The Fly Boys Page 7

  “Take it easy, Steve. That’s an order,” Captain Crawford said as he stowed his gear.

  Steve, pissed off, ignored him, despite the fact that he was a superior officer. When Cappy wasn’t around, Crawford or any of the other three captains in the squadron were in charge, but a guy who pulled his weight in a combat unit could get away with a certain amount of insubordination. Anyway, Steve disliked schoolteachers telling him what to do.

  “Detkin!” he repeated. “You in here? Or are you too chickenshit to show yourself?”

  “I’m Detkin,” a pilot Steve’s age, or maybe a couple of years older, replied softly, stepping away from the others. He was barefoot and wearing just his boxer shorts. He was about five feet ten inches tall. Like all the pilots, he was built thick through his shoulders and arms, thanks to the effort it took to work a fighter plane’s controls at high speed. “You ought to know your squadron mates by now,” he mocked.

  “I’ll know you from now on,” Steve said. He stripped off his Mae West and shoulder holster, threw his gear into his locker, and advanced on Detkin.

  “Lieutenant Gold,” Crawford was sputtering, “I swear to God, I’ll have you up on charges if you don’t cool off.”

  “Don’t worry about it, Captain,” Detkin said. “I can handle this putz okay by myself.”

  “You think so?” Steve demanded.

  “I know so,” Detkin replied.

  “Your tricks can’t help you now,” Steve said.

  “Face to face I don’t need tricks.” Detkin had stepped in close to spit the words into Steve’s face.

  He was swarthy, one of those guys who always looked like they needed a shave. He had heavy-lidded brown eyes that gave him a sleepy look, a broad, flat nose, and a strong jawline. He wore his glossy black hair cut short in the back and on the sides, but in thick tousled curls on top.

  Steve knew that Detkin had to be a good pilot and an ace or else he wouldn’t be in the squadron, but beyond that he drew a blank, although he had been able to connect the man with his name as soon as he’d identified himself. During the time the squadron had been together, Detkin had been flying as a wingman in one of the other flight formations.

  “I believe you think you have a score to settle with me?” Detkin was smiling.

  “Goddman right I do,” Steve said. “You stole my kill by using one of the lowest tricks in the book.”

  Detkin shrugged. “It worked, didn’t it?”

  “Sure it worked!”

  “So what’s your problem, pal?” Detkin chuckled. “Come on, it was just a joke. Are you pissed at me for fooling you? Or are you pissed at yourself for being fooled?”

  The other pilots were smiling in agreement, Steve noticed. That made him angrier. “Detkin, I consider you the lowest of the low.”

  Detkin stopped smiling. “I couldn’t care less what you consider. Number one”—he poked Steve’s chest with a rigid forefinger—“don’t come crying to me because you fell for a sucker play. Number two”—he poked Steve a second time—“don’t call me an asshole. And number three—”

  He tried to poke Steve’s chest again, but this time Steve slapped away his hand. “You got the balls to take that attitude with me after what you pulled?” Steve asked harshly.

  “I got more balls than you could ever dream of, pal,” Detkin sneered. “Anyway,” he laughed, “like I said, you’re making too big a deal out of this, you schmuck.” He began to turn away.

  “Let’s see how seriously you take this, Lieutenant.” Steve clenched his hand into a fist and delivered a short, stiff uppercut to the side of Detkin’s jaw. The punch took the man totally by surprise. His head rocked sideways, and he lost his balance, tumbling over a bench. He landed sprawled on his hands and knees on the wood planking of the floor.

  Shit, that was a sucker punch, Steve realized belatedly. His anger had vanished the instant he’d hit Detkin. He was sorry he’d done it. The other pilots were all staring at him accusingly, like he’d just shit in the mess hall. Steve tried to look them in the eye, but he couldn’t. Hell, he knew he’d done wrong by overreacting that way. Grace under pressure had to be learned, Cappy had said. Steve guessed he had a lot to learn after all.

  Some of the other guys were helping Detkin to his feet. “I’m all right, I’m all right,” he told them as he sat down on the bench. He looked up at Steve, who could read nothing in Detkin’s brown stare.

  “Maybe I deserved that,” he mumbled thickly, rubbing his jaw.

  “Maybe I think you did, too, Benny,” Cappy Fitzpatrick said from the doorway before Steve could reply.

  Steve whirled around. “Cappy,” he said, surprised. “How long were you—?”

  “Long enough to see you strike an officer,” Cappy muttered.

  “I gave Gold a direct order to calm down—” Crawford began.

  “Stow it, Captain, will you please?” Cappy said wearily as he studied Detkin, who was still rubbing his jaw. “Lieutenant, you need medical attention?”

  Detkin experimentally moved his jaw from side to side. “From a little love tap like that from a nebech like him? No way, Major.”

  “What did you call me, you son of a bitch?” Steve demanded.

  “Nebech means ‘jerk’ in Yiddish,” Detkin said. “Get it? You’re a—”

  “Stow it, both of you,” Cappy ordered, cutting off Detkin. “Now then, I’m not interested in putting anybody on report unless I’m forced to. Benny, you deserved that sock on the jaw for the stunt you pulled on Gold. That was wrong.”

  “It ain’t wrong if you get away with it,” Detkin said under his breath.

  Cappy glared at him and he shut up. “Steve, you took your poke at Benny for the trick he pulled. Hopefully you got everything out of your system. So now both you guys are even with each other, right? I want you to shake hands so we can forget about this.”

  “Sure, no problem, Cappy,” Detkin said evenly.

  He extended his hand to Steve, who shook it. Steve knew that nothing had really been resolved between them by their confrontation or this forced handshake. He guessed that Detkin knew it as well.

  “Come on, Benny, get dressed and we’ll have a drink,” Crawford said.

  The other pilots were already moving toward the bar. Steve noticed that nobody was inviting him. Fine, he thought. Who needs them, anyway? He grabbed his gun rig out of his locker and left the building.

  “Steve, wait up!” Cappy called out.

  Steve turned around to see Cappy step out through the screen door toward him. “Yes, sir?”

  Cappy jerked his thumb over his shoulder. “I stuck up for you back there because I thought you had a legitimate beef,” Cappy said quietly. “But we both know that taking a swing at Detkin was uncalled for, considering the circumstances. When those Marines butted into our practice flight you wanted to indulge in a little horseplay.”

  “For which I asked permission,” Steve pointed out.

  Cappy nodded. “Right, and I gave permission. Then Detkin horns in, and you react by getting fired up and punching out the guy’s lights, just because he wanted a little part of the action—”

  “My action.” Steve interrupted.

  “The squadron’s action!” Cappy declared, for the first time sounding really angry. “Remember this, Steve: whatever you do reflects on the squadron, and whatever the squadron does reflects on you!”

  “Understood, sir.”

  Cappy stared at him. “Steve,” he began, his voice softer, “you’ve got to learn how to fit in with the others. How to get with the program, become part of the team.”

  “I’ve heard that before,” Steve sighed.

  “Because it’s true,” Cappy nodded. “Why haven’t you made any friends here?”

  Steve looked away, shrugging. “I guess it’s the same old bullshit,” he said tiredly. “I guess it’s hard for people to see me for who I am instead of being Herman Gold’s son.”

  Cappy looked dubious. “You mean the fact that your old man is loaded?
”

  “Right,” Steve said. “I get my father’s reputation thrown up at me all the time, Cappy. I’m just fed up with making excuses for who I am.”

  Cappy hesitated. “Steve, I’ve known you a long time, and I’m probably your best friend, so I’ve got to tell you that from where I’m sitting, your problem has nothing to do with your father.”

  “What are you saying?”

  “Face it,” Cappy said. “You’ve been acting like an asshole. You’ve been arrogant, stubborn, selfish, a wise guy.”

  “Gee, thanks,” Steve scowled. “And you’re my best friend, did you say?”

  “But you could change.”

  “Cappy, spare me this psychological bullshit!” Steve snapped.

  Damn, I shouldn’t have said that, Steve thought. The way Cappy was staring at him now was making him feel as bad as when he’d lost it and socked Detkin.

  “Yeah, I’m done,” Cappy said. “And I was wrong. I apologize.” He shouldered past Steve. “You don’t act like an asshole. I think you really are one.” He paused. “And I’ll tell you something else. I don’t care how well you fly, or how many Japs you shoot down. I’m not putting you in for a promotion until you start showing me some responsibility and maturity!”

  “Cappy, you can’t do that to me!” Steven said angrily, thinking that his old buddy had turned out to be worse than his previous commander, “Spit and Polish” Wohl.

  “Just watch me!” Cappy nodded.

  “It’s not fair!”

  “Life isn’t fair,” Cappy said, walking away. “I hope you enjoyed your promotion from shavetail to lieutenant, because if you don’t grow up, you’re going to be wearing that single silver bar for the duration.”

  CHAPTER 4

  * * *

  (One)

  London, England

  22 March 1944

  It was very early on a chilly, drizzly morning when Herman Gold got into the garnet-red MG parked in the alley behind his hotel. The MG’s black leather bucket seat felt icy as he ground the starter until the engine caught. He let the car warm up for a few minutes and then pulled away.

  The MG’s clutch needed work, and its shifter was balky. Every time Gold came to a traffic light he had to rev the engine to keep it from stalling. The heater seemed to be taking forever to warm up. Gold shivered despite his wool-lined trench coat, his fedora, and his calfskin gloves as he drove slowly, in unison with the stop-and-go traffic, along the twisty cow paths that passed for streets in London.

  He passed whole blocks that were nothing but bombed-out ruins. Seeing the destruction jolted him into a new awareness of the war. He was actually here, not simply reading headlines about the Nazi bombing raids against valiant London from the safety and comfort of his California home.

  An angry horn blared at him. A lorry was coming at him head-on. What the hell is wrong with that driver? Gold thought as the truck driver frantically waved at Gold, waving him to the left.

  Shit! Gold thought, panicked, realizing he had drifted over to the right-hand, wrong side of the road. He jerked the steering wheel, swerving to the correct, left-hand side.

  “Learn to drive, you bloody fool!” the lorry driver yelled at him as the truck rumbled past.

  Gold, his nerves rattled, pulled over to the curb and stopped to calm down. He hated not knowing his way around, and not feeling comfortable with the rules of the road. He wouldn’t have been driving at all, but he’d been told that if he chose to accept the invitation he would have to come alone, and that a car would be put at his disposal.

  Sighing, he put the car in gear, checked carefully to make sure that he was not cutting anyone off, and pulled away.

  It began to rain harder once he’d left the outskirts of London. The MG’s convertible top, ballooning in the wind, began to leak. Gold was looking for a place called Wattham, a village in Hertfordshire just northwest of London. He couldn’t wait to get there and come back, but he didn’t dare drive any faster, considering the weather. By now the MG’s heater was going full blast, but it was a miserable, puny thing that did little more than roast his left foot.

  The MG’s rubber wiper blades needed replacing; they were doing little more than smearing the rain across the windshield. Gold strained to read the road signs through the impenetrably gray curtain of rain and fog.

  What I wouldn’t give to be back home, Gold sighed, wiping the condensation that was his own breath from the inside glass of his windshield. He hadn’t felt comfortable since he’d arrived in England two days ago.

  He’d been flown over by the Army Air Force, along with other top executives from the United States aircraft industry, to take part in a secret USAAF-RAF joint conference on Allied progress to date in the development of jet aircraft. The conference was held at Bentley Priory, an abandoned girls’ school to the northwest of London that was now being used as RAF Fighter Command.

  Gold had almost refused the invitation. He thought the whole idea of holding the conference around London was stupid.

  For one thing, he didn’t consider London to be safe. The Eighth Army Air Force and the RAF were crowing about how the Luftwaffe was beaten; that whatever was left of it after the ill-fated Battle of Britain and the Russian offensive, was now being shredded as Allied air power took the war home to Germany.

  Gold happened to believe that such declarations of victory were premature. Just last week the Luftwaffe had launched a night raid. It was true that the enemy planes had been stopped at the coast, but the attack was evidence that the Nazis were still capable of delivering an air strike against England.

  The road had narrowed to a serpentine two-lane blacktop with lots of little hills. Gold had to constantly upshift and downshift, and each time he did, the transmission protested a bit more loudly. He wondered how many more shifts the gearbox had in it. That’s all he needed, to be broken down out here where he had no desire to be in the first place.

  There was another, more personal reason why Gold had considered refusing the invitation to the conference—sour grapes. Why should he come when he had nothing to crow about?

  With GAT’s XP-4 project a total failure, and Gold’s concepts for a new swept-wing jet fighter design still nothing more tangible than a heap of drawings on Teddy Quinn’s drafting table, he’d had to sit quietly in that drafty, cold conference room, suffering in humiliation while the others crowed about their advances in jet technology.

  The people from Lockheed had announced that they had an order from the United States military for five thousand of their recently unveiled Shooting Star jet fighters. Hugh Luddy, an old friend and the representative from the premier British aviation firm of Stoat-Black, had proudly announced that the first of his company’s Sky Terrier turbojet fighters would be delivered to the RAF by early summer. There had been additional boastings of grand things from Bell, Republic, and Grumman.

  Gold had to listen to it all, gritting his teeth in envy and frustration. When it came time for Gold to speak, he had to put out a lot of red-faced double-talk, all the while knowing that news traveled fast along the industry grapevine, and that his huey was fooling no one. Everybody knew that GAT had failed.

  When at last his period of agony at the podium had ended and he was able to return to his seat, he’d reminded himself that the only reason he’d decided to show up was because GAT’s absence from these proceedings would have been the greatest admission of failure of all.

  Gold slowed down the MG. Ahead, a sheepherder in a bright yellow slicker and thigh-high black rubber waders was taking his time guiding his muddy flock across the roadway. Gold waited, goosing the idling engine to keep it from stalling, impatiently tapping the steering wheel as he listened to the rhythmic groans of the impotent wipers. The sheep were sauntering along single file, for chrissake. He glanced at his wristwatch. According to the directions he’d been given over the telephone, he should have been there by now, he thought sourly, wondering if he was lost.

  The road cleared and he continued driving,
slowing down at every intersection to check the signs. He saw the sign for his turnoff—Crowell Lane—as he was about to pass it. He quickly checked his rear-view mirror to make sure that there was no one behind him and then double-clutched a downshift as he threw the little car into a hard right turn. The MG seemed to go over on its two right wheels for an instant, and then its rear end fishtailed, spraying mud and gravel. Gold steered into the skid, straightened out, and continued on, ignoring the sign that announced the road was closed.

  He drove for another two miles along the curving lane. It was only one car wide, and the thick, high hedges on both sides made the road even more claustrophobic. Gold felt like he was traveling through an undulating trench. It was enough to make even an old ex–fighter pilot carsick. He hoped he didn’t run into anybody coming from the opposite direction, because he wasn’t about to back up.

  The road widened as he came to a high barbed-wire gate across the lane, guarded by a pair of sodden-looking British soldiers armed with Sten submachine guns. Gold came to a stop and unsnapped the MG’s side curtain as one of the soldiers came around.

  “Sorry, sir, but you’ll have to turn around,” the soldier began. “This is a restricted area.”

  “My name’s Herman Gold. Would you check with Hugh Luddy, please? I’m expected.”

  The soldier nodded. “Yes, Mr. Gold. We were told to expect you. Might I see some identification, sir?” the soldier asked politely.

  “Uh, sure.” Gold unbuttoned his trench coat and reached for his passport in the left inside breast pocket of his suit coast. As he made the movement, he noticed that the second guard was casually lowering the barrel of his Sten gun in the direction of the MG’s windshield.

  “Very good, sir,” the first soldier said, glancing at Gold’s passport and then handing it back. The second guard began opening the gate. “Welcome to the Stoat-Black Experimental Works,” the first guard continued. “If you’ll just drive through the gate and continue on for about a quarter mile, you’ll come to a low clapboard-sided building painted light green. That will be HQ, sir.” The soldier paused and smiled sardonically. “You’ll find Sir Hugh there.”