Barry Blake of the Flying Fortress Page 4
CHAPTER FOUR
LIEUTENANT RIP VAN WINKLE
Chick’s actual elimination from basic training school did not occur fora few days. Captain Branch’s recommendation had to be confirmed by theStage Commander, who first flew with the unhappy cadet in a final test.His report, duly filed with those of Chick’s instructors and his FlightCommander, must be reviewed at the next meeting of the eliminationboard. All this took time.
On the evening before Chick was to hear the verdict, Barry and Hap madea special effort to cheer him up.
“Being ‘washed out’ is no disgrace, fella,” Barry told him. “It doesn’tmean that you’re kicked out of the Air Forces—only that you can’t be apilot. You’ll get your officer’s commission just the same, in someother classification. So why worry?”
Chick’s homely face cracked in a wan smile. He had not regained hisnatural color since the ground-loop that wrecked his plane. Thefreckles stood out more plainly than usual on his snub nose.
“I hope you’re right, Barry,” he said huskily. “It’s only ‘under thehood’ that I go to pieces. Ever since that time I got the itch in theLink Trainer, instrument flying gives me the jitters. If it doesn’tcarry over to advanced training school....”
“It won’t, Chick,” Hap Newton assured him stoutly. “What course haveyou picked for a first choice—Photography, Navigation, orCommunications? You’re better than most in ‘buzzer’ code. Why don’t youask for the advanced course in radio?”
“That would be my second choice, Hap,” Enders replied. “Bombardment’smy preference, though. Next to being a pilot, I’d like to dish it outto the enemy in big, explosive chunks. I’ve already told CaptainBranch. He’ll put in a good word for me. And, listen, you bums! Don’tthink I haven’t appreciated the way you’ve helped. A man’s got no rightto be downhearted with a couple of friends like you.”
The next day Chick came into the room with a broad grin.
“Bombardment school for me!” he announced. “I’m leaving tonight. Theboard didn’t question Captain Branch’s recommendation. Now it’s allsettled, I’m almost as happy as if I’d passed all my pilot tests. Onlything I hate is leaving you fellows, and—and the grand bunch ofofficers that we’ve had here at the Field. They tried to make me feelas if _they_ didn’t like to say good-by, either.”
“They meant it, Chick!” Barry Blake exclaimed softly. “Student pilotsaren’t just so much grist through the mill—not as our teachingofficers see us. They’re real and personal friends of each cadet who’llmeet them halfway. It’s a big honor to know men like that!”
Parting with Chick Enders was a hard wrench for his roommates. As heboarded the bus for San Antonio that evening, they realized that theymight be seeing him for the last time. In a world war of many frontsonly a rare coincidence would bring them all together again.
“Happy landings, you goons!” Chick gulped as he gripped their hands.
“Pick your targets, fella—and remember us when you’re droppingblock-busters on Tokyo!” Barry replied.
“Yeh, we’ll be right behind you with some more of ’em!” grinned HapNewton, as the bus door slammed shut.
* * * * *
A few days after Chick’s departure for bombardier school, graduationseparated the two remaining roommates. Barry, whose cool, quick brainand steady nerves would have fitted him for either fighter orbombardment flying, was allowed to choose the latter. Hap Newton’s onehundred and eighty-five pounds removed him automatically from thepursuit class. Recommended to twin engine school at Ellington Field, hesaid good-by to Barry in the Flying Cadets’ Club in San Antonio.
“We’ll keep in touch, Hap,” Barry promised. “And there’s just a chancewe’ll meet up before this war is over. Keep eager, you stick-mauler!I’m taking off for Kelly Field now!”
“Set ’em down easy, you old sky-jazzer!” Hap smiled. “If you don’t,I’ll come along and lay an egg right on your tail assembly.”
Barry Blake strode away with a lump in his throat. He’d have to getused to parting with good friends, he told himself. The Air Forces werelike that. Sometimes a flier had to watch his squadron members torchdown under enemy fire. That was a lot tougher than shaking hands forthe last time, with a grin and a wisecrack. Time to lay a new course,now—for Kelly Field and a pair of silver wings!
* * * * *
For Barry, the nine weeks at Kelly Field passed even more swiftly thanthose at Randolph. His acquaintance among his fellow cadets widenedconsiderably. Yet, perhaps unconsciously, he avoided making friends sointimate that good-bys would be painful.
From training planes he graduated to handling the steady, reliable B-25bombers. Taking off, flying and landing these medium bombers presentedproblems quite different from those he had met at Randolph Field. Barrycaught on quickly. Gathering every scrap of skill he had ever learned,his mind “sensed” the right maneuver, the correct touch on each control.
_Barry Learned the Correct Touch on Each Control_]
“You’re cut out for a Fortress pilot, Blake,” his instructor told him.“You’re naturally methodical. At the same time you’re as quick to graspa new emergency as any cadet I’ve ever seen. Tomorrow you’ll shift tothe old B-17. She has no tail turret, but for training purposes shehandles like the newer types.”
Barry was more thrilled than he cared to show. Since pre-flight school,he had envied the pilots who flew the big flying forts—the famousB-17F’s. When the hour came that he actually sat at the controls of hisFortress, he knew beyond all doubt that these were the ships for him.The quadruple thunder of the bomber’s 4,800 horses was sweeter in hisears than a pipe-organ fugue.
First, in the co-pilot’s seat, he learned the exact touch needed on thethrottles, the turbos, the r.p.m. adjustment, to keep the wingedgiant’s airspeed constant. This, for accurate bombing, would be a mostimportant factor. Next, he learned exactly how to follow the Boeing’sP. D. I., or pilot director indicator, which kept the ship straight onher course with not the slightest change of altitude, while thebombardier sighted his target.
His final lessons included setting down and taking off on small, roughfields. Under war conditions many a bomber pilot has escapeddestruction by knowing just what his ship can do in a pinch. BarryBlake was now as ready as any training school could make him.
What he longed for now was actual combat—the take-off before dawn on areal bombing mission—the swift descent on the enemy city, camp, orconvoy—the blasting of his bombs on the target—the sight of enemyfighter planes falling apart before his ship’s guns.
But where would it be? Europe, Africa, the South Pacific, or theAleutian chain?
Barry had hoped for a few days’ furlough after receiving hiscommission. A week at home would be like a taste of paradise afterthese seven crowded months. Even five days with Dad and Mom and the kidsister would be worth the heartache of saying good-by again. Yet, atthe last moment, he learned that this was not to be.
Like a flooding tide the mighty crest of America’s war effort wassweeping everything before it. More planes than ever were needed at thefighting front. More planes were going there—and that meant morepilots. Twenty-four hours was the limit of Barry Blake’s time at home.
It was all like a dream. Walking up Craryville’s old main street, Barryfelt like a beardless Rip Van Winkle. He had left there a green kid ofeighteen. Now, an inch taller and ten pounds heavier, he passedneighbors who didn’t know him—until he spoke. And, speaking to them,he hardly knew himself. Professor Blake’s gangling offspring, who’dbeen the high school valedictorian, who had jerked sodas on Saturdaysin the corner drug store—what had that self-conscious kid in commonwith Lieutenant Barry Blake, pilot of multi-engined bombing planes?
There was Mom and Dad. He’d never be different to them, or they to him.To the kid sister, he was a hero, of course, but Betty was onlyfourteen. She’d changed, too, in the past seven months. Barry wonderedwhat in the wor
ld she’d be like when he came back again, after the war... if he _did_ come back. There wasn’t time for such thoughts, though.Half of his twenty-four hour visit was gone already!
When the train pulled out of Craryville next morning, Barry the highschool kid was only a dim memory in the mind of Lieutenant Blake. Hisorders were to report at Seattle, Washington, where he would join thecrew of a new B-17F as co-pilot. It was better, far better, to keep histhoughts fixed on that. Otherwise, recalling the good-bys just endedwould be a bit too much to bear.
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