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Authors: Marie Bostwick

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BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
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28
Morgan
New Guinea—July 1944
 
“
G
ood morning, gentlemen!” Major Hatch boomed as he strode into the briefing room. We jumped to our feet.
“At ease,” he said.
Chairs scuffled and squeaked amid a murmur of quiet laughter and commentary as the pilots of McDonald's 475
th
Flying Squadron regained their seats. When the room was quiet, the major cleared his throat and looked at his clipboard.
“Just a few announcements. Things are looking pretty quiet today, but there have been reports of enemy activity in the area. We're sending some of you out to do a little recon. Lieutenants Glebe, Glennon, and Sundell, have your men ready to go immediately after we finish. Nash and Grisholm, you and your men will be heading over the Jefman Island.”
The major squinted at the clipboard and smiled. “Let's see. For all you bookworms, I've got a note here from the morale officer. We have recently received a complete set of the
Hardy Boys Mystery
series, a donation from the Ladies Benevolent Committee of the First Presbyterian Church of Warren, Ohio, which is the hometown of our own Airman William Jennings.” A wave of laughter swelled in the room as the major nodded to acknowledge Airman Jennings, the newest and youngest pilot of the 475
th
, who sat blushing on the front row.
A taunting voice from the back of the room yelled out, “What? They didn't send any
Nancy Drew
?” and drew a fresh rumble of convivial mirth.
“All right. All right, you clowns. Settle down. And Jennings,” the major said to the embarrassed airman, “when you write home, please thank your mother and the ladies of the church for their generous donation. And let them know that Collingsworth back there would appreciate it if they could send some copies of
Nancy Drew
as soon as possible.” Hatch smirked and waited a minute as the jokester, Collingsworth, endured a round of raucous whistles and catcalls.
“Also!” he boomed again, in a voice that demanded and received the full attention of the squadron, “we will be entertaining a special guest for the next few days. Mr. Charles A. Lindbergh.” As soon as he said this, the room started buzzing with a ripple of whispered comments. Keeping his eyes on the clipboard, Major Hatch raised his hand to demand quiet and continued reading.
“In addition to being a retired colonel in the Army Air Corps, Mr. Lindbergh was the first man to fly across the Atlantic Ocean and holds countless other records and firsts in aviation. He has been making a tour of bases in the Pacific in his capacity as a civilian technical assistant. He will be accorded officer's privileges. However, you will refer to him as Mr. Lindbergh. He will be here for the next few days, to give you gentlemen some valuable instruction and insights on flying the P-38.”
The murmuring resumed, but this time murmurs were liberally sprinkled with griping. Next to me, an airman whispered to his buddy, “He's going to tell
us
how to fly the P-38 better? I've got one hundred and sixty hours in my plane so some old codger who used to fly biplanes in the olden days is going to tell me how to fly my aircraft? What's he going to tell me about my ship that I don't already know. He must be forty years old!” The major shouted the men back to order.
“Hey! Listen up!” The men settled back down. “As I was saying, Mr. Lindbergh will be speaking to us about this subject of vital interest in this room tomorrow at nineteen hundred hours. I have no doubt that you will all give him your complete attention and utmost respect. Your attendance is mandatory.” The room was silent as the major looked around the room, scanning the faces of the crowd to make sure he had been understood. He was.
“Thank you, gentlemen. That is all.” Hatch lowered his clipboard. The room erupted with the sound of chairs scraping on floors as the squadron rose respectfully to their feet again, but the second the major was out of earshot, the gripe session resumed.
“So whose bright idea do you think it was to bring some old codger in to lecture us on the latest in aviation technology? What a waste of time!”
“Yeah. What's Lindbergh supposed to know about aerial warfare that we don't? When's the last time he was in a dogfight?”
“He's got some nerve coming here after all that America First business, traipsing around the country and going on the radio to tell everybody we should stay out of the war because if we didn't, we'd get our butts kicked by the Germans!”
“You got that right! Why should I listen to some guy who thought the Krauts were better pilots than the boys in his own country? You know, he lived over there for a while, too. The German government even gave him some kind of medal. Whose side is he on, anyway?”
“Yeah. My old man said that Lindbergh was just a coward, and that's why he wanted to stay out of the war.”
The rumble of complaints continued. Somebody finally said, “What do you think, Morgan?”
I shrugged. “I don't know. Maybe he's got something worth saying and maybe not. But since it's a mandatory meeting, my opinion doesn't matter a whole lot one way or the other. I figure I'll give him a chance. The man flew across the ocean alone, with no radio, in a plane that, today, you and I wouldn't want to rely on to get us to Port Mooresby and back. And he did it after he'd seen scores of other pilots die trying to do the same thing. Whatever he is, he's no coward. And I'll bet half of you decided to become pilots because of Lindbergh. I know I did.”
The guys were quiet. Maybe they were remembering sitting in a darkened theater as they watched the Movietone newsreel of a small, lonely plane with
Spirit of St. Louis
emblazoned on the nose, loaded so heavy with gasoline that it bounced as it lumbered down the runway, lifting unsteadily from the ground, barely clearing the telephone wires before flying off to a future that was very uncertain at the time. Maybe they remembered the anxious waiting for word of the young flier's fate or reading Will Rogers' column while they waited: “No attempt at jokes today. A ... slim, tall, bashful, smiling American boy is somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean, where no lone human being has ever ventured before. He is being prayed for to every kind of Supreme Being that has a following. If he is lost, it will be the most universally regretted loss we've ever had.” Maybe after reading that, they'd knelt down next to their beds that night and asked God to take care of Charles Lindbergh. Maybe they remembered the conclusion of those nail-biting thirty-three-and-a-half-hours, lying on their stomachs in front of the radio with chins resting in their hands as they stared at the glowing dial of the Zenith and heard the ecstatic reporters telling the world that the Lone Eagle had landed, or the solemn conversations of grown-ups as they discussed the wonder of it and how the world would never be the same, or seeing the morning editions with a three-banner headline trumpeting “Lindbergh Does It!”
Maybe they'd even gotten to see him in person as he rode through the streets of New York City, sitting tall in the back of an open car, showered by ticker tape and adulation. Maybe they had been part of the crowds that came to greet “Lucky Lindy” during his eighty-two-city victory tour, sitting on a strong pair of adult shoulders so they could catch a glimpse of their hero in the middle of the throng. Or maybe, like me, they'd actually been lucky enough to meet him in person, even if it was only for a few minutes.
But one thing was certain, in one way or another, every pilot in that room was connected to Charles Lindbergh. He'd filled our dreams and our imaginations and inspired us with visions of what a man could achieve if he was willing to put everything on the line. He might be against the war. He might be over the hill, but he was still the Lone Eagle, the hero we'd all dreamed about when we were kids, and in a few hours we would be sitting in the same room with him.
We stood there with our hands in our pockets, the atmosphere silent and thick with memory until finally one of the guys blew out a long, low whistle and said what we were all thinking. “Damn! Can you believe it? Lindbergh is coming here! Ain't that something?”
It sure was.
 
My wing had to fly recon that day, so I wasn't around when Lindbergh landed, but by the time we returned from our mission, the base was buzzing with news. Lindbergh had actually flown a mission to Jefman Island. They didn't see any action on the island, but on the return trip they had shot up a few Japanese barges. Jefman had uneven terrain, which made good cover for the boats. Spotting a barge hidden between two hills near the coastline, Lindbergh skimmed over the top of the first ridge, clearing it by only a dozen feet, strafed the unfortunate enemy vessel, and then banked hard left to clear the other hill, all at 250 miles per hour, leaving a burning barge in his wake. It was an impressive performance, and before long everybody was talking about it. Clearly, the old boy still had it.
The next day I had a chance to see him in action for myself. This late in the war, with Japanese resources dwindling rapidly and the battle for air superiority going so well that we rarely faced much opposition, the higher-ups had decided to start loading our P-38s with thousand-pound bombs, trying to put some extra pressure on the enemy.
Our mission that day was to fly to Noemfoor Island, drop our bombs, and get home, engaging in a few strafing runs along the way. This was only the second bombing mission for the 475th and my first, so I was a little anxious to begin with. When I was informed that Mr. Lindbergh would be flying with us, that feeling intensified. I think the other guys felt the same.
He was waiting in the ready room when we arrived. I stepped forward and introduced my men.
“Nice to meet you,” Lindbergh said. “Since we're going to be flying together, maybe you'll want to drop the mister. Call me Charlie.” His casual manner put everyone at ease.
“Thanks, that'll be fine. Glad to have you with us. I'm the section leader, Lieutenant Glennon. Morgan Glennon.” His smile faded, his eyes widened slightly, and he looked at me without saying anything. The silence was awkward.
I cleared my throat. “You probably don't remember, but we've met before. It was in Oklahoma City during your victory tour. I was only about four years old. My grandparents drove all the way over from the panhandle, where I'm from, just so I could see you. Grandpa pushed us all the way to the front of the crowd. You actually waved me forward and talked to me for a while. You even let me climb into the cockpit of the
Spirit of St. Louis,
and then you autographed a picture for me.” Lindbergh was still quiet, looking at me, and now the men were looking at me, too.
I didn't know what else to do, so I laughed uneasily and said, “If I hadn't already been set on becoming a pilot, that would have clinched the deal for sure. I still have the picture. Probably you did the same thing at every stop, picked out some lucky kid to talk with, but it meant the world to me.” Lindbergh smiled, but said nothing. I cleared my throat and shrugged. “Like I said, you probably don't remember it, but I sure do.”
He spoke, and when he did, his voice was a little hoarse. “Actually, I remember that day very well. It's nice to see you again, Morgan.” He shook my hand with a firm grip. I felt stupid. I was sure I'd just made the biggest fool of myself, going on and on like some star-struck fan, but Lindbergh was gracious about it.
“Well,” I said sheepishly, “it's an honor to have you flying with us today, sir.” He gave me a look. “I mean, Charlie. I'll be on your wing. We'll be coming in right behind a bunch of A-20s, trying to finish off any targets they miss. On the way home, we'll do some barge hunting. This is our first bombing run, so I hope we don't embarrass ourselves too much.”
“Same here,” Lindbergh said modestly.
“All right, then,” I said, nodding to my crew. “If you're ready, gentlemen? Let's hit the trail.”
 
The day was fine and bright, but there was a wind coming out of the east. We were covering a dozen A-20 bombers. They buzzed into Noemfoor like a pack of clumsy, fat bumblebees, dropping their loads and inflicting serious damage, leaving the enemy runway that was their target cratered and useless.
Our targets were the hangars next to the airstrip. We circled above, waiting for the smoke from the A-20 bombs to clear so we could see the target. Jessup went in first, but he miscalculated, and his load dropped into the jungle, far from the mark. Garrison, was next and he didn't fare any better. There was a lot of cursing traveling back and forth over the airways. I broke in and tried to settle things down.
“All right, guys, cut the chatter. You both waited too long to release. Garrison, you've to get in there lower and then power out quick. You'll get it next time,” I assured them, though I was as frustrated by their performance as they were. If none of us hit our targets, it would mean a whole six-hour mission wasted, not to mention that we'd look like a bunch of rookies in front of one of the greatest pilots of all time, who would undoubtedly report our incompetence to the brass. “All right, Charlie, you're next.”
BOOK: On Wings Of The Morning
5.07Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
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