Book IV Page 6

  The night was getting chilly and he knew winter was on the way. Funny, he thought, I just left August and here it is October. He smiled as he thought again, Even funnier, I left in 1940, then 2011 and I’m here in 1918. A sudden blast from the steam whistle snapped him out of his dreaming as it announced the ship’s departure.

  Before long, John watched as they glided past the Statue of Liberty, then Coney Island, followed by a spot of land that would become Floyd Bennett Field. He threw an imaginary salute at his future base and went below deck.

  The other bed had a limp body in it. John said quietly, “Hello. John Brand, Captain, U.S. Army. How are you feeling?”

  A pale face appeared from beneath the brown army blanket. Wild dark hair was matted across a damp forehead.

  “Major Frank Duffy, Signal Corps and sick as a dog, John. I’m probably gonna die right here on this dang boat before I get to the trenches.”

  “Want me to get you some dry crackers or something, Major?”

  “Uuughh, no,” Duffy moaned as he turned over, “thanks anyway. I’m just gonna die here tonight.”

  John laughed to himself, as he got ready for bed. The ship’s rolling motion kept Frank awake but put John to sleep right away.

  Most of the trip saw John reading all he could about the flying tactics of the day, and thinking of how best to incorporate the World War One and his era into a winning combination. He went over one point constantly. How can I slow the Spad down when the Fokker is on my tail? I’ve got to let him overshoot and slide in front of me so I can get on his tail. But how?

  He tried working out that problem during his trip to France, which turned out to be sixteen days long because of submarine scares. He exercised daily with the other troops and ate in the ship’s chow hall. The food’s terrible, but there’s plenty of it, the saying went. He also joined the troops at the stern of the ship as they shot at bottles they threw overboard, sharpening his marksmanship at bobbing targets.

  Because Major Duffy hardly ever left the cabin and John wanted fresh air, they hardly ever talked.

  Finally, at two on the afternoon of November 6th, they docked at Le Havre, France. John shook hands with a visibly weak Frank Duffy and they parted ways as John joined the other troops leaving the ship.

  Near the dock, he went to the Military Assignment Center. He again showed his travel orders to a sergeant who pointed him to a French-built truck that was going to Le Petit Quevilly Aerodrome.

  “From there, Cap’n, ya’ll can git a flying machine to the Ninety-Fourth group stationed at Toul,” he offered as he spit a long black slug of tobacco juice into an empty shell case. “Private Dillon,” he called to the driver, “ya’ll got a passenger ta take up ta Le Petit Quevilly.” He turned back to John and said, “Jus’ throw yer bag in the back o’ the truck, Cap’n.”

  The driver waved him over to his truck and John threw his bag in the back.

  “Say, Captain, will ya give me a hand startin’ her up?”

  John found himself with a hand crank in front of the truck.

  The private waved and shouted, “Now, Captain, crank her now.”

  John cranked the hand crank around three times and the engine started in a puff of blue smoke and wild vibrations. He hopped in beside the private who didn’t seem to use the clutch as he shifted, and with a lurch, the truck trundled off at a fast pace for its day.

  One hour later it started to rain. The truck’s cab had a canvas roof, which they unrolled from the back and attached to the top of the windshield. But the plastic side windows were missing so John and the driver sat as close to each other as possible to stay out of the rain that pelted them from both sides. The deepening mud started to slow the truck down just as they reached Le Petit Quevilly Aerodrome.

  John thanked the driver, grabbed his bag and ran into the operation’s tent. He noticed it was leaking inside, almost as much as it was raining outside. A group of men sat around a potbelly stove that was trying to heat the damp tent.

  A sergeant sitting on his cot, which was pulled close to a large and very, nicked and scratched wooden desk looked up, “Evening, Captain. Passing through?”

  John shook the rain off his hat and answered as he moved close to the stove, “I was told I could hop a flight up to Toul.”

  “The Ninety-Fourth?”

  “Yes,” John nodded, “the Ninety-Fourth.”

  “Going up to interview Rickenbacker?”

  John looked perplexed. “Interview him? No, actually I’m going to fly with the group.”

  “Excuse me, Captain,” said the sergeant, “but why? The war’s almost over but the krauts can still kill ya.” He looked up at the tent’s ceiling then checked a slip of paper attached to a clipboard and continued, “Mostly just Army Public Relations officers going up there these days to talk to him.” He ran a finger down the list on the paper and said, “If it lets up, Lieutenant Reese will take a Bristol two-seater up there to pick up some recon film they have for headquarters. You can grab the back seat. Have you ever used a Lewis?”

  “Yes, but not on an aircraft,”

  “No problem. If a Hun does show up just spray it at him to keep him off balance until Reese can find a cloud to duck into.” He pointed to a coffeepot atop the stove. “While you’re waiting, grab a mug and have some coffee.”

  John smiled as he realized that no matter the date was it was still the same U.S. Army, and it lived on coffee.

  He poured himself a cup, and walked around taking it all in. At first he felt conspicuous in his new uniform while all the “old hands” were in worn and sometimes tattered uniforms. But, he thought as he looked around, I’m here! I’m really back here! This is great. To be with the guys who defined air power, the legends that pushed aviation forward. This is fantastic! He sat on an empty ammo box and watched as pilots and mechanics came and left the tent, grabbing coffee or doing paperwork. Except for the cut of their uniforms, this could be any airbase in 1940, he thought as he sipped his drink.

  Two mugs of coffee later, a short, thin man with a huge red handlebar mustache who was napping on a cot, stood, stretched and casually strolled over to the tent flap. He poked his head out then turned back inside and said to the group, “Think I’m gonna give it a try, guys. Don’t want to wait ‘till it gets dark.” He looked at John and with a shrug said, “Captain, I’m Reese. Still want to take a hop?”

  John jumped up and grabbed his bag, “Sure do. Got room for this?”

  The pilot nodded, “Sure, in the camera bay. It’s empty.” He threw John a well-worn leather flying helmet, goggles and gloves. He pointed to a fleece-lined flying coat hanging on a peg on a tent pole. “You can borrow that, Cap’n. Sorry, we’re outta flying boots, I think someone sold it to the Frenchies for some wine.” He rolled his eyes as more than one pilot laughed.

  Reese walked outside and John followed him into the light rain as he tried to get the bulky clothes on and step around the mud puddles at the same time. The pilot waved to a mechanic sitting inside a hangar. The mechanic frowned as he pulled his jacket over his head and ran with them to the aircraft. Reese opened the side camera bay and John stuffed his bag in, then climbed into the back of the two seat aircraft and strapped himself in.

  He noted the Lewis machine gun was facing the rear and was locked down and covered by a tarp. Under the cockpit opening were three drums of ammunition strapped to a wooden brace.

  The pilot got in the front cockpit and the mechanic went to the front of the aircraft, grabbed the propeller and shouted, “Contact!”

  Reese threw a switch on his console and shouted back, “Contact!”

  The mechanic pulled the prop through a turn and the engine sputtered and died. He pulled the prop through again and was rewarded with a pop, and a belch of smoke. The engine didn’t catch and Reese cursed anything he could blame for having to fly in this weather. The mechanic tried again and the engine suddenly caught. The spinning prop sent rain, fumes and castor oil back into their faces getting more curses
from the pilot.

  Reese nursed the Bristol’s engine while it rumbled and shook as it warmed up. He inched the throttle forward and the aircraft started to move ever so slowly. It was the muddy field that made the going sluggish, and John saw mud flinging past as the prop blew it back. Finally, after rumbling down the mud and waterlogged grass field, the tail came up, followed by less bumping, then they were off and climbing for altitude.

  John wiped his wet goggles and looked down at the trenches as they flew over them. He couldn’t believe how torn up the entire area was. It was pockmarked with shell holes that were mostly filled with dirty water. Another thought hit him, Boy! It’s damn cold up here! They don’t close down the war because of rainy weather . . . no, this isn’t like a training hop. He tried to get lower in his cockpit and avoid the wind and rain. It didn’t work. The rain pelted and stung his face and the icy water trickled down his neck.

  They skimmed low to stay under the clouds and suddenly Reese began frantically pointing upward. John looked and saw another aircraft off to the right at a slightly higher altitude. He looked at Reese who was pointing at the Lewis still locked down. John suddenly understood what the pilot was shouting about, a German aircraft was setting up for a run at them.

  He quickly unlocked the gun, threw the tarp away and grabbed a drum of ammo, only to watch it float away from his grasp as Reese dipped his aircraft lower. John used both hands on another drum, only to have the unlimbered Lewis machine gun swing around and hit his arm, causing him to drop it out of reach down in the aircraft’s belly. He fumbled with the clasp that held the last drum attached to the aircraft and finally, in desperation, took off his bulky gloves only to watch as they flew out of the aircraft.

  Suddenly three holes appeared in the canvas between him and Reese. At first the time traveler was perplexed, then shocked as he realized the little holes were made by the German’s machine gun bullets.

  My God! He thought, as he frantically grabbed the last drum while trying to stabilize the Lewis and see where the enemy aircraft was, all at the same time. He inserted the ammo drum into the chamber and scraped his knuckles on the charging handle as Reese suddenly dived even lower.

  They now skimmed over barbed wire entanglements and rusted hulks of destroyed vehicles. Finally, John saw where Reese was pointing and found the Hun’s aircraft in a slight dive toward them. The enemy could only perform a shallow dive because they were so close to the ground and John tried to get his sights on him. Reese was jinking and dodging, left and right, making it impossible for John to draw a bead on the enemy airplane who was intent on shooting them down. Reese suddenly slid the aircraft so they were flying side-by-side for a fraction of a second giving John a good shot.

  Suddenly, John remembered, Hey! I can’t kill this guy! I’m not allowed to kill anyone who didn’t die in this war and I don’t know if this fellow made it or not. He calmly squeezed off a few shots of fiery tracer shells at the German’s tail and was surprised to see him climb up and away.

  John was puzzled until he realized, Heck! He doesn’t want to die either, especially this late in the war. He tried to unwind, but as he looked at his hands he realized his knuckles were white as he gripped the Lewis. Wow, he thought as he scanned the sky, will I be able to pull this off? There’s so much going on at once. It’s not like grading some air cadets for formation flying: this is the real thing! He shook his head as Reese dipped the nose again making John apprehensive. Does he see something I don’t? He thought craning his neck around.

  Then it seemed to all unfold at once. Straight-ahead was an airfield. The hangars popped up suddenly as he discerned the camouflage from the background. Tiny Spad fighters were parked all around the field, some taxiing, some being worked on and a few in the landing pattern.

  Reese greased the two-seater onto the slick grass runway and got out, lighting a cigarette as calmly as could be. John sat in his rear seat totally fatigued and wet with sweat and rain. A mechanic walked toward him looking to see if he was hit, so John hopped out as nimbly as possible. He opened the hatch which had two more holes drilled through it, retrieved his bag and stuffed the flying clothes in it before securing the hatch.

  Maybe they won’t miss the gloves. He thought as he walked toward the operation’s tent. His legs felt rubbery and he cringed as he walked on shaky legs. Damn! He thought, just like I tell my recruits, combat is dangerous stuff. But now I truly know it is! He removed the flying coat and noticed two huge sweat stains beneath his armpits.

  Following his pilot into the operations tent, he was struck once again by the informality of the men, and the smell of mildewed canvas tents and clothing. Most were dressed in old flying clothes as if they had just come back or were going out on missions.

  As usual it was a sergeant who seemed to be running the place. The bushy-haired young man looked up from his paperwork and said, “Hi, Captain. Can I help you?”

  “He’s from Air Training Command and is gonna fly with you guys,” said Lieutenant Reese as he gulped down a mug of coffee in the corner. “He’s a pretty darn good shot too, boys. Kept a Hun Fokker fighter off my tail.”

  I did? John thought handing the sergeant his orders.

  “Looking to get some combat time, huh, Captain?”

  John nodded, “The brass thought it’d be a good idea to get some combat experience to pass on to the boys back at Air Training Command.”

  “Well,” said a tall captain who had walked into the tent,” then you better hurry up. The Boche seems to be runnin’ out of gas.” He stepped forward and offered his hand. He was dressed in a brown Army uniform with a Sam Browne belt strapped across his chest, “Captain Eddie Rickenbacker,” he said, “I’m the commander of the Ninety-Fourth Squadron.”

  John shook his hand and said in awe, “Captain John Brand. Pleased to meet you, sir. I’ve read lots about you.”

  “Lies, John, all lies,” Rickenbacker said with the big grin he was known for. “The Public Affairs Officer likes to make sure the Army Air Corps gets to look good in the papers.” He waved an arm around the tent as he continued; “These are the people who keep the Corps in the good light. They’re flying sunup to sundown trying to catch the Hun before the sport disappears.” He motioned to the tent flap and said, “Sounds like the brass have finally come up with a good idea. Come with me. I’ll see to getting you a spot to put that bag down, and we can talk about getting you up there with us.”

  They walked in the light rain across the muddy path on wooden boards that threatened to sink into the mire. Rickenbacker seemed to know everyone’s first name and acknowledged them all, while throwing easy salutes in return.

  They got to another tent, smaller than the first, with four cots surrounding a potbelly stove. John noticed the many damp patches in the ceiling of the tent.

  “Sorry about the lack of permanent structures, John, but we keep moving around a lot and this is what we have to live in right now.” He pointed to an empty bed and said, “Throw your bag there and follow me to the hangar.”

  John dropped his bag, and they were out of the tent again, once more following the planks to another, larger tent, with the words ‘MAINTENANCE’ painted on the front.

  This tent had partial wooden structures supporting the canvas ceiling. As they walked in, the smell of gasoline, mingled with castor oil and grease, permeated the dank air.

  Rickenbacker took a deep breath and said with a smile on his lips and his eyes shut, “Smell that Captain? That’s the smell of an exhilarating form of movement . . . flight! This is what makes us so different from the ground-pounding soldiers.” He held his arms out straight and continued, “Don’t get me wrong. We need them and couldn’t make it all work without them, but flying is the thing. And we couldn’t leave the earth without the miracles our mechanics perform every day in keeping the kites airworthy.”

  John nodded and said, “I couldn’t agree more with you there, Captain.”

  Three mechanics were working on a Spad and John walked closer
in awe. He touched the side and Rickenbacker asked, as he spotted the love John had in his eyes for the nimble fighter, “So, John, how many flight hours do you have?”

  The time traveler suddenly thought, I couldn’t tell him I have over nine hundred and thirty hours. He’d look at me like I’m crazy. “About two hundred and forty-six,” he answered.

  “And what’s the reason,” Rickenbacker asked, “that Air Training Headquarters sent you way out here to possibly get your head shot off so late in the war?”

  “Actually, to tell you the truth, it was my idea.” John said continuing his cover story. “I told them it’d be good to get some real combat time so I can pass it on to the students and they agreed. But I just wish I’d thought of suggesting that earlier.”

  “So, you wanted to get in the scrap sooner?”

  “Whoa, did I! I tried everything I could think of. But, no, they wanted to keep me in Air Training Command. That is until I gave them the idea of imparting real combat experience to the students. Then, of course, it became their idea.”

  “Ha! I know what you mean.” Rickenbacker said as he slapped John on his shoulder, “Well, first thing tomorrow morning, you and I go up for a test flight. How many hours do you have in a Spad?”

  “Four,” John lied.

  “Not to worry,” answered the commander, “it’s like riding a bike. If you flew one type, you’ll catch on real fast to this baby. Anything else? I have some paperwork I have to do before I turn in.”

  “I just want to get some chow, but I have one request.”

  “Sure, what’s that?”

  “Tonight I’d like to take apart the Vickers machine guns that will be on my Spad, and give it a good cleaning. Along with the bullets.”

  Rickenbacker laughed and once again slapped him on the back. “Ha, that’s just like me. I like to take care of the things that I don’t want to fail at a crucial moment.” He nodded and said, “You got it.” He pointed to an officer working in the tent’s corner. “Go see Lieutenant Belli, our armament officer, and tell him I said it’s okay. Now, I have to run. The orderly will wake you at four. We want to get in the air before the sun comes up.”