Eagles at War

by Boyne, Walter J.

  Bandfield pulled Roget back as Caldwell dressed them down in his drill sergeant's voice. Even Elsie sat back, respectful and expectant.

  "Shut up! There's a war brewing, and I'm going to need all of you. We're three years behind the Germans now, and I'm scared to think what a first-class outfit like Messerschmitt has in their shops. They're experimenting with everything over there, crazy planes and engines I can't talk even to you about."

  Everyone was silent, cowed by the power of his conviction as he went on.

  "I've been given responsibility for the procurement of aircraft for the new production programs. I've practically got carte blanche, as long as I take care of the Congressional sacred cows. Arnold, Spaatz, and Eaker are all tied up with developing the combat organizations—they're giving me a free hand in procurement. Bandy, you're one of the few people around who has both combat and manufacturing experience. I want you to be my right-hand man, to act as liaison with the field. You'll test-fly the airplanes, find the fixes, smooth out the red tape. Hadley, if we're going to try to catch up to Germany we've got to try some new ideas, stuff that's only been on the cover of Popular Science—flying wings, buried engines, rockets, tail-firsters, all sorts of crazy stuff. You are the only man for the job. And Troy, I need a company that will take chances and build unconventional aircraft. I need all of you, and I need you to get along. So stop your goddamn bickering and get serious!"

  The rest of the meeting passed in an embarrassed haze as Caldwell ticked off the assignments for each of them for the next few months. At one point he pounded the table and said, "One thing for sure! We're going to fly every airplane we've got, and operationally, too. We're not going to sit back at Wright Field seeing the war through some goddamn file of reports."

  "Hap Arnold will never let you fly operationally, Henry. You're too valuable to him."

  "Wrong. We've already discussed it and he agrees. He's a smart guy, even if he is irascible as hell. He saw what happened after the last war, when guys who couldn't even fly walked all over Billy Mitchell."

  At the meeting, in a severe black suit and white blouse, Elsie had been the hard-eyed executive, tracking the discussion carefully, quietly making points, keeping Troy out of trouble. After the meeting, Elsie had changed her clothes and her persona. Now, she was the genial hostess, making sure everyone had plenty to eat and drink, occasionally joking in a fake Southern accent. But all the while, she kept Caldwell in focus, seizing on his comments like a duck snapping at cracked corn, then passing them back moments later with a humorous twist.

  Caldwell eased back in his seat for a moment, just to enjoy her freshness. God, he thought, what a perfect woman! Brains and beauty! And so wonderfully alive. The word "alive" brought Shirley to mind. A fleeting sense of guilt passed quickly as, involuntarily, he reached out to brush back a lock of hair that had strayed across Elsie's forehead. Desire crackled through him and he glanced around with embarrassment, aware that the pretense of their being "just friends" had long since been compromised. He called, too loudly, to his old pal.

  "This your first World Series, Hadley?"

  Baseball didn't mean much to Roget: it didn't have an engine or wings. He stood up slowly, stretching, his tall, rawboned frame creased with muscles tempered by long years of hard work. A Lincolnesque face crowned by a mane of silver hair ironically gave him, devoutly unreligious as he was, the appearance of an Old Testament prophet. His hair was his only vanity—he combed it constantly and would let no one but his wife, Clarice, cut it for him.

  "Naw, I saw one once. It was in 'eighteen. The Cubs were beat then, too, by the Baahston Red Sox. Bandy's old man and me only went to see Babe Ruth pitch; he won two games that series. We didn't even know he was a big hitter back then."

  Roget had worked for Caldwell at Wright Field long ago and later designed airplanes for sale to the Army, staying good friends even though Caldwell didn't buy many Roget airplanes. Caldwell hoarded' the Army's money as if it were his own, spreading it out among as many competing manufacturers as possible. He was totally dedicated to business and to taking care of his poor wife, who after an agonizing illness had died last year.

  Roget watched cynically as Caldwell's eyes wandered back to Elsie. Roget felt sympathy for her. He'd known her father—spare, sour Jack Raynor. Jack had scraped out a meager living for his wife and two children by barnstorming Jennies around the country. He had taught his son to fly, but the boy died at sixteen, a victim of typhoid fever picked up in a farmyard well. Jack then tried to make a pilot out of Elsie. She was too young and too scared, so he gave up, using the little influence he had to get her a job at the old Hafner Aircraft Company. Since then she had grown from a novice secretary, almost too frightened to answer the telephone, into the confident young businesswoman she was today. As she had learned the business, she had become "close" to Bruno Hafner—Roget assumed that she was probably just as "close" to Troy McNaughton. He wondered if McNaughton was jealous of Caldwell, or vice versa. It was an interesting, multifaceted situation, revolving around a unique woman. There certainly weren't many around like her; flyers were notoriously tough on females. But, he thought, Caldwell won't stand much of a chance with her—who would?

  He wiped the rim of the silver flask Caldwell handed him and took a throat-filling swig before offering it to Frank Bandfield. Bandy sat next to him, the stubble of beard on his chin smeared yellow with mustard as he wolfed his third hot dog of the game.

  Roget was virtually a foster father to Bandfield, their relationship forged in the fire of years of collaboration in building aircraft that were always just a bit ahead of their time. They'd worked and played hard, arguing and raising hell with each other in the way that only old friends could achieve.

  Munching the now stone-cold hot dog, Bandfield was thinking about the lovebirds sitting in front of him. A hot-blooded man himself, he readily understood Caldwell's feelings. Elsie exuded a cheerful sexuality. On another woman the plaid dress she wore might have been conservative, but on her it was provocative. Ever the movie fan, he saw her as a mix of Ann Sothern and Rosalind Russell, softly seductive but diamond bright. She was vibrant—and Caldwell was lonely.

  Yet he wondered how much Caldwell knew about Elsie—or how much he cared to know. The man had worked too hard all his life, and Shirley had become ill just when they should have begun to enjoy themselves. It was time that Caldwell had a little fun—even at the risk of being involved with a contractor's employee.

  The Yanks got down to business, with Lou Gehrig and Joe DiMaggio scoring to make it 6 to 3. With two outs, the Cubs sent Dizzy Dean in to pitch, past his Cardinal prime but still a crowd-pleaser. When Dean finally retired the side, the score was 8 to 3, and the Yankees were assured of their third straight World Series win. Roget stood up.

  "Excuse me, folks, this here beer has persuaded me to go see a man about a dog."

  Bandfield joined him. Roget didn't speak until they were standing in line within the dark, odorous confines of the stadium restroom.

  "He's really besotted! I've never seen him behave like this!"

  "No, but I'm glad he's having a good time—he's suffered enough."

  They moved over to the row of dirty washbasins, where Roget became engrossed in combing his hair. It was a harmless vanity, one of the few things Bandfield didn't dare tease him about. Staring into the mirror, Bandfield dabbed away the mustard on his chin. At six feet, he was two inches shorter than Roget, but sturdier, with broad shoulders and a barrel chest that tapered down to a thirty-inch waist. His square face was creased with lines from long hours of flight—the airman's squint—but his curly black hair showed no signs of graying. His tanned skin was roughly textured from chicken pox in his childhood, but his brown eyes sparkled with humor and good health.

  Bandfield glanced at his own reflection again, running his finger around the smooth welt of a scar that ran across his forehead and down the side of his left cheek. He'd picked it up the last time he'd worked for Caldwell, crash-landing h
is fighter on a French beach, and it still bothered him when he shaved. Shrugging off the memory, he moved toward the door with the quick, tight grace of the natural pilot. Still in pretty good shape for an old man, he thought. Haven't gained a pound or an inch around the middle.

  Outside, Roget resumed their conversation. "That must be a forty-dollar suit Caldwell's wearing, and a ten-dollar Stetson—pretty hot stuff for a guy who always shopped at Monkey Ward. And did you see his manicured nails? No Hupmobile grease on him nowadays!"

  "He's driving a supercharged Graham now. And Elsie's changed, too, like she's been to some fancy finishing school. She's sure got Caldwell's number, you can see that. Did you ever think you'd hear somebody calling him 'sugarbaby'?"

  Roget grimaced. "Well, old 'sugarbaby' is moving in some pretty fast circles nowadays. He was a major when I first knew him."

  "Yeah, and next month, he's going to be a brigadier general. He's jumped ahead of a lot of big shots in the air force."

  Roget shook his head. "Well, no matter how mad he makes me, he deserves it. If it hadn't been for the smart way he spread the money around, there wouldn't be any Air Corps worth talking about. The way I hear it, if it wasn't for him, Hap Arnold wouldn't be running the Air Corps today."

  It was true. The once rough-hewn Caldwell had become a superb politician, smoothing over the differences that his mentor Billy Mitchell had had with Congress, while still managing to promote Mitchell's concepts on air power. After Mitchell's court martial, Arnold had been sent into oblivion, but Caldwell, at real career risk, had labored behind the scenes for him. Even the Navy brass liked Caldwell—a virtual miracle. Caldwell always cooperated with them, keeping them abreast of all the engineering developments the Air Corps had under way at Wright Field and once even testifying to Congress on the value of carrier-based aviation.

  "What's his secret, Bandy? When I was working for him back at Wright Field, I always thought he was a grouch, no sense of humor."

  "You haven't seen him operate! He's a real smoothie when he's working with the White House or Congress. Congressman Dade from Tennessee runs the military appropriations committee, and he's thick as thieves with Caldwell. They cut a sweetheart deal; Dade agreed to buy the four-engine Boeing bombers Caldwell wanted, if Caldwell would give McNaughton a contract for his new fighter."

  Roget slapped his forehead. "Shit, so that's it. The McNaughton plant is in Nashville, Dade's home district."

  "Sure, it's just a political quid pro quo."

  Troy McNaughton had appeared on the aviation scene in 1936 with a stub-winged racer that had won enough money in the Cleveland Air Races to let him buy the remains of the newly defunct Hafner Aircraft Company. He hadn't gotten much—a few designs, some machinery, and the services of Elsie Raynor—but he'd moved the operation to Nashville and was beginning to prosper.

  Roget reached out and touched Bandfield's arm. "I'm sorry about this morning, Bandy. I just got mad when that goddamn McNaughton bragged about getting a two-million-dollar contract from the French purchasing committee. Can you imagine it? A two-million-dollar order for a plane that hasn't even flown!"

  "Hell, with Europe boiling over, it will help us—we can build parts for McNaughton just like we do for Douglas and Boeing."

  Bandfield and Roget had finally given up trying to build aircraft in competition with the bigger manufacturers, turning instead to making aircraft parts and tools. For the first time in their lives they were a roaring commercial success, with orders coming in from all over the country as the defense buildup began.

  Bandfield went on. "But you were right to be angry. Caldwell should have held two separate meetings, one to get us back on board, one to talk about McNaughton's new projects. I don't blame you, I was pissed off myself."

  The game—and Elsie's efforts—had gone a long way to soothing tempers. Even Roget was feeling conciliatory when he and Bandfield finally got back to their seats. McNaughton moved aside as Elsie and Caldwell rose.

  Elsie, simulating a little shiver, said, "I'm sorry, boys, this cold is just too much for me."

  Caldwell took time to shake each man's hand warmly, and said, "I'm going off to Germany next month—it'll be my first official trip as a general officer—and I'll feel a lot better knowing you guys are firmly on board."

  As McNaughton and Roget edged uneasily into a neutral conversation about the game, conscious that each had probably made an enemy of the other, Bandfield watched the other two leave, holding hands. Yesterday, life had been relatively simple for him. Now he tried to tie all the new developments together—his new job, Roget's argument with McNaughton, Caldwell's infatuation, the war that Caldwell seemed to think was certain. Things had become very complex. He wondered how it would all end.

  *

  En route to Hankow, China/October 10, 1938

  James Curtiss Lee's father had drummed it into him that the Lees were many things—leaders, Southern aristocrats, Democrats—but above all, they were survivors. Well, he'd probably need to be in China. It had been a rough day, flying from Hong Kong to Chungking in a Chinese National Aviation Corporation Douglas DC-2 crowded with Chinese officials. The only other, English-speaking person on board was one of the pilots, an American.

  Now they were bumping across a range of craggy mountains, east-northeast toward Hankow. The Yangtze River twisted and turned below, a better navigational aid than a railroad, its yellow roiling waters a vivid Chinese Mason-Dixon Line dividing the huge country into North and South. The scenery reminded him of the rugged foothills of the Rockies, rough mountains interspersed with valleys where little farm villages nestled against the side of the hills. The whole landscape was painted in a single dirty gray, save only where the river's yellow streak flashed in the sun.

  He was just out of flying school, carrying a reserve commission as a second lieutenant in his back pocket. Normally he would have been assigned to some dull stateside base, flying Boeing P-26s or Martin B-l0s. Instead, his father, broke but still with political influence, had pulled strings to get him a special detached duty. He was to work for an old family friend, Claire Chennault, now tasked by Madame Chiang Kai-shek with rejuvenating the Chinese Air Force.

  Lee remembered that he'd been sixteen years old when his father had driven the family to Langley Field to watch Chennault lead the "Three Men on a Flying Trapeze," the Air Corps' premier acrobatic team. Flying little yellow-winged Boeing P-12F fighters linked together with ropes, they put on a dazzling routine of loops and rolls. After a literally tied-in-tight landing, Chennault had popped out of his plane like a genie from a bottle, his nickel-Indian face cordovan-leather tan, flying suit streaked with oil stains, and a grin as wide as his black, bushy mustache. The image had never left Lee, and he determined on the spot to be an Air Corps pilot.

  Lee was half dozing when the DC-2 stood on its wing and plunged like a dive-bomber. The transport leveled out to race along the side of a mountain, jinking back and forth, its left wing just missing the boulder-strewn surface, its right poised over the void. The DC-2 rolled up on its wing again so that Lee stared straight down at the mountainside. Behind the shadow of the transport, distorted as it raced across boulders and crevasses, he could see two smaller images in pursuit and thought, Man, they're not paying me enough for this!

  Machinegun fire slashed through the right side of the cabin; an officer, big for a Chinese, slumped over in his seat, his head torn apart like a dropped melon. Seconds later, the DC-2 abruptly leveled out and began to climb. Lee jumped out of his seat and leaned across a screaming Chinese businessman to peer out the window opposite. Two Japanese fighters—low-wing monoplanes with fixed landing gear—were disappearing into the sun. Must be out of fuel or ammunition, Lee thought.

  He unbuckled his seat belt and went forward to see if the pilots were okay. He stepped through the cockpit access door and splashed into blood.

  The American pointed to the copilot slumped against the control wheel, blood pouring from wounds stitched across his chest. "He
's dead. Pull him out of the seat, and fly copilot for me. I might need you if those bastards come back."

  The rest of the flight into Hankow was uneventful; Lee sat in the blood-stained seat, queasily aware of the gore oozing through his trousers. The roads outside the city were jammed with people leaving, most walking with their possessions slung on poles, a few lucky ones with carts piled twice as high as they stood.

  The pilot pointed. "Refugees evacuating. We're expecting the Japs in a week or so. These people don't want to stay here for a replay of the rape of Nanking."

  The runway was a disaster, pocked with holes, its margins strewn with the wreckage of crashes, the pennons of their tattered fabric showing that some had been there for years. When they taxied in, he could see a Packard staff car pulled up to the flight line. Chennault himself was driving, no mustache now, but his face as craggy as ever.

  "What the hell happened to you, son? You hurt? Trying to start your own war even before I get a chance to tell you what's what?"

  Chennault 's Southern-accented bellow betrayed his deafness. Lee saluted and Chennault, relieved to see that he wasn't wounded, grinned. "That's right, play it military with your ass dripping blood like a stuck gator! Don't think you're going to ruin the seats of my car.

  Throwing Lee's bags in the trunk, he commanded, "You stand on the running board next to my window here, and hold on. I'll try not to scrape you off against a rickshaw."

  Chennault drove with flair and his horn, sending pedestrians scrambling, talking continuously and doing little listening.

  "They don't like me to drive myself, they say I lose face, but my Chinese drivers are too dangerous."

  Lee hung on as the Packard wheeled into the arched entrance of Chennault's compound, squealing to a halt in front of a mass of servants.

  Chennault waved expansively, saying, "Manpower's the one thing there's no shortage of in China. You go get a bath, and come down for drinks and some home cooking. Civvies will be fine."