The Fly Boys Read online

  “You’re breaking up,” Steve said. “My battery’s about dead. I can hardly hear you. Do me a favor, call Itazuke for me, let my people know I’m okay?”

  “Wilco,” Evans said, almost unintelligible in a burst of static. “Kell’s here. He wants to know what brand of scotch?”

  “J&B,” Steve chuckled. “But whatever he can get will be fine. Nobody expects him to work miracles.”

  A half hour later Steve was in Cha-Cha’s mess hut. He had showered and changed into a fresh set of flight overalls.

  A flight crew had appeared to help Steve climb down from the cockpit as he was busy unhooking himself from the F-80. Once the crew chief had made sure that Steve did not need medical attention, he explained that Major Kell had spun some bullshit yarn to the press about how they had to remain confined to the pilots’ briefing room because the F-80 could still explode. This was in order to give Steve some time to clean up and have something to eat.

  Now Steve was alone in the mess hut, seated at a long table. There was no one on duty behind the counter when he’d come in, but there was a coffee urn going. Steve had rummaged around in the food lockers and come up with some bread and ham and mustard.

  He was polishing off his second sandwich when he noticed a folded-up newspaper on the floor beneath the table. It was a recent issue of Stars and Stripes, one that he hadn’t seen. While he ate he thumbed through the paper until he came to the headline across the lower half of the third page:

  BROADSWORD BUILDER WARNS AGAINST

  SOVIET-BUILT MIGS IN KOREA

  LOS ANGELES, Oct. 4—The president and chairman of Gold Aviation and Transport said here today that the Chinese Communists will soon be involved in the Korean conflict, and that his company’s F-90 BroadSword jet fighter is the only airplane capable of besting the Chinese Reds’ Soviet-built jets.

  Herman Gold, in a keynote address to the Greater California Business Council, warned, “Now that the UN Forces have crossed the 38th parallel, it is only a matter of time before the Chinese Reds get into the fighting. Mao Tse-Tung has consistently warned that he will not stand by and allow North Korea to be defeated, and our own government has publicly admitted that thousands of Chinese troops have already entered into battle to shore up the flagging North Koreans.

  “Up until now, the United States Air Force has had its own way in Korea,” Gold went on to tell his audience, comprised of the most influential leaders of the California business community. “All that will change when the Chinese Reds introduce their Russian-built MiG-15s into the conflict. Our pilots are the best in the world, but we can’t expect them to win with inferior equipment. My sources in Washington have told me that recent intelligence reports have appraised the MiG-15 to be a swept-wing, state-of-the-art jet fighter. If that turns out to be the case, I’m certain that the only airplane in the Air Force arsenal capable of besting the MiG and keeping the Korean skies safe for democracy is America’s own swept-wing, state-of-the-art jet interceptor, the GAT F-90 BroadSword.”

  Gold went on to discuss the BroadSword’s record-breaking performance specifications. He then mentioned the various subsidiary and independent companies that have subcontracted with GAT to produce components for the BroadSword.

  “I say hats off to the American business establishment,” Gold concluded to a standing ovation. “It’s a testimonial to the American way of life that the free enterprise system has produced an airplane like the BroadSword. God willing, the BroadSword will help our brave boys in Korea keep the communist hordes safely confined behind their Bamboo Curtain.”

  Steve pushed away his plate. His appetite had been ruined by what he had just read. How dare his father presume to suggest that the Air Force wasn’t capable of stopping the commies without GAT-built airplanes!

  “Hello, Bugsy—”

  Steve looked up. A Negro wearing flight overalls and a sage-green fur-collared flight jacket stood in the doorway, casting a tremendous shadow. The man was huge. He was at least six feet three inches tall, and had to weigh at least 220.

  “Evans?—” Steve asked, startled.

  “That’s me.”

  Steve nodded. He had, of course, known that there were colored pilots, but he’d never actually met one.

  Evans’s smile faded. Steve didn’t want him to get the wrong idea. He had nothing against colored people. “My God, Evans,” he grinned, hoping to hide his astonishment with a joke. “How the hell do they shoehorn a guy your size into a cockpit?”

  Evans didn’t reply to that.”You sure it’s just my size that’s taken you by surprise, Major?” he grumbled. “All of a sudden you’re looking mighty pale.”

  “How would you know?” Steve grinned, but the joke fell flat. He took out his cigarettes and lit one as Evans went over to the mess counter to help himself to a mug of coffee. “Well, okay,” Steve said loudly.

  “Okay, what?” Evans demanded, looking over his shoulder as he filled his mug from the urn.

  “Okay, so you have a chip on your shoulder because you’re colored. I don’t mind,” Steve shrugged. “Maybe I got some chips on my shoulder, as well. So let’s put this bullshit aside and get back to being friendly.”

  “You telling me you don’t care that I’m colored?” Evans challenged.

  “Right.”

  “That you weren’t taken aback to see a colored man wearing wings and captain’s bars?”

  Steve shrugged. “The Air Force gave them to you. They must know what they’re doing.”

  Evans hesitated a moment, but then smiled thinly. “Leastways, most of the time,” he said softly.

  Steve smiled back. “Captain, the only color I’m currently hating is red. Today you had the balls to do your job when we were up against those tanks, and that made you okay in my book. Then you stood by me when I was in trouble, and that made you more than okay. If Major Kell ever comes through with that case of scotch he owes me, I’ll give you half. What more can I say? I can’t fucking adopt you.”

  “You’re too fucking irresponsible to be my daddy,” Evans laughed as he brought over his coffee and sat down. He extended his hand across the table.”Pleased to finally meet you in the flesh, Major.”

  “Same here,” Steve replied, shaking hands. “Did you get through to Itazuke okay?”

  “No problem,” Evans said as he sipped his coffee. “Everything is taken care of. What we’ll do is dismantle your F-80 and truck it to K-2.”

  “Taegu?” Steve asked.

  Evans nodded. “The 822nd Engineers have laid six thousand feet of pierced steel planking for you jet jockeys, and backup facilities are in place. K-2 is now operational for F-80s.”

  “That takes care of my airplane,” Steve remarked. “Now all I have to do is figure out a way home.”

  “That’s no sweat,” Evans said. “We’ve got a transport coming in here tomorrow to take these reporters back to Japan. You can hitch a ride with them.”

  “That’s great,” Steve said, relieved.

  “Speaking of reporters,” Evans continued. “They’re still waiting for you in the briefing room.”

  “Lead me to them,” Steve said, standing up.

  He followed Evans out of the mess hut. The sky had turned gray and the temperature had dropped, as if to portend the nasty Korean winter around the corner. One of the Mustang pilots had been willing to lend Steve a leather jacket, since the flight personnel at Cha-Cha had just been issued their cold-climate gear. Steve now zipped up the A-2, turning up its collar against the knife-edged wind that was gusting from the east.

  “Good thing you landed when you did,” Evans remarked as they crossed the compound toward the cinder-block building along the airstrip.

  Steve nodded in agreement. “I doubt I would have even tried to land if I’d had to contend with this wind. Where’s the briefing room?” Steve asked as they entered the building.

  “This way, but first we have to stop at Major Kell’s office,” Evans said.

  “How come?”

  �
�Kell handed the reporters a line about what a big hero he was in helping you to land.”

  “Kell told them he helped me?” Steve scoffed. “I half expected the son of a bitch to scramble his F-51s to shoot me down.”

  “Well, anyway, the Major wants to make an entrance with you in front of those reporters.” Evans shrugged, rolling his eyes. “You’ll understand when you meet him.’”

  He led Steve past the clerk-typist seated outside Kell’s office. “Just try to keep a straight face,” he whispered as he knocked on Kell’s door, and then opened it.

  “Sir, Captain Evans reporting with Major Gold, as ordered, sir.” He came to attention and saluted as Steve edged past him into the office.

  “Ah! There you are, Major Gold,” Kell said briskly, standing up from behind his desk.

  “Here I am,” Steve agreed.

  Kell was a very short man of slight build. He stood ramrod straight, with his chin jutting, either to make the most of his diminutive height or to dare somebody else to make something out of it. He had a pencil-thin mustache and wispy, dark brown hair parted and slicked down across his high-domed forehead. He wore his khaki trousers tucked into high black boots, and had a dark blue ascot around his throat, tucked into his shirt collar.

  “How you doing, Major?” Steve said, shaking hands with Kell. “Nice office you’ve got here,” he added, his eye caught by the well-stocked, glass-fronted liquor cabinet taking up the corner of the room behind Kell’s desk.

  Kell must have seen him looking longingly at the booze. “Would you care for a drink?”

  “You bet! Is that a bottle of Chivas I see peeking out from the back of that bottom shelf?”

  “You have good eyes, Major,” Kell said lightly, but his smile was colder than the Korean wind.

  “Fighter pilots need good eyes,” Steve replied. He watched as Kell took a ring of keys out of his pocket and unlocked the cabinet, then removed the bottle of Chivas, but only two glasses.

  You dumb bastard, Steve thought. You’ve got Evans standing right here and you don’t intend to offer him a drink?

  Steve glanced at Evans, who seemed to sense what Steve was about to do. Evans began to shake his head no in warning.

  “Captain Evans,” Steve said heartily. “What are you having? Chivas as well?”

  “Captain, you’re dismissed,” Kell interrupted.

  You cheap bum, Steve thought as Evans crisply saluted and left the office. Here you’re the CO of a combat outfit, and you deny one of your best pilots a drink.

  It wasn’t as if Kell was on short rations. The cabinet held plenty more bottles of booze, and like everything else in the office, the labels on those bottles were first-rate.

  Kell had plenty of comforts, all right. Despite the cold weather outside, the office was warm, thanks to the potbelly coal stove. How Kell had managed to get wall-to-wall carpeting out here in the middle of nowhere, Steve couldn’t imagine. And where had that black leather swivel chair come from, or the pair of brass desk lamps with green glass shades that flanked the pink marble pen stand? The only standard-issue furnishings were the folding canvas chairs meant for visitors.

  The wall behind Kell’s desk was entirely taken up with a huge silk embroidered reproduction of the FEAF insignia. Steve gazed at it as Kell poured the drinks.

  The wall hanging was as big as a double bedspread. It was a beautifully and accurately done insignia rendition. The Air Force wing and star were sewn against the diamond-shaped dark blue background. Crowning the five-pointed star was the gold sunburst that represented the Philippine sun. The United States Army Air Force had been chased out of the Philippines by the Japanese back in ‘41, but history would forever show that the USAAF had more than paid Tojo back for that slap in the face. Beneath the wing and star were five smaller silver stars arranged in a curve somewhat like a shepherd’s crook. The five stars represented the Southern Cross constellation; it had been beneath that constellation that General Kenney had activated FEAF in Australia back in ‘44.

  “Here we are,” Kell said. He carefully stowed away his Chivas, relocking the cabinet before handing Steve a glass.

  Steve stared glumly. Kell had poured them both a stingy finger’s worth of scotch. “Major Kell, where did you get that hanging?”

  “Ah, that,” Kell said, turning to admire it. “Something, isn’t it? I hired some Korean women to sew it for me.” He winked at Steve. “It cost next to nothing.”

  Steve nodded. “And what about this building? Pretty unusual for a post like this to have such luxurious digs….”

  “ROK Command was kind enough to put a labor force at my disposal,” Kell explained. “But never mind about the building. Here’s to our press conference.” He raised his glass. “May it advance both our careers.”

  “Sure thing, Major,” Steve said. He knocked back his drink. “That hit the spot.”

  “Glad you enjoyed it,” Kell said, still sipping his drink.

  “I don’t suppose you’d come across with a case of Chivas to make good on our bet,” Steve joked.

  Kell finished his scotch and set down the empty glass. “Surely you don’t expect me to honor that silly wager?” he demanded.

  “A bet’s a bet,” Steve said, putting his glass on Kell’s desk. “Anyway, what’s the beef?” He gestured around the office. “With your obvious connections, getting a case of scotch should be easy.

  “I was only humoring you when I made that bet,” Kell said, shaking his head. “What I did was ascertain that you were on a very thin edge psychologically. Accordingly, I merely agreed to your unorthodox wager in order to relax you, thereby giving you the best possible chance of landing your fighter in one piece. Do you read me, Major?”

  “Oh, you’ve come through loud and clear,” Steve said evenly. You welsher.

  “Very good,” Kell nodded as he went to the closet and opened it. Steve watched, fascinated, as Kell took out a dark blue visored crush cap and a swagger stick.

  That figures, Steve thought, glancing in amusement at the stick. He waited as Kell carefully centered his cap on his head as he stared at his reflection in the full-length mirror on the inside of the closet door.

  “Now then, Major,” Kell declared, “the press awaits.”

  “Well, hell,” Steve said pleasantly. “Let’s not keep them a-waiting any longer than a-necessary….”

  The briefing room was next to the radio room, which was at the far end of the building from Kell’s office. They entered through a side entrance that led directly onto the raised platform at the front of the room.

  The newsreel camera people switched on their bright floodlights as soon as Steve entered onto the platform. The lights made it impossible for him to see who was seated out there. Up on the platform there were a couple of folding chairs in front of a blackboard, and a map of Korea on an easel. Steve grabbed a chair and sat down. Kell, who remained standing, gave him a dirty look. Steve ignored it and enjoyed seeing the CO’s face turn red as he began to slap his swagger stick against the side of his leg.

  “Major Gold!” a disembodied voice called out from behind the wall of bright lights and whirring movie cameras. “Do you have a statement?”

  Steve hesitated. He hadn’t much liked public speaking the times he’d been forced into it back when he was working in public relations, but then he thought about that article in Stars and Stripes. If his father had seen fit to bad-mouth the Air Force, suggesting that it would be destroyed by the enemy if GAT didn’t save it, Steve would just have to set the record straight.

  “Yes, I do have a statement to make,” Steve began, leaning forward in his chair and planting his elbows on his knees. “I’d like to begin by recounting the purpose of my flight’s mission, and how my airplane happened to sustain damage….”

  He quickly filled the reporters in on what had happened during the mission, and then said, “Now, I don’t want you guys making too much out of how my fighter was disabled. I wouldn’t want the American people to get the wrong ide
a about their Air Force—either its personnel or its equipment.”

  “Come on, Major!” a reporter challenged. “You telling us it’s not news when one commie rifleman can knock down a six-hundred-thousand-dollar airplane?”

  “First of all, my plane wasn’t knocked down,” Steve said firmly. “She’s damaged, sure, but she’s also right here, safe and relatively sound and in American hands. I don’t want to get into a war of words with you guys.” Steve paused and smiled. “I know when I’m outgunned.”

  He waited for the reporters’ appreciative chuckles to die away. “Seriously, what you have to understand is that the fault here does not lie with the Shooting Star. The ‘Shooter’ is a magnificent airplane. You ask any jet jockey, and they’ll tell you that she is doing an outstanding job flying long-range operations in the kinds of weather that a year ago would have made the Air Force or Lockheed fall down laughing with disbelief.

  “Take it from me—and I’ve flown just about every fighter the Air Force has come up with—the Shooting Star is one tough airplane. I’ve seen them make it back to Japan after sustaining the kind of damage that would have knocked a Mustang right out of the sky. We F-80 pilots wouldn’t want to fly anything else.

  “Now let’s examine what happened to me today. First let me make it clear that the incident took place while the F-80 was successfully doing a job that she had never been designed to do. The Shooter belongs up around thirty thousand feet, where it can intercept enemy jets, not down on-deck doing the Triple-T Shuffle.”

  “What’s the Triple-T Shuffle, Major?” a reporter interrupted.

  “Shooting up trains, tanks, and trucks.”

  Steve again waited out the laughter, and then said, “The biggest problem the F-80 has faced has been the fact that she’s had to fly from Japan, but now that K-2—Taegu Air Base—is F-80 operational, that problem is licked. You can tell the folks back home that the F-80 and the men who fly her have the situation in Korea well in hand.” He paused. “Okay, now I’ll take questions, if there are any.”

  “You think the F-80 can stand up to the commies’ MiGs?” a reporter called out.