“Christ ... let me think ... a real gook name ... Homer ... Halbert ... Remus ... something like that. Freshwater.”
“Goldwater?”
“No ... let me think ... we sent him a citation. Drinkwater! Clarence Drinkwater!”
“Get back to Headquarters, find out where he is, and get him over here.”
Clarence Drinkwater, auto wrecker and junk dealer from Atlanta, Georgia, was approached the next afternoon in his yard by a man from Air Force Intelligence.
He was very happy because he spent his days cutting up junk with a torch and was pleased to know that his rare talent was needed. He packed an extra case of chewing tobacco for he always needed a chaw to help him concentrate.
Twenty-four hours later he arrived in Germany at the Hanau Engineer Base into the waiting arms of Clint Loveless, who nearly broke into tears watching Clarence begin cutting up rock crushers, graders, bulldozers, and all the heavy machinery needed to make new runways in Berlin.
Big Nellie sat in Hiram Stonebraker’s suite listening to the general explain the mountain of new projects that had been initiated to support the mission. Work had begun on rail lines, highways, airstrips, dumps.
A spare-parts base had been established outside Munich at Erding; MATS announced the first Skymasters would be on the way from Hawaii and Alaska and Tokyo and the Caribbean, and the President had authorized the call-up of ten thousand reserves.
“I’m hoping to be able to give the order to stop the cannibalization of the Gooney Birds. It is still a great old craft and I hate to see them lose their integrity. If we intend to airlift Berlin ...”
“Excuse me, General. What did you just say?”
“I said, if we intend to airlift Berlin ...”
“Airlift ... my God ...”
“Never thought much about it.”
In his column, Nelson Goodfellow Bradbury told America that a new word had been given to the English language by the rightful father, Hiram Stonebraker. It would capture the imagination of the world.... The word was Airlift.
Chapter Twelve
HONOLULU
Master Sergeant Nick Papas, a sizable and burly man, made into Tiger Quong’s Gentleman Bar in Pearl City. Tiger was weary, making motions of mopping the bar, waiting to close. He poured Nick a beer. Nick chug-a-lugged it.
“Where’s the sleeping beauty?”
Tiger pointed to a tiny office off the hallway. Nick entered. Captain Scott Davidson was passed out cold, sprawled on a cot. Nick had been looking for him all over Honolulu when the Tiger chased him down by phone.
He stared down at the captain. “Christ, what a sorry-assed sight,” then brought Scott Davidson up to a sitting position. He was like a limp rag doll. Nick slung an arm over his shoulder and dragged him into the men’s room, where Tiger was waiting with a bucket of ice water. The frigid dousing stunned him from his reverie.
“You son of a bitch,” Scott moaned, “you son of a bitch. I’m sick ... I may die ...”
“Go in the can, stick your finger down your throat, and vomit.”
“Goddam you, Nick. You’ve got no respect for rank.”
“Puke already. Tiger’s tired. He wants to go home. I want to go home.”
After Scott did as he was told, he recovered enough of his senses to study his sorrowful appearance in the mirror.
“You better get some sleep. You’re due at the CO’s office at 0730. There’s flak up we may be flying out to Germany.”
“I can’t go back to the base looking like this.”
“I’ll take you to Cindy. She’s been looking for you.”
“Did she find me?”
“No.”
“Then let me sleep at your place.”
“I said, she’s waiting for you.”
“With a pickax. I can’t take any of her static tonight She started me on this bender in the first place.”
“Sure, she’s got a hell of a nerve getting teed off just because you tried to pick up another broad right in front of her ... a married one at that.”
“Nick, you going to let me sleep at your place or not?”
“Come on ... Captain ...”
Nick shoved a fin into Tiger Quong’s protesting palm. The two of them assisted the wobbly flyer into Nick’s car and he drove toward Honolulu, then up to the Pali Hills, where Nick maintained a flat that belied his rank.
Nick Papas had been a flight engineer for fifteen years and remained in the Air Force because it supplied a source of new blood for his card-playing proficiencies. Nick backed a number of enterprises in Chicago’s Greek section staffed by relatives; a bar, a garage, a piece of a laundry, and a small hotel.
Despite his harsh appearance he was a pushover, with deep loyalties to persons other than Greek relatives. He supported the Church heavily and a string of charities from an orphanage to an animal shelter.
Scott Davidson was about his closest buddy. He had flown with the captain for nearly two years, and during the war Nick was there when Scott’s plane cracked up on a jungle runway.
With rough gentleness, Nick helped the captain undress and spilled him into bed. Scott clung to it, groaning, as the room started to whirl.
He folded Scott’s rumpled uniform, pinned a note on it for the houseboy to press it first thing in the morning, then set the alarm and lay in bed mulling over whether or not to call Cindy.
He wondered why bastards like Scott Davidson always tied up with nice girls like Cindy. Nevertheless it was something to watch him wheel and deal. Scott was a sort of alter ego.
“Hello, Cindy ... this is Nick. Sorry to call you so late.”
“Did you find him?”
“He’s at my place. I thought it would be better. I got to hustle him down to Hickam first thing in the morning.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’ll live.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
“Good night, Cindy.”
The next morning, with the help of thiamine chloride and charcoal pills, tomato juice and coffee, and in a rejuvenated uniform, Captain Scott Davidson was able to make a creditable appearance in the office of Colonel Garrett, commander of the 19th Troop Carrier at Hickam Field.
In thirty-six hours Scott would lead a group of eleven Skymasters as chief pilot on orders reading “extended training mission.” The flight plan was Hamilton Field in California to Westover, Massachusetts, to the Azores, and end at Rhein/Main in Frankfurt, Germany. Everything in the squadron would go; spare parts, office equipment, all crews, all personnel. Colonel Garrett said everyone should carry enough gear for two months “temporary duty” in Germany. He confided to Scott that twelve Skymasters of the 20th Troop Carrier Squadron at the Panama Canal and nine
Skymasters from the 54th in Alaska were getting ready for the trip to Germany. A big show seemed to be shaping up.
Scott had to get off his binge quickly. As chief pilot there were stacks of paperwork, briefings, meetings, inspections. Late in the afternoon all personnel were called and Colonel Garrett dropped the bomb with less than twenty-four hours to go. The meeting broke up with a stunned scrambling. Half the men were married, and others deeply committed to the area with apartments, cars, and furnishings. Once the shock set in, a breakneck scurrying ensued to salvage, say farewell, get the squadron ready.
Scott took a last look around the pleasant little studio apartment that stood along the Ala Wai Canal. There wasn’t much for him to take, a few shirts, a change of uniform, some toilet gear. Most of what was there, Cindy had brought and put the touches and frills that made it warm. Scott began to scribble a note saying good-by and asking her to sell his car, his only visible asset. He heard a key in the lock and his heart sank. He was hoping to get away before she came.
Cindy was still wearing the white uniform of a dental assistant. “I was passing by on the way home,” she said. “I saw your car parked out front.” She went to the phone, called her home, and told the housekeeper to go ahead with dinner for the children, she would be in late. And then she saw Scott’s handbag and uniform.