Goodbye Mickey Mouse

5 Captain Charles B. Stigg

Officers’ Club

280th Bombardment Sq. (H)

Cowdrey Green

Norfolk, England

Dear Jamie,

You get your five bucks! I’ve never been happier in my life. These guys are friendly and the Group Commander (‘Call me Porky the way the rest of them do’) plays the trumpet in the dance band. He also slams his B-24 down onto the runway with the kind of bang that reminds me of Cadet Jenkins, but it’s just his style, I guess.

This Group has taken a beating, and there are plenty of hair-raising stories told when the beer flows. But they’re good boys—I feel so old! We’ve got kids here who only shave once a week, but good guys. No backbiting and none of that gossip that the staff of you-know-where enjoyed so much. And I got a great crew—instead of duds from the replacement pool I took over a ready-crewed ship when they lost their pilot. He got VD (in Norwich, the Flight Surgeon says, and we got a tub-thumping lecture complete with colour slides that made two or three of the guys go outside for air!).

Good ship too. Nearly new and the crew all like her, which is a plus. Top Banana she’s called, so look out for us over Hunland.

It looked like we were going today, but while we were all trundling round the perimeter track it was scrubbed. Can’t think why it took them so long to decide. I could hardly see the red flare from where the Banana was sitting—five hundred yards away. What an anticlimax! And two ships damaged when wing tips touched on the taxiway. Porky put up a notice saying, ‘Goosing big birds on the apron is a privilege restricted to officers of field grade.’ Of course all the guys love him.

Tomorrow I take my crew for ditching practice in the unheated water of the municipal swimming pool. In December? War is hell. So today I’ve spent the unexpected leisure improving my bridge game at a cost of four and a half pounds and putting a little scotch into my bloodstream as protection against tomorrow’s swim. And writing drunken letters (like this) home. I sure wish you were with us, Jamie, it would make everything perfect. What’s happening at Christmas? Looks like I won’t be OD or get any duties. How are you fixed?

Your pal,

Charlie

6 Captain James A. Farebrother

Jamie Farebrother read Charlie’s letter for the fifth time. Then he folded it, together with the five-dollar bill that was inside the envelope, and placed it in his billfold like an amulet that would protect him, not from evil, but from misery.

What could he write in reply? How could he describe this tent city in the monsoon season, and the red-nosed, rheumy-eyed bums clad in ragged oddments of GI uniforms? What was there to say about the overworked comedian who was in command, or the unfriendly Exec, or MM, the Flight Commander, who seemed to be twitching himself into a nervous breakdown? Perhaps it would all come right when the sun came out, and these mud-spattered planes began operations, but it wasn’t easy to visualize.

Flying the well-worn Mustang Kibitzer provided Jamie’s only happy moments and there weren’t many of them. The weather did not improve. The big black hangar doors were shut and clanking mournfully in the wind. Flyers sat for hours in the Club, and got in each other’s hair, bickering like children kept in after school. There were only a few brief breaks in the monotonous grey days. Apart from some local flights MM had arranged to make sure that his new flyer was able to take off in pairs, keep formation, and get down in one piece, there had been only one scheduled flight in seven days. The group went in formation across country to Yorkshire but encountered unpredicted thunderstorms that couldn’t be penetrated. The Mustangs came back to the base from all points of the compass. There were no casualties, but two pilots landed at other airfields.

Kibitzer had engine trouble on the return. Farebrother nursed her home carefully, and MM, Rube and Earl stayed with him, but when Tex Gill ran her up that night she purred sweetly for him.

‘She’s a whore!’ Tex said of Kibitzer. ‘A heart of gold, but you can’t depend on the old bitch.’

Colonel Dan was not pleased with the group’s crosscountry flight. He assembled the pilots in the briefing room that afternoon and chewed them out for nearly an hour. The Exec sat on the rostrum with his arms folded and head up, his eyes focused on some far corner of the ceiling. It was a pose meant to be both heroic and contemplative.

Colonel Dan was never still; he went striding up and down, hugging himself and flailing his arms, shouting, whispering, threatening and promising, and stabbing his finger angrily at his resentful audience.

MM sat behind Farebrother at the back of the room, with Rube and Earl on either side of him. ‘More training,’ said MM in disgust. ‘I can smell it coming.’

‘That’s only Yorkshire,’ said Rube. ‘With long-range tanks we’ll be trying to find our way back from Austria. Imagine the chaos!’

‘We’ve got to get Farebrother a new ship,’ said MM. He put a flying boot against the back of Jamie’s seat and nudged it hard to make sure he was listening. ‘One jalopy like that in the flight could get us all written out of the script.’

There was a Betty Grable movie being shown on the base that evening and the house was packed. There wasn’t much drinking at the Officers’ Club bar. Highly coloured accounts of the chewing out Colonel Dan had given his pilots soon reached the senior NCOs, and in the Rocker Club the sergeants argued bitterly about the merits of their charges. There was a fistfight outside the Aero Club and a jeep was stolen. The Exec sighed; these were all signs of lowering morale. Colonel Dan agreed.

‘I came over here to fight a war,’ sang a pilot named ‘Boogie’ Bozzelli, playing the piano at the club that evening. He improvised a tune to carry his words. ‘All I’ve done since getting here is duck the weather. Can I have a rain check, Colonel, and come back next summer?’ Colonel Dan was not amused. He picked up his drink and moved away from the piano.

The feelings of frustration were not relieved when, in the small hours of the next morning, the sound of aircraft engines—synchronized Merlins—circled the base ceaselessly until the Duty Officer switched on the runway lights. The noise woke everyone up. Farebrother opened the blackout shutters of his bedroom and saw Rube and MM fully dressed outside. The eastern sky was streaked with the pink light of dawn. The night air blew in like a gale. Farebrother closed the window and went back to sleep.

Next morning there was an RAF Lancaster parked on the apron. It was a big matt-black four-engine bomber. A noisy crowd of GIs were gawking at it and taking photos. Its crew—seven sergeants—were treated like visitors from Mars. Thaxted’s only aircrew mess being in the Officers’ Club, the RAF men were eating breakfast there when Farebrother arrived. MM waved to him and he took a seat at MM’s table, chosen to provide a close look at the British flyers.

Perhaps the sergeants were uncomfortable at being cast adrift on an ocean of officers, for they were shy and uncommunicative. They’d been to Berlin that night and lost a section of tail plane and a chunk of wing over the target. The pilot was a grey-faced boy of about twenty, and the rest of them looked like undernourished schoolboys. These flyers who fought by night were pallid and withdrawn by comparison with the noisy suntanned extroverts which US Army selection boards seemed to prefer as crews.

Mickey Mouse never stopped fidgeting with the salt and pepper and tapping his fork against the tablecloth. ‘Look at those guys,’ he said, indicating the bomber crew with his fork. ‘The British have been fighting too long. They’re tired and low.’

‘Maybe you’d be tired and low after a night over Big B without fighter escort and half your tail missing,’ said Farebrother.

MM gave him a sly grin. ‘We’ll be finding out soon,’ he said. ‘With these new external gas tanks we’ll be able to fly our ships to Cairo if the brass dream up a reason for it.’ He used the tip of his tongue to search out a piece of ham stuck between his teeth. ‘Paper gas tanks. Sounds like they’re carrying the metal-saving campaign too far, right?’

‘Will they come off the shackles when I jettison?’ said Farebrother.

‘You’ve got something there, pal.’ MM turned in his seat for a better view of the RAF men. ‘One of the topkicks asked the Limeys to stick around. There’s some kind of celebration in the Rocker Club tonight.’

‘And?’

‘They want to grab some gas and get back to their squadron. Look at those kids, will you? Are we going to look like that by the time we are home again?’

‘Did you hear the radio this morning? The RAF lost thirty heavy bombers over Germany last night. Thirty crews! Sure they want to get back, to see if their buddies made it.’

Lieutenant Morse got to his feet and said, ‘I’m going into Cambridge on my motorcycle, want to come?’ Morse’s black mongrel, Winston, crawled out from under the table and shook itself.

‘I’ve got some letters to write.’

‘So can you lend me five pounds?’ MM drained his coffee cup while standing up. Farebrother passed him the money and MM nodded his thanks. ‘So they went to Berlin last night,’ he said enviously. ‘You get headlines going to Berlin. No one wants to know about the flak at Hannover or the fighter defences at Kassel. But go to Berlin and you’re a headline.’

‘And you want to be a headline?’

‘You bet your ass I do. A kid at school with me was on a sub that sank a Jap ship. The town gave him a parade. A parade! He was a hashslinger on a pigboat. He never even finished high school.’

The Officers’ Club bar was a gloomy place, most of the blackout shutters permanently fixed over the windows. Farebrother found a corner of the lounge, and despite the noise of the men fixing up the Christmas tree in the hallway, he began writing a letter to his mother.

‘Can I get you a drink, sir?’ It was one of the British waiters, a completely bald, wizened man, bent like a stick and flushed with that shiny red skin that makes even the most dyspeptic of men look jolly.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Farebrother.

‘You won’t be flying today, sir,’ he coaxed. ‘The rain is turning to sleet.’ Farebrother looked up to see wet snow sliding down the window glass fast enough to obscure the view across the balding lawns to the tennis courts. Over the loudspeakers came a big-band version of ‘Jingle Bells’ on a damaged record that clicked.

‘It’s too early for booze, Curly. The captain wants a cup of coffee.’ It was Captain Madigan—Farebrother recognized him from the night journey on the truck from London. ‘None of that powdered crap, real coffee, and a slice of that fruitcake you sons of bitches all keep for yourselves back there.’

The bald waiter smiled. ‘Anything for you, Captain Madigan. Two real coffees and two slices of special fruitcake, coming right up.’

Madigan didn’t sit down immediately. He threw his cap onto the window ledge and went across to warm himself at the open fire. When he turned round he kept his hands behind him in a stance he’d learned from the British. ‘My God, but this must be the most uncomfortable place in the world.’

‘Have you tried the Aleutians or the South Pacific?’

‘Don’t deny a man his right to grouse, Farebrother, or I’ll start thinking you’re some kind of Pollyanna.’ He bent over to remove the cycle clips from his wet trousers. ‘I suppose you’re sleeping in a steam-heated room here in the club?’

‘I’m in one of the houses across the road.’

‘Well, buddy, I’m in one of the tents that blew down last night. There’s clothing and stuff scattered over three fields. The mud’s ankle deep in places.’

‘There’s a spare bed in my room.’

‘Whose?’

‘Lieutenant Hart.’

‘The one who was shot down over Holland?’

‘Lieutenant Morse told me Hart had an ulcer.’

Madigan looked at him for a moment before replying. ‘Then let’s keep it an ulcer.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘Lieutenant Morse isn’t really a fighter pilot,’ said Madigan. ‘He’s a movie star, playing the role of fighter pilot in this billion-dollar movie Eisenhower is producing.’

‘You mean he doesn’t like talking about casualties?’

Before Madigan could reply the loudspeaker was putting out a call for the Duty Officer.

Farebrother said, ‘It’s room 3 in house number 11. Dump your things in there and wait till you’re kicked out. That’s what I would do.’

Madigan slapped Farebrother on the shoulder. ‘Farebrother, you are not only the greatest pilot since Daedalus, you’re a prince!’ Madigan repeated this to the waiter when he arrived with the coffee and cake. ‘I’m sure you’re right, Captain Madigan,’ said the waiter. ‘And thanks for the toy planes.’

‘Aircraft-recognition models,’ Madigan explained when the old man had gone. ‘What do I need them for in the PR office. He’s giving a party for the village children next week.’

‘You’re a regular Robin Hood,’ said Farebrother. He gave up the attempt to write to his mother and began to drink his coffee.

Madigan remained standing, searching his pockets anxiously as if he was looking for something to give Farebrother. ‘Look,’ he said as he relinquished the search. ‘I can’t find my notebook right now, but you haven’t made any plans for Christmas, have you?’

‘I figured we might be flying.’

‘Even the sparrows will be walking, Farebrother. Look at that stuff out there. You don’t need to have majored in science to know that the Eighth Air Force birdmen are going to be having a drunken Christmas.’

‘And what about the public relations officers? What kind of Christmas are they going to be having?’

‘London is a dump,’ said Madigan, sitting down on the sofa and giving Farebrother enough time to consider this judgement. ‘And over Christmas, London will be packed with big spenders. Not much tail there for a captain without flying pay.’ Self-consciously he touched the top of his large bony head. There wasn’t much hair left there and he pushed it about to make the most of it. ‘I’ve got the use of a beautiful house in Cambridge over the holidays. See, Farebrother, I was determined to get out of this hellhole.’ He smiled. It was an engaging smile that revealed large perfect white teeth and emphasized his square jaw. ‘You stick with me, pal. I’ll fix us up with the most beautiful girls in England.’

‘What about your engagement?’ said Farebrother, more to be provocative than because he wanted to know.

‘The other night…what I said on the truck, you mean?’ He leaned forward and smiled at his mud-caked shoes. ‘Hell, that was never really serious. And like I say, London is too far to go for it.’ He drank some coffee and patted his lips dry with a paper towel—a delicate gesture inappropriate to a two-hundred-pound man built like a prizefighter. ‘I fall in love with these broads, I’m sentimental, that’s always been my trouble.’

‘I’m glad you told me,’ said Farebrother. ‘I would never have figured that out.’

Madigan grinned and drank more coffee. ‘Two of the most beautiful broads you ever saw…’ He paused before adding, ‘And fuck it, Farebrother, you can pick the one you want.’ He looked up as if expecting Farebrother to be overcome by this selfless offer. ‘One thing I’ll say, buddy, you’ll never be sorry you fixed me up with a decent place to sleep.’

Farebrother nodded, although he was already having doubts.

It took Captain Vincent Madigan the rest of the day to move into 3/11. He had water-soaked possessions stored all over the base as well as an electric record player and a small collection of opera recordings that he brought from his office. The musical equipment was placed on the floor to make room for a chest of drawers Madigan had obtained in exchange for cigarettes. The top of the chest was reserved for Madigan’s photographs. Apart from a picture of his mother, they were all of young women, framed in wood, leather, and even silver, and all inscribed with affirmations of unquenchable passion.

Farebrother re-examined Vince Madigan. He was a burly, amiable-looking man with thin hair, His nose was blunt and wide like his mouth. Although seldom seen wearing them, he needed spectacles to read the print on his record labels. Was this really the man who had won declarations of love from such beautiful young women? And yet who could doubt it, for Vince Madigan did not treat the photos like trophies. He never boasted of his exploits. On the contrary, it was his style to tell the world how badly the opposite sex treated his altruistic offers of love. By Vince’s account, he had always been unlucky in love.

‘I’m just not any good with women,’ he told Farebrother that evening while turning over a record, and totally disregarding the pounding noises coming from the unmusical occupants of the next room. ‘I tell them not to get serious…’ He shrugged at the perversity of human nature. ‘But they always get serious. Why not just be friendly, I say, but they want to get married. So I say okay, I want to get married, and wham—they change their mind and just want to be friends.’ He used a cloth to clean the record. ‘Sometimes I think I’ll never understand women. Sometimes I think these goddamned homos have got something, buddy.’

‘Is that right,’ said Farebrother, who hadn’t been listening. He’d been reading and rereading the same passage of the P-51 handling notes. Under it there was tucked a thick wad of regulations, technical amendments, orders and local restrictions. Reading it all through and committing it to memory would be a daunting task. ‘I’m not sure I’ll be through learning all this stuff by Christmas, Vince.’

‘You’re too darn conscientious, buddy. Who else in this Group, except maybe Colonel Dan, has waded through all that junk?’

‘I’m a new boy, Vince. They’ll be expecting me to screw it up.’ He riffled through the pages. ‘And to think I quit law school to get away from this kind of reading!’

‘Man can’t escape his fate, Farebrother.’

‘How’s that?’ said Farebrother, puzzled by the tone of Madigan’s voice.

‘Man can’t escape his fate,’ said Madigan. He was smiling, but in his eyes there was a look that told Farebrother that this was the kind of joke that isn’t a joke. ‘Isn’t that what Mozart is saying in Don Giovanni? Every one of us is trying to be some other kind of person—your pal Morse, for instance—in fact, half the guys who joined the Army just wanted to escape from themselves.’

‘What have you got against MM?’

‘Aw, he’s just a pain in the ass, Jamie.’ He put the record on the turntable but didn’t start the music. ‘Each new officer who checks in, I give him a questionnaire so I get parents’ names and addresses and details of any relatives who work in newspapers or radio. It also has spaces marked “Education”, “Hobbies” and “Civilian occupation”. You know, you filled one out. It’s only so I can use it for publicity. Morse fills his out to say he’s got a degree in engineering from Arizona State. You’ve only got to talk to the guy to know he never finished college…’