The Fly Boys Read online

  Not that the Jug was perfect, Steve thought as he and the rest of the squadron slowly followed Cappy Fitzpatrick up to thirty thousand feet. She gulped fuel, making her an extremely short-range airplane unless she was equipped with drop tanks. It was a good thing she could absorb hits, because she sure as hell was going to take some. At high speeds and high altitudes she was unbeatable, but the Japs liked to fight low. Dropping the Jug down below fifteen thousand feet, or letting her air speed fall below 250 miles per hour turned her into one sleepy babe. Steve found this especially irksome since his last mount, the twin-engined P-38 Lightning, could climb like an angel and dive like a submarine at any altitude. Finally, like a typical heavyweight, the muscle-bound Jug had spindly legs. Her weak landing gear could snap on you if you set her down too hard.

  “All right, you Virgins—”

  Steve cringed as Cappy’s voice crackled through his headset. Thankfully the Marine fighter squadrons used a different radio frequency, so they couldn’t eavesdrop. Then he remembered that it was the webfoots who’d christened the squadron in the first place: one look and the Marines would know exactly what those double vees stood for.

  “Find your positions,” Cappy ordered.

  The squadron broke into three flights of four, each flying in box formation. Steve was in the last box, in the rear starboard corner, flying as flight leader Captain Crawford’s wingman. Cappy had assigned flight positions according to an officer’s rank and the number of his kills. Steve was only a first lieutenant, and his nine kills might have been hot stuff in some other squadron, but here his score was relatively low. Crawford, for instance, had twelve kills. Steve’s position in the extreme rear outside corner of the last squadron was an especially dangerous one because he’d be the first guy to be jumped in an ambush, but because of his excellent eyesight and ability to spot the enemy, Cappy had figured Steve could handle it. Steve considered Cappy’s confidence in his ability an honor.

  “Remember our procedure,” Cappy was saying. “We fly high. We spot Tojo, and we power-dive on him like a ton of bricks.”

  Ton of bricks was right, Steve chuckled to himself. The Jug, empty, weighed maybe three times what the Zero did loaded.

  The squadron was flying just off the coast of Santa Belle. There had been no enemy air activity in the area for weeks, but Steve constantly swiveled his head, searching for the enemy against the infinite pale blue sky banded with wispy high-altitude cirrus clouds. He didn’t expect to see any Japs, but he had long ago trained himself into the routine of knowing what was happening in the sky around him. It was a habit he didn’t want to break.

  “—The idea is to destroy your target in a single pass,’ Cappy was lecturing the squadron. “Hit and kill him before he even knows what’s happened. With eight guns, you’ve got the firepower to do it.”

  Something caught Steve’s eye on his starboard side, and his heart began to pound with that scary, giddy jolt of combat anticipation. As the specks closed on the squadron Steve saw that they were Marine Corsairs. He relaxed, and as his pulse slowed, he wryly noted his undeniable sense of disappointment.

  “You get yourself into a turning fight with Tojo and you’ll find yourself spiraling downward,” Cappy was warning. “Then, before you know it, you’ll be beneath the Jug’s optimum operational altitude, and Tojo will be flying rings around you.”

  Steve waited for Cappy to finish and then clicked his throat mike. “This is Gold. We’ve got company. A finger four formation of webfoots coming at us three o’clock level.”

  “I see them,” Cappy said. “Just ignore them.”

  “That’s gonna be hard to do, Cappy,” Steve replied as the gull-winged, dark blue Corsairs surrounded him.

  “Lieutenant Gold, this is Captain Crawford. You’ve got a darned webfoot coming up between us.”

  Steve had to smile. Crawford had been a grammar school teacher before the war, and couldn’t ever bring himself to swear.

  “He’s trying to cut you out of the box,” Crawford continued. “Tighten up, tighten up, Lieutenant.”

  The Marine pilots were good. They were operating almost at ceiling, but they still managed to slice Steve out of the flight’s box formation. Before he knew it he was neatly coralled by the four Marine fighters. They were close enough for Steve to see the pilots’ faces. They were pointing to the double-vee shield insignias on his cowling. They were laughing.

  “Cappy, this is Steve!” he snarled furiously into his throat mike. “I told you they’d make fun of us! They’re laughing at this fucking shield you’ve got me branded with!”

  “Steve, calm down,” Cappy ordered. “All right, everyone, listen up: follow me up to thirty-eight thousand feet. Steve, you just climb right out of their box. Those bluebirds can’t fly much higher than present altitude.”

  “At thirty-eight thousand any meaningful flight practice is going to be spoiled,” Crawford cut in. “We’ll never really see combat at that altitude. The Japs are willing to concede the heavens to their honorable ancestors.”

  “Don’t bust my balls, Captain,” Cappy muttered.

  “I hate running away from these bullies,” Steve grumbled.

  “I hate it, too,” Cappy said. “But we can’t shoot them down because Uncle Sammy wouldn’t like it, and anyway, we’re guests on their fucking webfoot island, and we’re going to behave like guests, God help us. Just do as I say: follow me up to thirty-eight thousand and leave them behind.”

  “But what are we going to do up there?” another pilot cut in. “Just wait them out?”

  “I guess,” Cappy said helplessly. “Maybe they’ll get bored and go away.”

  “Or maybe they’ll hang around and wait for us to come back down,” Steve said. “Like the damn bullies they are.”

  “You got any better ideas, Steve?” Cappy demanded fiercely.

  “Maybe I do,” Steve said. “You can’t run from bullies, Cappy. You’ve got to stand up to them! Do I have your permission to try?”

  “Try what, Steve?” Cappy asked, sounding apprehensive.

  “I have to demonstrate, Major,” Steve replied, and before Cappy could stop him, he orchestrated his throttle and ram scoop turbo supercharger to abruptly rise up out of the Marines’ box formation like a pigeon out of the bush. He next popped his flaps to abruptly slow down, causing the surprised Marines to shoot past. Steve had no problem dropping down onto theirs tails.

  He saw Captain Crawford turn his head to see what he was doing, and thought the captain gave him a friendly wave of acknowledgment, but that might have been wishful thinking. As the formation of Corsairs broke apart to escape, Steve picked out one bluebird and went after it. As he did, he wondered how long it would take Cappy Fitzpatrick to realize what he had planned, and stop him from doing it.

  The Corsair’s pilot had chosen to make a flat-out run. Bad choice, Steve thought gleefully.

  The Corsair was a good mount, but at this altitude she was straining for breath, while the Jug was happy as a pig in shit this high in the sky with room to gallop. For ten deliciously long seconds Steve stayed glued to the Corsair’s tail, waxing the webfoot soundly. He’d made sure his guns were on safety, and then activated his gun camera to record the rout.

  “Lieutenant Gold,” Cappy’s voice suddenly exploded in Steve’s headset, “what the fuck do you think you’re doing?”

  Steve smiled. He’d known the major long enough to recognize when Cappy was truly pissed and when he was just acting like he was.

  “Aw, come on, Cappy,” Steve cajoled affectionately. “Can’t you just pretend you don’t see me for a little while longer?”

  There was a moment of static, and then Cappy said, “Don’t … see … who?”

  Thank you, Steve thought, as just ahead the desperate Marine went into a dive to escape. Steve dived right after him, waxing the bluebird for five seconds longer. He thought, If this were real, I’d be a double ace right now.

  And then Steve had to break away.

  The pursu
it and power dive had cost him ten thousand feet, and the Jug wasn’t happy about it. Above his own excited breathing into his rubber oxygen mask he could hear the difference in his engine: the liquid growl had dropped in pitch to a harsh rumble. As he pulled back on the stick and worked his rudder pedals, he felt the Jug’s sluggish response. There was no problem, and no danger. It was just that the lower the Jug flew, the more dimwitted she got. The altimeter was presently indicating sixteen thousand feet. Drop her down another few thousand and she’d turn into a goddamned railroad locomotive: just as dependable and rock steady as a choo-choo, but a little less responsive and agile.

  He climbed slowly; it took him a couple of minutes to regain the ten thousand feet he’d lost in only a few seconds. While the Jug was huffing and puffing up the ladder, Steve had plenty of time to search the sky. The Corsair he’d waxed was heading for home. The remaining three bluebirds were a couple of miles away, at two-o’clock high. They were coming toward him to intercept.

  Steve smiled broadly. He would have had no hope of catching up to the three Corsairs if they’d chosen to escape, but he knew that they wouldn’t—couldn’t—run. He’d already blistered one of their brothers-in-arms. As far as they were concerned, the fucking honor of the fucking Marine Corps was now at stake.

  Cappy’s voice came over his headset, singing, “Oh where, oh where could my little Jug be …?”

  “Cappy, this is Steve. Do I have permission to continue upholding the honor of the squadron awhile longer?”

  “What squadron would that be, kiddo?” Cappy demanded.

  “The … Double Vee Squadron, sir.”

  “The what?” Cappy persisted.

  Steve had to swallow hard before he could bring himself to say it. “The Vigilant Virgin Squadron, sir—”

  “Good enough,” Cappy laughed. “You’ve got my permission to show those webfoots what it means when a virgin says no!”

  “Roger that, Cappy,” Steve said.

  Now that the Jug was back up to 22,000 feet, she was again feeling her oats. There was a little less than a mile separating Steve from the Corsairs, which had come around to approach him head-on. He didn’t expect them to break; it was three against one, after all. He knew what they expected him to do: break sharply, either to port or starboard, and then they’d have him broadside in their sights. In real life he’d be a tough deflection shot for the Marines, but since this was a mock dogfight, all three webfoots would simply run their gun cameras and claim a “likely victory,” one that would counter the embarrassment they suffered over the waxing Steve had inflicted on the other Corsair.

  The webfoots were expecting Steve to break, because that was all a typical airplane was capable of doing, but the Double Vees’ Thunderbolts weren’t typical. They had been factory equipped with an emergency water injection system that shot water into the engine cylinders, temporarily—very temporarily—increasing horsepower from 2,100 to 2,800, increasing the Jug’s top speed to about 470 miles per hour. The Corsairs were due to be fitted with the water injection system, but Steve was pretty sure that hadn’t yet happened; otherwise the pilot he’d just waxed would have used the system to try and save his tail.

  Steve and the Corsairs—still rushing toward each other —had closed the gap between them to-about a quarter mile. Again, if this had been a real fight, both sides would have begun firing by now, but gun cameras would have a problem clearly filming a head-on airplane at this distance. Steve still had a few seconds before the Marines could claim victory.

  He cut in the Jug’s turbosupercharger as he dropped into a shallow dive, offsetting the Jug to one side by banking hard, beginning his turn virtually beneath the Corsair’s noses. He held full throttle as he continued what amounted to an aerial U-turn. The Jug’s bones groaned in protest, and Steve’s vision dimmed as the G-force flattened him, but the maneuver worked. The Corsairs badly overshot him. The Marine pilots were sparing their bodies and their airplanes as they began a leisurely turn to come after him. They were obviously confident that in a tight dogfight their Corsairs were more than a match for the Jug.

  Surprise, surprise, Steve thought as he came out of his U-turn well behind the tail of the last Corsair. Steve kept his throttle wide open as he activated the water injection system. The Jug howled like a goosed dame, and then the great silver airplane leapt forward. Steve glanced at his air speed indicator: 475 miles per hour! His pulse was zinging just as fast. He was going at least 50 miles an hour faster than what the Corsairs were capable of doing. He barely had time to activate his gun camera before he overtook the first bluebird. He shot past it and got the next webfoot on film for a good five seconds before it broke away. He didn’t chase it, but went after the last plane; he wanted all four. Four fucking Marines waxed by one Army airman—he was going to be famous, assuming he wasn’t court-martialed.

  Steve’s finger was reaching to activate his camera on the last Corsair when “Break! Break!” filled his headset. He reacted automatically, veering off sharply, giving up the pursuit.

  Break. It was the signal from a fellow pilot that the enemy was on your tail, that at any instant gunfire might be rattling through your cockpit. A fighter jock was trained to react instinctively to the warning. He couldn’t afford to think about it, because the time it took to think might be all the time the enemy needed to kill him.

  It had taken Steve less than a second to almost involuntarily react. By the time his consciousness had caught up to remind him that this was a mock dogfight and that there could be no enemy behind him, the Corsair was long gone, and in hot pursuit was the son of a bitch Thunderbolt pilot who had issued the phony warning. As the Jug flashed past, Steve had barely enough time to read the Pilot’s personal name for his airplane plastered beneath the canopy, written in yellow script against a blue background: Miss Bessie.

  You bastard! Steve cursed the pilot who had ruined his perfect run against the Marines. You bastard, you stole my kill!

  It was the oldest asshole’s trick in the book: the asshole waited for a fellow pilot to do all the hard work of lining up, hammering, and hamstringing an enemy. Then, at the last possible second, the asshole yells, “Break!” The rightful pilot takes evasive action, allowing the asshole to move in, put a short burst into the falling enemy, and in that way get to claim false credit for the kill.

  Steve clicked his throat mike. “Hey, Miss Bessie, you son of a bitch! You stole my kill.”

  “Steve, this is Cappy. Calm down.”

  “Cappy, did you see what that son of a bitch did?”

  “We all saw it. But this is just a mock dogfight, Lieutenant. Don’t take it so seriously.”

  “Well, I do take it seriously, Cappy!” Steve protested. “I’ve got three of them on film. I was about to wax the last one, and then that bastard goes and pulls a dirty stunt like that. Who the fuck is he, anyway?”

  A new voice cut into the conversation. “Lieutenant Gold, the name’s Detkin. Lieutenant Ben Detkin.”

  Steve mentally ran through the members of the squadron. He knew the name, of course, but he just couldn’t attach it to a face. “Detkin, just wait till I get my hands on you.”

  “Gold, you’re talking to a fellow officer,” Detkin chuckled. “You’d better watch your tone.”

  “Oh, yeah, Detkin, I’ll watch it. And you can watch me shove those louie’s bars of yours right up your fucking, deceitful ass.”

  “That’s enough!” Cappy cut in sharply. “Benny, you were wrong to cry wolf the way you did. And as for you, Steve, come on! Lighten up, for chrissake. You got three of those webfoots, and you ought to be satisfied with that. We’re going home. I want to get your gun camera film developed. I can’t wait to send it over to the Marine group commandant, along with some pillows for his pilots to sit on.”

  Steve was tempted to go after Detkin and wax his tail, but by now the water squirted into the engine had been used up. He could inject water again, of course, but he couldn’t see straining his Jug that way in a noncombat si
tuation. The Jug’s power plant was already sounding rough—complaining about the abuse. Anyway, his fuel supply was low, and the loss of altitude was further hampering his performance.

  “Cappy, this is Steve. I’m returning to base.” He put the Jug into a gentle coasting turn back toward Santa Belle.

  Detkin—I’ll wax your tail on the ground.

  (Three)

  Santa Belle Airfield

  Steve had the Jug’s canopy up while he was still taxiing toward the hangar area. He cut his engine, coasting to where he wanted the Jug to stop with just a feather touch on the brakes. He was out of his plane the instant the wheels stopped turning.

  “Get my gun camera film into the lab,” Steve ordered his mystified crew chief as he strode past the man without stopping, heading for the squadron’s ops-ready room.

  Most of the pilots—Cappy excluded—were already there as Steve banged through the double screen doors. They froze in front of their lockers in their various states of undress, staring back at Steve as he stood with his hands on his hips, glaring into the room. One wall was taken up with a bank of narrow dark green metal lockers and long wooden benches, where the pilots could change into their flying gear. The other side of the room had folding wooden chairs haphazardly arranged in front of a low, raised platform. Attached to the wall behind the platform were a large rectangular blackboard, a duty roster, and a set of roll-down maps. The squadron’s ops officer had his desk and file cabinets next to the podium. Next to him was where the radio operator sat in front of his equipment. In the hut’s far corner a bar had been set up for the use of the officers.

  “Detkin!” Steve roared.