Edge of Valor (34 page)

“Yes, sir. We got a ton. It's going to take us a while to sort it all out. But there was a special delivery letter for you, Commodore.” He walked in and handed it over.

“Thanks, Jefferson.” Landa took the envelope and said, “Son of a gun, it's from Laura. What the hell have I done now?” He began tearing the envelope open.

While Landa read, Ingram sipped coffee, savoring the moment. Surrender ceremony! The war really was over. No more kamikazes, no more banzai raids. No Communists from the north. The only thing to worry about today was when to refuel. They'd brought in a tanker and—

“Holy shit!” Landa stood and walked about the wardroom.

“Everything okay?” asked Ingram.

“I'll say! Get a load of this. I'm gonna be a father.”

“That's great!” Ingram stood and offered his hand. “Congratulations.”

“Yeah, thanks. Cigars come later.” He lowered the letter. “She wants to get married. Like right now.”

“So?”

“Yeah. I think I can work it out. Grab two or three weeks' leave and go tie the knot. Why not? What do you think, Todd?”

“I have a shotgun in the gun locker that says you better do it.”

“Yeah, yeah,” Landa said absently. “Maybe I can bring it off. Hey, maybe take you along too. Get your dead butt out of here for a while.”

“Hold on, I'm taking my men home on this ship.”

“Just a little leave, Todd, to laugh your ass off while I get married. You'll be right back.”

“I suppose I could.”

Ingram headed for the door as Landa sat to finish reading his letter. “Please excuse me, Commodore, I have to go figure out how we gas up. And congratulations again.”

“Yeah, yeah.” Landa scanned the final page. “Aww, shit.”

Ingram could have sworn Landa's face had turned the color of the page he was reading. “What?”

Landa looked at him.

“Jerry, what the hell is it?”

“It's personal, Captain. Now, please, don't let me interfere with your fueling schedule.”

“Jerry, can I help? I mean—”

“Todd, seriously, it's nothing I can't handle. I'll let you in on it maybe later. Now go.”

“You sure?”

“Positive. Now, please go.”

“Yes, sir.” Ingram walked out.

Chapter Twenty-Five

30 August 1945

Hot Rod 384, en route to Atsugi Air Base, Japan

L
eroy Peoples was flying, so Radcliff handled the radios. “Atsugi Tower, this is Hot Rod three-eight-four, heavy for you, twenty miles out, angels ten with four souls aboard. What do you have?”

The voice crackled in their earphones, “That you, Bucky?”

“One and the same.”

“I thought they fired you.” The voice belonged to Reid Callaghan, a C-54 pilot and friend of Radcliff's who had been tapped at the last moment for flight controller duty at Atsugi.

“No, they kept me and fired you, Reid,” said Radcliff. “What's it like down there?”

“Same as last time, Hot Rod. Planes everywhere. MPs strutting up and down with their chest sticking out. Brass screeching all over the place. It's like Coney Island. But instead of New Yorkers it's full of GIs and Japs.”

“Japs giving you any trouble?”

“So far they're being pretty decent. One guy even gave me a cup of tea.”

“Well, watch your back.”

“You got that—”

“Radio discipline!” A harsh voice interjected.

Leroy Peoples turned to Radcliff and mouthed, “Who the hell was that?”

“Damned if I know,” muttered Radcliff. This was their second run from Okinawa today. They'd been up since four this morning planning routes and landing and takeoff patterns. Hot Rod 384 was part of a massive train of C-47s and C-54s flying in the entire Eleventh Airborne Division, which was going in to occupy Atsugi Air Base and its environs. Radcliff's plane was one of the few carrying just cargo: two disassembled Jeeps, six barrels of aviation gas, several crates of small arms, ammunition, food, and medicine. Most of the other planes carried troops.

Callaghan announced crisply, “Hot Rod three-eight-four, wind is south-southeast at eight knots; barometer is two-niner point six; be advised major aircraft traffic this area: friendly, but lots of them. You are cleared for runway one-niner. Upon landing, stand by for special taxi instructions. Over.”

“Understand two-niner point six, runway one-niner. Special taxi instructions upon rollout. Roger, Atsugi. Thanks, out.” Radcliff clicked off and said, “You wanna take it in, Leroy?”

Peoples gave him a long look. “Not if you're going to torch my ass again.”

On the return trip to Yonatan Airfield this morning Radcliff had asked Peoples to land the plane. About ten miles out, everything was on track; the gear was down and locked, the flaps were coming down. All of a sudden Radcliff yanked out a gleaming Ronson cigarette lighter, clicked it on, and cranked up the flame. He held it close to Peoples' face, almost under his nose.

“Sheeeeyat! What the hell you doin'?” Peoples shouted. “Ah cain't see.”

Radcliff held the flame closer, “Come on, Leroy, you can do this.”

“Ouch, shit, that hurts. Knock it off, damn it!” He tried to bat the lighter away, but he couldn't do that and hold the control yoke at the same time. Peoples held on, yelling at Radcliff to stop and jerking his face from side to side.

“Leroy, we're almost there. Wing and a prayer. Come on.”

People's left eyebrow sizzled, but he kept the yoke in a death grip.

With two miles to go, Radcliff pulled the lighter away.

“Damn. What the hell are you doin', partner?”

“Training exercise, Leroy.”

“Well, where the hell did you—
arrrgh
!”

Radcliff had clicked the Ronson again and jammed the flame under Peoples' nose.

“Come on, the plane, you stupid redneck,” yelled Radcliff. “You have fifty GIs back there. Fly the damned plane.” That wasn't true, of course. There were just the four of them deadheading back from Atsugi.

“Arrrrgh!” shouted Peoples. He pulled up a bit with some wind shear, but then settled down. “Stop it, damn you, Radcliff. Shit, flaps thirty.”

“Flaps thirty. Over the threshold, Leroy. Come on!”

Peoples jerked his head back and forth away from the lighter.

Radcliff followed every move, sometimes singeing more eyebrow.

“Ughhhh!” Peoples grabbed the throttles and eased them back.

The C-54 settled beautifully on its mains. Radcliff pulled the Ronson away and shut it off as Peoples put the nosewheel down.

“Nice,” said Radcliff. “Right boys?”

“Outstanding,” said Hammer.

“Very good,” said Berne.

They gave a thumbs up to Radcliff.

“Assholes,” Peoples muttered on the rollout. He moped and pouted while they reloaded and gassed the plane. Five minutes before takeoff on the second trip the crew learned that Hot Rod 384 would be flying into Atsugi right behind Gen. Douglas MacArthur's plane, the
Bataan
, a specially converted C-54 made to look like an ordinary cargo plane. Hot Rod 384 was to maintain a strict two-minute distance from the
Bataan
all the way to Atsugi. Radcliff assigned the takeoff to a now muted Leroy Peoples. Exactly 120 seconds after the
Bataan
took off, Radcliff said, “Go!” Peoples took off and held the proper interval all the way to Atsugi.

Now, as they descended into their pattern, Radcliff glanced over his shoulder at Hammer and Berne. Both nodded vigorously. He turned to Peoples. “Leroy, I have news for you.”

“What?” he snarled.

“Why, Lieutenant Peoples, whatever happened to that cheerful, ‘Yes, sir. What's that, sir?'”

“Stick it.”

Hammer and Berne laughed.

“Okay, Leroy. No more games. It's all over. You passed your aircraft commander qualifications. You're now fully qualified for the left seat.”

“No shit?”

“I mean it. You did well. You're the ninth guy I've done this with. Seven passed. Two panicked and I couldn't pass them.” He held out his hand. “But you did the best of all of them.”

They shook. Peoples grinned and said, “Thanks, boss. You mean I'll get my own airplane?”

“Gear coming down,” announced Radcliff. “Yeah, sooner rather than later. Look at all this. One C-54 nonstop into Japan every two minutes. And everywhere else we have occupation forces. But be careful, Mr. Aircraft Commander. You might soon be flying your own C-54 with a snot-nosed right-seater to lead to the potty every five minutes, but right now you're two minutes behind the Big Cheese, so don't screw it up.”

“No cigarette lighter?”

“That's all done. You passed the test.”

“Can I do a sideslip?”

Radcliff ran a hand over his face to cover his grin. “Leroy, it's your airplane. You can sideslip all you want.”

“My airplane?”

“All yours, Leroy. Congratulations.”

Peoples sat erect and broke into song, “Amaaaazing grace, how sweet the sound . . .”

Hammer made a show of plugging his ears. Berne slapped a hand over his eyes.

Peoples continued loudly and horribly off-key, “that saved a wretch, like meeeeee . . .” Holding the note, he sang, “. . . flaps thirty, pleeez . . .”

“Flaps thirty,” grunted Radcliff.

The threshold flashed beneath. Peoples shrieked at the top of his lungs, “Ah once was lost, but now am found . . .” He pulled back the throttles and eased back on the yoke.

Radcliff fought an impulse to clamp his hands over his ears.

First Lt. Leroy Peoples painted Hot Rod 384 onto runway one-niner and then, with the nosewheel settling, finished, “Was blind, but now ah see.”

Guy is a natural
, thought Radcliff.

Reid Callaghan broke into the concert with, “Hot Rod three-eight-four.”

In a voice that could shatter glass, Peoples started on the second verse. “T'was Grace that taught . . .”

Radcliff barked, “Leroy!”

“Yes, sir?” Peoples asked innocently. He continued humming.

“Three-eight-four,” Radcliff said. He made a show of clicking off and whispered, “You forgot to sideslip.”

“Damnation!”

“Hot Rod three-eight-four, turn left next taxiway. Follow the guy on the bicycle to the tower. Taxi up and stop behind C-54
Bataan
. Over.”

With that, Peoples stopped humming. The two pilots looked at each other, then Peoples said, “You want it, boss?”

“Naw, that's okay, Leroy. You take it. Just don't rear-end the general's beautiful airplane. My insurance lapsed due to insufficient funds.”

Peoples muttered, “First a damned flame thrower up my ass, and now this.”

The bicyclist, an MP, led the C-54 through streams of taxiing C-54s and C-47s. It seemed as though one popped up every hundred feet or so, their engines running. “Here we go,” said Peoples. They followed the MP to a taxiway that led in front of the tower. They had pulled to within fifty yards of MacArthur's plane when another MP stood before them and crossed his wrists over his head.

“That's it, Leroy. Shut her down. Chief, break out the pins and wheel chocks. Looks like they'll be offloading us here.”

“Roger.” Hammer rose and clumped aft.

“Hey.” Peoples pointed.

A man wearing the Philippine marshal's combination hat was exiting the
Bataan
. A corncob pipe was clamped between his teeth and he wore working khakis without a tie, just like the uniforms in Hot Rod 384. The five stars glistening at the general's collar points were the difference. He paused on the stairway platform and looked about for a moment. Then he descended toward a group of waiting officials. Camera flashbulbs popped as they crowded around to shake hands.