Paladin (eBook)

CHAPTER 2

Breaking In

Raydon air base had been operating for months, but the 353rd Fighter Group had only arrived from Metfield within the last few weeks. It appeared in some quarters that the transition was still in progress. The cinema wasn’t operating yet because the new equipment was British, and no one seemed to have the formula. A task force from technical was taking a go at it with promising results.

Matt and his fellow flyers didn’t have to worry about spare time, though, since Herrington was giving their indoctrination top priority. The flight leader was everything McDuff had described but a bit more personable than they had expected.

In short order, the three newcomers were in the air twice a day, beating up the field and the established ranges in the area to refine their strafing tactics. After the third day Captain Tanner, an accomplished pilot trainer known as “Wild Bill,” showed his first signs of approval.

“Method is fine,” he said after their last session. “All you lack is some flak and the business end of a Messerschmitt to round your edges. You stack up!”

That was reassuring to men who had yet to taste combat. One eventually gained the confidence to streak across the field at 350 miles an hour, 100 feet off the ground, zigzagging at contrived targets. But at Raydon, they were reminded no one was objecting. Continental Europe would be another matter.

“Baker, when you close on a stand of trees you’ve a habit of delaying your climb out,” Herrington schooled as they arrived at the officers’ club. “That can take you out if she slips on you.”

“Huh, that’s the way I learned to fly, Captain, jumping trees.”

“Jumping trees?”

“My uncle’s in the crop-dusting business and he’d take me up with him. It wasn’t long before I was flying the blooming thing.”

A reflective grin spread over Roger’s face as he rested his elbows on the table.

“Man, that plane was smooth. Just touch the stick and she’d do anything you asked. You know what I did? One day I cut school . . . .”

“One day?” Chuck interrupted.

Roger paused long enough to glower at his antagonist.

“Uncle Robert was in town that day, and I slipped out there and took off. Man, I thought I was something, a 17-year-old jerk kid. I got bored after a while and the devil took the stick right out of my hands. There’s a little town west of Phenix City with a long park in front of the courthouse. Big statue of some general right in the middle. I bombed the thing! Coated the whole park in white dust.”

Roger’s husky laughter melted with that of his audience while he paused to dry an eye. “Man, it was like kicking an ant bed,” he said between guffaws. “Folks came out from everywhere!”

Matt regained his composure with some effort, for he loved a good story. He wanted to add one of his own though it wasn’t as spectacular. “Well, I can’t beat that,” he began. “This friend and I took a Cub up a couple of times and bombed some coal trains. Those cars strung out a mile or so on the track. We would chase ‘em down, shallow dive and drop peanut bags of flour on them. It was beautiful! Great white puffs of smoke on that black coal.”

Herrington naturally glanced in Chuck’s direction expecting yet another tall story, but he just shook his head and grinned.

“I just learned to fly by the book, Captain.”

“Good!” Herrington exclaimed. “It’s encouraging to have one sane aviator in the section.”

For a while the talk was light, with the flight leader touching on the points he wanted improved. Then the long anticipated happened as Herrington leaned forward on his elbows. “As far as I’m concerned, you guys are as ready as we can make you. Your names are on the mission list. Tomorrow, Captain Newhart will lead the squadron on an early morning run at specified bridge targets. We’re loaning Smaragdis to lead Green Section, so it will be you three and me in Red.”

Numbing excitement raced through Matt as he heard the words. To have the brakes off at last was worth every pulsating tingle in his body. When Herrington tired of their questions he adjourned the meeting. The rest must wait for 0500 hours in the ready room.

During that first week at the base there had been little free time. Except for bicycle runs to Wenham Queen near the base or the little pub in Raydon village, it had been flying and study. Now they were dismissed until mission time the next morning, and Matt needed something to occupy his mind. Anything, that is, except another trip to the pub, since Roger was showing every indication of sponging up some brown ale. That was always a bad scene and Matt wasn’t in the mood to caretake a drunk. A better thing awaited him as he arrived at the barracks. Someone had picked up the mail and a small bundle lay on his bunk.

He stirred the coals in the heater stove and added a few, knowing the value of an early start on an English night. A front window caught the remaining light of day, so he sat there to sort his mail. A large, brown envelope, carefully wrapped, had weathered the month-long trip. It was bulky but soft, and curiosity required he open it first. He knew by the handwriting it was from his family, for Eleanor Tower’s penmanship was of the old school. Her talents as an artist underscored all that the hands attempted. Born to a prominent family in Burke County, Georgia, she had been educated at Agnes Scott College in the arts and social graces. But this lovely petite lady bore her heritage with a winsome unpretentiousness that endeared her to a legion of friends.

Matt peeled away the side of the envelope and reached for its contents. A handsomely tailored, pastel-blue silk scarf, still neatly folded, slipped into his hand. He clasped it for a moment as though sensing the pressure of the dainty fingers that had folded it just so, and suddenly it was difficult to swallow. Then slowly, blurry hazel eyes gave way to a smile and he leaned back, relishing the moment.

“I know, Mom” he mumbled under his breath, “wear it when it’s cold.”

His father was capable of extraordinary business letters, for Matt had read many of them. But he insisted on handwritten personal correspondence, which unfortunately bordered on the illegible. It was almost a game, like reading one of Dr. Preston Agee’s hurried prescriptions.

“Dear Son,” That part was usually easy. “You are missed. From your last letter we suspect you will be in England by the time this arrives. Well, Augusta is really caught up in the war effort with scrap iron and paper drives all around. In the evening we can hear machine guns being tested at Augusta Arsenal. The echo bounces around the whole Hill area. Yesterday two large tanks wound their way up Kings Way to the Arsenal for whatever they do to them. Must involve armament of some kind. You wouldn’t recognize Daniel Field with its sandbagged anti-aircraft guns, but the assortment of military aircraft would likely take your interest. Wrightsboro Road between Highland and Buena Vista is closed off as part of the airport. Two or three times a week, bombers make practice runs over the city at night. It’s something to see the search lights light up their bellies. Mother is leaning over my shoulder right now telling me to stop writing about such things. None of it sits well with her, as you might expect. So on a lighter and brighter note, the company will have its most successful second quarter in history. Lord, that it was due to something other than war! Now Pearl’s in here and wants to convey her love. She gets all choked up when she cleans your room and she hasn’t cooked decent pancakes since you left. A man can’t even write his own letter! I see your mother busy at one and I’m sure it will be more informative on the important things. Please remember to write her. Every morning after her devotional time she goes to the window by the door and straightens and presses the little flag with its lone blue star. God bless you, son! Love, Dad.”

His mother’s letters were always long, giving every piece of information possible on things important from the female perspective. But he treasured them. The Augusta Chronicle and Augusta Herald would hold a poor second to her coverage of community happenings. And as always, she closed with a verse from the Holy Bible that would marvelously capture the thoughts of her heart and prayers for him. Sleep would come slowly this night, for the mission was much on his mind. He marveled at the timing of the letters because later, as he lay in the lonely darkness, they alone possessed the wherewith to distract his mind. It was the thoughts of those he loved that finally lulled him to sleep.

Hours later, from his cozy cocoon, Matt grew increasingly aware of light and sound. Someone tugged at his leg, and he could feel the covers sliding down his chest. The sudden chill sent a quiver through his body and he instinctively chased the fleeting blanket. “What . . . what the devil?” he stammered at his attacker.

Chuck’s face came into focus. “Duty calls, oh great warrior! It’s 0400.”

Having won the tug of war, Matt wrapped himself in the blanket and sat on the side of his bunk. His first thought was to con someone into swapping bunks with him because his was certainly not the warmest spot in the hut. Straining to keep the cool air from seeping under his wrap, he shuffled to the nearest of two sources of heat. There, a recent spade full of coke was finally taking...