The Fly Boys Read online

“I’m giving you an order—”

  “Fuck you and your orders,” Steve cut Williams off. He brought his sluggish Jug up and around and toward the six Tonys converging on the crippled ship.

  “Gold, listen to me.” Williams was shouting.

  “No! You listen! I said I’m not leaving those poor bastards to the Japs, not while I still have ammo and I still see targets. Killing enemy planes is what I do. You and Benny want to run, you do it. I’m going in.”

  “Gold, I’m warning you,” Williams snarled. “You do this, you’re gonna be all alone.”

  “What else is new?” Steve laughed grimly. “Over and out.”

  There were fires sprouting all over the ship. With the crew busy fire fighting, Steve guessed that a lot of the gun positions had been abandoned.

  Meanwhile the six Tonys had stacked themselves into three staggered flights in leader-wingman formation, so Steve immediately comprehended their strategy. The Jap pairs would strafe the ship in rotation. One pair would rake the length of the ship with cannon and machine-gun fire and then lift off as another pair took its place.

  Steve skidded his Jug across the sky in a dive on the closest pair of Tonys. He lined the wingman up in his sights, reminded himself that if he intended on dropping all six fighters he had to conserve his ammo, and squeezed off three short bursts.

  The Tony dropped away, leaking blue smoke. As it was plowing into the sea, he shifted his attention to the lead Tony, now diving to escape. Steve followed it down, hammering it until it broke apart.

  Up above, Steve saw the highest pair of Tonys banking like vultures. Steve struggled to bring up the lumbering Jug’s nose and began his slow but steady climb toward the Japs.

  The middle pair of Tonys surprised Steve by coming at him from out of the sun. The Japs had Steve broadside in their sights for a few moments, and Steve felt the Jug shudder as it took some hits.

  At least I’ve decoyed them away from the ship, Steve thought. He hunched his shoulders, flinching as bullets punched holes in his canopy. Where the fuck are those Corsairs? It looked like he was going to need help, after all.

  He opened up on one of the Tonys above him, stitching a line of holes along its belly. As the Tony blew up, its partner banked, dropped its nose, and attacked.

  The Tony’s guns were spitting fire at Steve. A 20-millimeter cannon round punched into his wing, and suddenly Steve was fighting for control of his airplane.

  The Jap fighter shot past him. Steve kicked rudder and went after it, locking on to its tail and firing short bursts into it, ignoring the two other Tonys converging on him.

  The Tony he was pursuing began to trail smoke. Steve moved in for the kill.

  “Break! Break!“ It was Benny Detkin’s voice coming in over Steve’s headset.

  “Benny, what are you doing here?” Steve yelled into his mike. “And fuck you, anyway!” he added, still firing at his target. “I’m not falling for that trick again.”

  An instant later Steve heard the clacking rattle of bullets pelting his airplane. He glanced in his rear-view mirror to see a pair of Tonys—their guns winking—on his tail.

  And Benny Detkin, bless his soul, on the Japs’ tail.

  Steve broke off his attack, banking sharply just as Benny began firing on the lead Jap, knocking him down. Benny shifted his guns to the second Tony and cut it in two with a steady stream of bullets.

  “Thanks, Benny,” Steve said, as he came around to renew his pursuit of the lone remaining, fleeing Tony, which was still leaking smoke.

  “Hey, I owed you one,” Benny chuckled. “Now, I bet I get to that joker before you do.”

  “Bet you don’t—”

  Steve opened up his throttle and activated the water injection system. Evidently Benny did the same. The two Jugs simultaneously converged on the Tony. Steve locked on to the smoking Jap plane’s tail. Benny was up above him, preparing to bounce.

  “On the count of three?” Benny asked.

  “Roger that,” Steve chuckled, lining up his sights.

  Benny began to count, “One, two—”

  “Three!” Steve crowed, mashing his trigger.

  The two Jugs began firing at the same moment. Their combined guns poured lead into the unarmored Tony at the rate of two hundred rounds per second.

  The Tony came apart like a fly hit by a cherry bomb. At one moment it was there, and at the next, there was nothing but a dispersing cloud of smoke and a fine rain of debris wafting slowly toward the ocean.

  “Holy shit….” Steve murmured, awestruck.

  “That’s teamwork,” Benny said, sounding satisfied.

  Steve shifted his attention to the cargo vessel. It was still listing, but it didn’t appear to be sinking, and it looked as if all the fires had been put out. As Steve and Benny flew past, the sailors lining the deck waved to them with their hats and shirts.

  “Look who’s here, six-o’clock level.” Benny laughed.

  Eight dark blue Marine Corsairs were coming in fast and low, looking for a fight that Army Air had already finished.

  “Let’s go home,” Steve said.

  (Three)

  “That was some good shooting you did watching my back,” Steve complimented Benny. They were back at Santa Belle, still in their flight clothes, sitting at a table near the bar in the ops-ready room. Benny was sipping a Coca-Cola. Steve was nursing a beer.

  Benny smiled. “Know my secret? I pretend those Japs are Nazis.” He was chattering a mile a minute, obviously still high on nervous energy. “I was very disappointed when I was assigned to the Pacific. I didn’t feel like the war here was my fight. I mean, I know the Japs are our enemies, but with me, it’s nothing personal with them, the way I feel toward Nazis. I really wanted to go to Europe to kill as many of them as I could. As far as I’m concerned the only good German is a dead German.”

  Steve didn’t know how to take that. “My dad is a German.”

  “You know what I mean,” Benny complained. “And for chrissake, we’ve been all through this. Your old man is a Jew.”

  “Yeah, but he’s still a German.”

  “Let’s drop it,” Benny muttered.

  “Hey, it’s not like I don’t understand what you’re saying about those Nazis,” Steve persisted. “After all, I’m half Jewish, remember?”

  “No, you’re not, either,” Benny snapped. “You’re a Gentile! Your mother is a Gentile, which makes you one. It doesn’t matter if your father is a Jew. Judaism passes through the mother.”

  “Yeah, right.” Steve scowled. “Excuse me, okay? I didn’t realize it was such an exclusive club, like one of those fraternities you probably belonged to, college boy.”

  “Oh, yeah, all the fraternity boys couldn’t wait to get their hands on me,” Benny laughed sourly. “Why don’t we just drop this entire conversation, okay?”

  “Sure,” Steve muttered.

  “It’s my mistake,” Benny added. “I thought I could have a friendly conversation with you, but I was wrong.”

  “Who said this isn’t friendly?” Steve muttered.

  “Huh?” Benny looked blank.

  “You heard me,” Steve glowered.

  “Forget it, we’ve got bigger problems,” Benny said, looking past Steve. “Cappy just came in. He’s heading this way.”

  “Gentlemen.” Cappy nodded to Steve and Benny.

  “Major,” Steve said respectfully. He tried to read Cappy’s expression in order to guess how badly he was going to get reamed, but couldn’t. Cappy wasn’t a world-class poker player for nothing.

  “Captain Williams has filled me in on what happened out there,” Cappy said. “I’ve also received a detailed account from the captain of that cargo vessel. He radioed in his report to Marine HQ, who forwarded it to me. Lieutenant Gold, would you mind stepping outside with me for a little stroll? I’d like to have a talk with you.”

  “Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” As he stood up, Steve glanced at Benny, who gave him the tiniest commiserating shrug.


  “Lieutenant Detkin, please remain here,” Cappy said. “I’ll be back to talk to you in a moment.”

  Cappy was silent until they got outside. “So you shot down four planes today?” he began.

  “Four and a half,” Steve replied, and then went on to explain how he and Benny had both blasted the last Tony. “And Cappy, please don’t forget to add to the record that Captain Crawford bagged a Jill before he augered in.”

  Cappy nodded. “I’ll remember, son. I always do. Now, then, as for your actions today—”

  Steve held up his hand. “Cappy, excuse me, but I know what you’re going to say.”

  Cappy stared at him. “You do, huh?”

  “Yes, sir. I know that I was insubordinate to Captain Williams. I know that was wrong, and I’m prepared to take my licks for that. I have no defense for disobeying a direct order from a superior officer. All I can say is that I just couldn’t bring myself to leave that crippled ship to the mercy of those Japs. I’m sorry, but I just couldn’t do it.” Steve paused. “It seemed to me then—and it does now, sir—that letting those sailors get killed would have made Crawford’s death meaningless.”

  “You really cared about Crawford, huh?” Cappy asked sarcastically.

  Steve stared down at the ground. “No, sir. I can’t say that I gave one flying fuck for the captain—until I saw him buy it today, and then I did care about him. When he went down, it was like a little piece of me went down with him.” Steve paused. “I can’t explain it any better than that. I’ve never felt that way before, sir.”

  Cappy nodded. “It’s how I always feel when we lose a man.”

  “I guess it’s like what you told me a long time ago,” Steve said. “Whatever diminishes the squadron diminishes me. And I know I further diminished the squadron with my behavior,” he added quickly. “I don’t know how to apologize for it, Cappy.” He shrugged. “I can’t even say that if I had it to do over I’d do it differently.”

  “Uh-huh….” Cappy was staring at him.

  “So,” Steve hesitated. “What happens next?”

  Cappy showed no expression. “Well, son, I can’t promise you, but I think that if I use all of my pull with the brass …” He paused.

  “Yes, sir?” Steve asked, feeling faint.

  Cappy broke into a disconcerting, wide grin. “I think I can get you the Distinguished Flying Cross,” he said. “The goddamned Navy will probably also want to decorate you for saving their ship, and I tell you now, as one Army airman to another, I probably won’t be able to spare you the indignity of that, either.”

  “I—I don’t get it?”

  “Of course you don’t,” Cappy said mildly, clapping Steve on the back. “You were a hero today. And like the genuine article, you needed somebody else to tell you about it. Come on, let’s go back inside. I need to talk to Benny.”

  As Steve followed Cappy back into the ops-ready room, he couldn’t help feeling a pang of disappointment over the fact that while Cappy was willing to recommend him for a medal, he was evidently not ready to put him in for a promotion in rank. Steve wasn’t about to bring it up. He didn’t see what was so heroic about just doing his job, but he guessed he was lucky Cappy wasn’t planning on having him court-martialed.

  Benny was still seated at the table. When he looked up as Cappy and Steve appeared in the doorway, his expression was that of a man seeing the sun rise on the day of his execution.

  “Lieutenant Detkin,” Cappy began. “First the good news. For your courageous actions today I’m putting you in for a promotion to captain.”

  Lucky son of a gun, Steve thought. Benny was being promoted and he was not. “Benny, congratulations,” he said, and was a little astonished to realize that he meant it.

  “Now for the bad news,” Cappy continued. “Steve here is going to fill Crawford’s slot as the new flight leader.”

  “Huh?” Steve stared at Cappy. “Major, you never said anything about that.”

  Cappy ignored Steve and continued addressing Benny. “Captain Williams is understandably upset with the way you deserted him in order to back up Steve this afternoon. I think it would make things go smoother if I transferred you to Steve’s flight, and made you his wingman.”

  Benny looked at Steve. “What do you have to say about that?”

  Steve stared down at his shoes. “I think that would be good.” He risked a glance up at Benny and was relieved to see his smile. “Benny, you really won’t mind flying wing-man for a guy you’re gonna outrank?”

  “Oh, yeah, that’s right….” Cappy said. He winked at Benny, then shook Steve’s hand. “Ah, hell. God help the Army. I guess I’m gonna have to make you a captain, as well.”

  CHAPTER 6

  * * *

  (One)

  Hotel Leeland

  Downtown Los Angeles, California

  28 April 1945

  It was a little after three o’clock on a sunny Friday afternoon when Herman Gold entered the hotel through its main entrance on Olive Street, near Pershing Square. Gold tucked his tortoiseshell sunglasses into the breast pocket of his tan silk-weave sports jacket as he crossed the bustling, marbled lobby to the elevators. His destination, the Tap Room Lounge, was tucked away up on the mezzanine.

  The lounge was windowless and dimly lit. Gold stood in the doorway, waiting for his eyes to adjust. Just by the entrance was a redwood and brass bar. Three steps led up to a raised, carpeted seating area. Black leather booths and banquettes ringed the paneled walls beneath electric sconces wired to flicker like candles.

  Gold stood with his back to the bar to survey the room. The lounge was busy and noisy. Piped-in, sultry jazz swirled in the background along with cigarette smoke, the clinking of ice cubes, and the murmur of talk and laughter. He was not surprised by the number of people having a drink, or their gaiety so early in the day.

  There was a general air of giddy high spirits all over the city now that it looked as if the end of the war in Europe was at hand. The Russians were slowly tightening their “iron ring” around Berlin, and yesterday Russian and American forces had linked up on the Elbe. Last night’s late radio bulletins from overseas had also brought the news that Goering had been dismissed as Commander of the Luftwaffe. It made Gold feel great to see the Nazis at each other’s throats in their rage and frustration over what was now their inevitable defeat. He also took personal satisfaction that Goering, his old nemesis from the First World War, was finally beginning to experience his long overdue comedown.

  America had needed the steady good news coming out of Europe to help the country get over the shock concerning President Roosevelt’s sudden death. It had been an awful couple of weeks since the President had passed away, a time of national self-doubt and a crisis of confidence. Whether you had loved or hated FDR, he had been President for so long that it had seemed as if he would always be in the Oval Office. There had been the inevitable worry that Vice President Truman was not up to the job of leading the nation as President and Commander in Chief, but the little guy certainly seemed to be rising to the occasion. From his very first radio address his rational, down-to-earth plain speaking had begun to soothe the panicked country.

  “Can I get you something, sir?” the barman asked as Gold was looking around.

  “No, thank you,” Gold replied as he climbed the steps to the seating area. “I’m meeting someone.”

  “Mr. Gold!”

  A tall, thin man had slid out of a corner booth and was now waving at him. Gold went over and shook hands, saying, “You must be Jack Horton. I hope you weren’t waiting long? As usual, the traffic from Burbank was awful.”

  “I just got here a few minutes ago,” Horton said. “Please, sit down. And thank you for agreeing to meet me at such short notice, Mr. Gold.”

  “I’m always looking for an excuse to play hooky from the office,” Gold joked as he slid into the booth across from Horton.

  Horton was nodding earnestly. He looked to be about thirty-five. He had short, dark hair parted
on the side, and black horn-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a gray gabardine suit, white shirt, and a black knit tie. He had a military-issue, stainless-steel watch on an olive-green canvas strap around his left wrist.

  Gold thought Horton looked like a monkish young college professor or an accountant. He certainly didn’t look like who he was.

  “Anyway, Mr. Horton,” Gold continued. “When Reggie Sutherland called me this morning long-distance from Washington, asking me to meet with you, there was no way I could refuse him. He’s done a few favors for me in the past.”

  Horton was still nodding. “Yes, sir. And General Sutherland was very kind to make the call on our behalf. But then, he was always been very helpful to the OSS.”

  “OSS,” Gold murmured. “That stands for Office of Strategic Services.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “That’s something like Army Intelligence, I seem to remember Reggie saying.”

  “We work closely with them, yes, sir,” Horton replied. He paused as a waitress came over and placed a bowl of pretzels on the table.

  “A club soda, thank you,” Gold told the waitress.

  “And a scotch and soda for me,” Horton said.

  Hmm, not such a monk, after all, Gold thought, nibbling on a pretzel. “I was very intrigued by the air of mystery surrounding Reggie’s call,” Gold said once the waitress had gone. “I’m not very well versed in matters requiring a cloak and dagger.”

  Horton smiled politely. He produced a pack of Chesterfields, offered it first to Gold, who shook his head, and then lit one for himself with the book of matches in the ashtray.

  “Reggie mentioned something about an operation you were working on overseas, but he was vague,” Gold continued. “What exactly can I do for you and your organization, Mr. Horton?”

  “Sir, your company has been instrumental in the war effort. I’d like to talk to you about helping us win another, secret war that we’re presently fighting. It’s a war, ironically, with one of our allies, Russia.”

  “You boys in intelligence don’t trust our comrades-in-arms, the Soviets?” Gold asked, amused.