avoid the resultant fireball and cloud of debris; dozens of chunks of molten hot steel clattered against his fuselage. Something big enough to jerk the P-80’s nose hard right impacted with a loud BANG as he cleared the cloud. A bare three seconds later his engine began to sputter, his plane shook, and then the cockpit was filled with deadly silence as the roar of his jet engine died.

  Benny gently pulled his stick and pressed the rudder pedals until his nose was pointed east, deeper into Vietnam.

  “My engine is dead,” Benny reported, sounding calmer than he felt. “I’m on glide path east, going to bail out before I go into a spin.”

  “Roger, Benny,” Tex answered him. “We’ve got friendlies all over the area. Stay calm, we’ll have search and rescue to you in no time.”

  “Acknowledged,” Benny said. “See you later, guys!”

  Grunting with effort, Benny worked the canopy release lever. The mechanism gave way with a pop and the glass and steel canopy flew away into the sky. He was buffeted with hot wind as he undid his restraints and clumsily hauled himself out of his seat. A carpet of green tree tops rushed upward to meet him. Heart pounding, hands shaking, Benny made his way out of the cockpit and onto the wing and unceremoniously fell off, plummeting toward the ground like a rock.

  Oh, Jesus Christ!

  Fighting the panic, Benny struggled against swirling atmosphere and his own momentum to get into a flat arched position, arms and legs splayed to each side. It took precious seconds of effort and hundreds of feet of altitude before he stabilized. He tasted bile in the back of his mouth, and he was pretty certain his pants were now soaked in his own piss, but at least he was alive. In the distance he saw his P-80’s angle of descent steepen then go nearly perpendicular to the ground as it crashed into the jungle, the secondary explosion lighting up the tree tops.

  Benny yanked the ripcord and his parachute harness dug violently into his groin and shoulders, drawing another grunt from him. Dangling from the silk, risers in hand, he finally was able to draw several deep breaths and take stock of the situation around him.

  The bombing and strafing had ceased; he could see the P-47s vanishing east back toward the airfields. The dogfight seemed to be over, too; the three P-80s were flying a wide racetrack orbit around him, close enough to see, far enough not to catch his chute in jetwash. Glad to have friends close by, he turned his attention to his next task, figuring out where the hell he was going to land.

  Gaps in the jungle canopy were few and narrow. Picking the best of bad options, Benny pulled down on his left riser trying to steer towards something other than solid treetop. Despite his efforts, tree branches pummeled his legs and torso as he fell into the jungle. Benny struggled to keep his feet and knees together. The branches batted and scraped at him, taking scraps of flightsuit and swaths of skin from
him on his way down.

  Finally, he broke through the lowest branches and crumpled to the jungle floor like a sack of shit. Miraculously, his chute hadn’t caught in the trees. Battered from both high g-maneuvering and his descent through the treetops, Benny hit the releases on his parachute and lay back in the thick grass. The humidity and heat were oppressive, but he took a few breaths to enjoy the quiet anyway.

  Running feet and voices shouting in a sing-song language shattered his calm. Springing to his feet, he looked around and saw that green palm fronds and bush cut visibility to mere feet in every direction. He was debating whether or not to hide when three short men in too-baggy green fatigues burst through the bushes to his left, rifles leveled at him. They were shouting in the same sing-song language he couldn’t understand. He noted that the rifles were M1 Carbines, the fatigues clearly American cast offs.

  Benny put his hands in the air. Now if only I can convince them not to shoot me.

  “Hey, guys,” he said. “Same side, I’m here to shoot down French jets.”

  The tallest of the three men advanced on Benny, almond-shaped eyes wide with anger and adrenaline.

  “Hold on, now,” Benny said, hands still up. “Just wait—”

  The man slammed the butt of his carbine into the side of Benny’s face. Benny’s vision went white, then black, then puckered with sparkling gold stars as the interwoven branches and leaves of the jungle canopy started to come back into focus. As if through a funnel he heard another voice. This one was definitely American, with a corn belt rasp.

  “Goddamn it, Dat, he’s an American,” the voice was shouting in English before switching to the native patois. “Người Pháp không để người da đen bay máy bay, Thang cho de!”

  Benny was only vaguely aware of hands lifting him off the soft jungle floor and carrying him…somewhere. Somewhere in the jungle with a large cloud of yellow smoke, and a…a massive ceiling fan? What the hell…

  * * *

  The long swim up from the depths started with a dull pain in his lower back, then another sharper one in his head. Light crept in at the seams of his eyelids, then muffled voices that sounded as if they originated on the other side of a thin door. The air around him smelled of ethanol and iron. Cracking a single eye, bright morning sun penetrated his pupil like a lance into his brain, eliciting an involuntary croak from him.

  He heard footsteps on tile and one of the voices growing closer, more distinct. The voice was pleasant, feminine and…French?

  Forcing his eyelids open and accepting the resultant stabbing pain, Benny appraised his surroundings. He was lying on a hard mattress with rough linens at the end of a long line of beds, about half of them occupied. An intravenous needle was lodged in his left arm, its tube leading up to a glass bottle full of clear solution, and he wasn’t wearing anything besides a pair of skivvy shorts.

  The first person he saw was a woman who strode rapidly toward his bedside. She was clothed in green fatigues with the sleeves rolled to her elbows. Her chestnut hair was bound up neatly in a tight bun, and she smiled at him warmly. Benny found himself staring into her large, dark eyes; she was such an incongruously lovely vision for a war zone.

  “Good Morning, Mr. Jakes,” she said, her English clear but heavily French-accented. “I’m so happy you’ve elected to rejoin us.”

  Benny tried to straighten up in bed, his expression hardening.

  “Bonjour, Mademoiselle,” Benny said, his parched throat grating the French words before they could escape his lips. “Suis-je un prisonnier, alors?”

  She chuckled as she reached for a pitcher of water and glass from a shelf behind his bed.

  “No, you are certainly not,” She said as she poured the glass and held it out to him. “Though I understand your confusion. I am one of many free Frenchmen and women here in Indochina aiding our Vietnamese and American friends.”

  Benny didn’t take the glass. Incredulity marred his features.

  “You’re aiding us against your own people?” He said.

  “They are no longer my people,” she said, thrusting the glass at him. “They are Nazis. Take this, you must rehydrate. You have been asleep for more than a day and saline solution isn’t as good as drinking your fill.”

  He accepted the glass with a chagrined expression and drained it in one draught.

  “Forgive me if I’ve offended you,” he said, handing the glass back to her. “The narcotics must have made me stupid. Is the doctor available? I feel much better, and I want to get back to my unit.”

  She arched a dark brown eyebrow at him and accepted the empty glass.

  “I am the doctor, Mr. Jakes,” she said. “Dr. Margot Durand, at your service. And no, you are not leaving. You suffered a significant head trauma. Your waking wasn’t a forgone conclusion, not to mention the lacerations you suffered. If you don’t let those heal up properly you are asking for some nasty infections.”

  “Oh, sure, give the lazy bastard an excuse to lay about some more,” a familiar booming voice interrupted from the door.

  Benny turned his head just enough to see Robin Olds’ bulk filling the door frame at the near end of the ward. He was dressed in a green flight suit, a grin on his big blunt face.

  “Mr. Olds,” Durand said. “I will thank you to lower your voice, I have patients resting in this ward.”

  “Oh, I’m very sorry, Doctor,” Olds said, with no discernible change in volume. “I’m just glad to see my friend here awake.”

  Durand’s expression was suddenly much more stern, and she didn’t bother to hide her asperity when she spoke again.

  “Very well,” she said. “I will give you ten minutes to chat, but no more. Mr. Jakes also needs rest.”

  She turned to leave but before she could go, Benny spoke up.

  “Dr. Durand, would it be possible to speak to the chopper pilot who flew me out?” He said.

  Durand turned back to him, a slight smile on her full lips.

  “This is possible,” she said. “What would you say?”

  “Well, anyone with the…gumption…to fly that tinker toy into combat deserves at least a drink for it,” Benny said. “He’s a braver man than me.”

  “I’ll pass that along,” she said. Her smile hardened into something more severe when she turned her eyes on Olds. “Ten minutes.”

  Olds was chuckling even as he spared an appreciative glance at Durand’s retreating form. Even the baggy fatigue pants didn’t hide her curves and the sway of her hips as she walked. Benny found himself annoyed with Olds and then annoyed that he was annoyed.

  “What are you laughing about?” Benny asked.

  “She flew the helicopter, buddy boy,” Olds said.

  “What?” Benny said, sitting up straighter. “Stop screwing with me.”

  “Cross my heart and hope to die, Benny,” Olds said, grinning. “A body like that and she can fly, too. A helicopter, no less. Frankly I’m not sure how it generates enough lift to keep her big brass ovaries in the air.”

  “No shit,” Benny said. “They sent a Frenchwoman to flight school?”

  “Not so much,” Olds said. “The Agency let her finish medical school and come here as a surgeon. She convinced the head of the whirlybird detachment to teach her to fly. Then she started flying search and rescue with no one’s permission. Feldman tried to stop her, but she’s rescued sixty-three men, and operated on twenty-six of them so he gave up on that. The guys around here worship her.”

  “Sweet Jesus,” Benny said.

  “Yeah, the lady gets what she wants,” Olds said. “I mean, do you think you’d have any luck saying no to her?”

  Benny didn’t answer that. He knew better than to get infatuated with a white woman.

  “How did we make out, anyway?” Benny said. “You’re here; I assume Tex and Jesus made it back, too?”

  “They did,” Olds said. “We didn’t even lose any Jugs. You’re the only one who took a walk. I asked Hill if you counted as your own kill since you basically
shot yourself down.”

  “Ass,” Benny said with no real heat.

  “Guilty,” Olds said. “Regardless, you, me and Tex are the first Americans with jet kills. You’ve got three confirmed from yesterday, I downed two and a half, Jesus got one and Tex got three and a half. Congratulations, Ace.”

  “Wow, we really mauled them,” Benny said.

  “Sure did, half a squadron gone for one of our planes,” Olds said. “We can trade eight for one all day, especially if we get our pilot back, anyway.”

  A Texas drawl interjected.

  “Woulda’ been eight for ought if y’all had listened to what the hell I told you.” Tex Hill stepped through the door. He was dressed in a sweat-stained flight suit and looked tired and exasperated rather than exultant.

  “Come on, Tex,” Olds said. “We nailed them, didn’t we?”

  “You nailed ‘em because you’re both shit hot on the stick,” Hill said, his drawl becoming more pronounced as he grew angrier. “But if you’d made one pass, dived and used your speed to create a gap before you reengaged, like I damned well told you to, I’d have sixteen P-80s instead of fifteen.”

  Benny frowned. It felt wrong getting a lecture after he’d just become an ace, but he saw Hill’s point. If they’d listened they wouldn’t have had to dogfight the French at all for their kills.

  “You’re right, sir,” Benny said before Robin could speak. “No excuse.”

  Tex’s expression relaxed.

  “Oh, can the kay-det crap, Benny,” Tex said. “Truth is you flew great, and I appreciate aggression. Just keep in mind, you’re about to be taking new guys into combat. They see you taking unnecessary risks, they might put themselves in a situation where you can pull it out of the fire, but they can’t.”