With Strength and Spirit

WITH STRENGTH

AND SPIRIT

by

Frank Ingels

© Copyright 2004 Frank Ingels. All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

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ISBN: 1-4120-3612-7

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Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

References

WITH STRENGTH AND SPIRIT

This is a historical novel, set from 1937 to 1969, of real people who lived many of the adventures told within. It is a story of human dedication, tremendous perseverance, and heroic achievement. You will read about a news broadcast team, Frank and Laura Marshall, in the early days of radio. You will go with them as they travel around the globe seeking to document the turbulent days of World War II, the atomic age cold war, and the conflicts that followed. Their joys and heartaches will be yours to experience as they deal with the greatest technological project of history and the spy that gave it all away.

One of Laura’s younger brothers, Jamie, becomes a key factor in the development of aircraft engines for the Navy. His talents are enormous and lead him into dangerous situations that are unique, but were all too real. His involvement with the Navy’s Special Operations, leads him behind enemy lines more than once. His missions are simple, ferret out the secrets of the German engine technology and the scientists responsible for their successes. Jamie represents many unsung heroes of our nation. His experiences will fascinate you.

Jamie’s wife, Betty, is the emerging business woman during this tumultuous period in our history. She and Jamie built a successful motorcycle business in response to the war needs of America’s allies. Her journey was made with frustration and difficulty as her tenacity and her capability overcame the obstacles which a male-oriented society had created. Her rise to success was in response to America’s needs of the time.

You will live the life of a fighter pilot on both sides of the world as you meet and travel the adventures of Charles, Laura’s youngest brother who joined the Navy on his seventeenth birthday and on the eve of catastrophe. Through Charles’s eyes you will learn the history of naval aviation from the beginnings of World War II and through the development of the jet age. You will fly crisp, exciting combat in the major air battles of The Battle of Britain, and in both the Pacific and the European theaters of WWII and the conflicts that followed, Korea and Vietnam. His maturity, both as a pilot and as a human, will be both your joy and sorrow. That he put all on the line for his nation is so typical of our nation’s ideals. The disappointment he feels at the change in direction of our nation after the Korean conflict will be yours as well.

Only three of the family still survive, all are heroes, one above all. May God Bless this wonderful soul to whom this epic story is dedicated, my Uncle Charles V. Hollingsworth. He spent all the WWII years at sea, on carriers, in the Pacific in nearly all the major battles beginning with the USS Hornet (CV-8) on 7 December 1941. He did receive a wonderful letter from General Doolittle thanking him for pulling the chocks on the General’s B-25 as it took off the USS Hornet for the bombing raid on Japan.

Always in remembrance of Mom and Dad, Elsa and J. Frank Ingels, God rest their souls.

Frank Ingels

WITH STRENGTH AND SPIRIT

This is a work of fiction and hence names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

During WWII several carriers were sunk and new construction was named with the same name in order to create confusion for the enemy. Where deemed necessary a carrier’s numerical designation follows the carrier name to allow the reader to keep track of which carrier is being discussed.

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For information contact the author in care of: The Trafford Publishing Service; Suite 6E; 2333 Government St.; Victoria, BC, Canada V8T 4P4.

Copyright © 2004 by Frank M. Ingels

Cover and Illustrations by Marc Poole

This story would not be possible without the years of support of Mary Kathryn. Born Mary Kathryn Barry, she has been my gift from God as the years have rolled by, and she has stayed by my side as Mary Kathryn Ingels and has willingly typed all my manuscripts and read them all!

As we enter yet another period of our lives together, may God give us all the time we need.

Only Nothing lasts forever, save the Souls of God.

Frank Ingels

CHAPTER ONE

It was one of those indolent tropical days of 1937. An azure sky and a much too brilliant Florida sun beat down upon the sparse buildings on the outside edge of Jacksonville. The line of worn whitewash store fronts typified the slow days of the depression-weary populace with their dusty windows, chipped paint and few paying customers. Standing in front of the plate glass window of the third store from the corner, Charles shuffled from one foot to the other while he thought it over once more. The hot sidewalk warmed his bare feet just a little too much for comfort even at early noon and Charles was coated with a light sweat from the long walk to town over the sand-shell road. A stray cat inspected him for possible food as he hesitated before the recruiting office. Charles knelt down to stroke the cinnamon tiger’s ragged ears as he mulled the arguments he’d formulated these past few weeks.

It wasn’t that his sister, Laura, and her husband, Frank, weren’t good to him. Lord knows they’d done him better than his own and that wasn’t meant to put Mama and Daddy down, with four kids they’d not been able to do any better. Laura had always told him that they’d been rich till shortly after he’d been born. Or at least she thought they’d been rich ‘cause papa, her stepdaddy actually, but Charles’ real daddy, had bought the first motorcar in North Jacksonville. Then the bad times hit, slowly at first, then accelerating.

Laurie, as Charles often called her, said it was the goodness in him that really brought it on. Daddy was a landlord--owned ten houses and two apartment buildings, mostly in the tenements, but not slums, mind you, as she was quick to point out. He always dreamed of having ‘high-toned places’ as he put it and he finally took out bank notes to refurbish all the property and even put in a little park-like playground. She would pause, toying with her silky black hair, then continue, looking straight into his dark eyes, He couldn’t know this depression as they call it was coming on. With half the tenants out of work what was he to do Charles, throw them out? He couldn’t do it. But the bank did it--to them and us.

He’d heard her mutter the word ‘bastards’ even though she’d turned away then, softly crying. Charles couldn’t take her crying like that so he’d start clowning about until she smiled, brushing away her tears with the silky hair that fell almost to her shoulders. He would talk like Donald Duck and prance around to stop her tears then hug her.

Laura was the oldest of the kids. Then there was his older brother Jamie, himself, and Margaret, the youngest, to complete the family. Laura always took care of the younger kids, and with nine years between him and Laura, Charles had sometimes confused her with their Mother.

After Daddy lost everything, Laura would continue on to say, Mama had to get work too. So that’s why you have to do like I say-Mama put me in charge cause she works. After Daddy died of heart failure, Mama had to work.

Charles didn’t understand all of the family history, but he knew Laura loved him best of all and that was enough. Jamie, his older brother by two years, had always been chasing Laura with spiders and snakes and try as he might, Charles could never stop him. Jamie had been built like their Daddy, blond, stocky and tough. Charles and Laura favored their mother, dark and slender. Margaret was light skinned and five years younger than he was. She was gone now, living with their cousins in some place up north. They had taken Margaret when Daddy died, cause Mama couldn’t work with a young baby around, Laura had told him.

When his daddy had died, Charles had been too young to really know what kind of life they’d been living. All he knew was poverty--the kind you had when there was only a Mama to earn enough to feed three kids. He’d never had leather shoes in the summer till he was nine and could earn his own working in the hot sandy Florida orange groves. Laura had cared for him and Jamie during the week. Then on weekends Laura tried to help Mama with the few dollars she could earn at the Atlantic Beach boardwalk east of Jacksonville. She was good at art, but in the depression there were long dreary times between customers.

Jamie had always been tough-minded and independent. At eleven, after Daddy died, he’d taken up working in a motorcycle shop. Then soon he’d managed to piece a motorcycle of his own together, riding Charles around when they weren’t working. Jamie never seemed to understand why his younger brother was so shy. He’d pester Charles to be a fighter and not take any guff off anyone.

But Charles was just not a mixer. He kept to himself and stayed away from any involvement. He’d learned early that they were poor and that others, especially the older ones and the grownups, would make trouble for you. Laura had always defended him to Jamie, saying he was the more sensitive of the two and that Jamie ought to stick up for him more. Jamie’s retort was always the same-You can’t fight his battles for him, sis. He’s gonna’ have to learn to do his own.

Charles guessed he’d always been frightened of life and that’s why he learned to make jokes, to play down what little he’d done. It was safer if you weren’t noticed or if you were noticed, to be low key about it. Anyhow, it seemed he’d always been the one to hang back, sort of like the runt of the litter. And hungry and dirty! Why, wasn’t everybody just a little hungry and wearing ‘religious clothes’, the ones with holes here and there? He’d not known anything else. Of course he saw some who lived good, but then their daddy wasn’t dead and their mama ‘strange’, as the grownups put it. Charles had always resented that, them calling his mama strange. It was the one thing that he’d fight about, that and anything bad said about Laura. But mostly he kept to himself. Charles lived life in his dreams.

That’s why it had been so great when Laura married Frank two years ago. He’d let Laura bring Charles with her to live. For the first time he’d remembered, Charles ate three times a day and slept alone. Mama had liked it too because Jamie had joined the Navy right around then and she’d been able to live a little better herself. Frank was a distinguished looking man, tall, slender and dark-haired in a Rudy Valentino way. He was a radio man--he talked on the radio, did news and local shows and stuff. He had one of those voices that exuded knowledge and commanded attention. He was the best announcer WJAK had. Laura told him that Frank had built the first radio receiver in Jacksonville when he was a kid. That was before Charles could remember ‘cause Frank was almost twenty years older than he was. He liked Frank, called him Mr. Frank, and tried to be interested in the radio ‘e-lectronics’ as it was called. But Charles had no head for the technical stuff, and he couldn’t stay interested in it.

He did work sometimes down at the station where Mr. Frank had got him on parttime. He even got to keep most of the money but Charles felt bad about not being able to help more than he did, five dollars a week didn’t go far. He didn’t try school again though. Laura and Frank both tried to get him to go back, even to those night classes, but he just didn’t like it. After getting one of those general high school diplomas, he quit. Frank tried to tell him how important schooling was and how his own fourth grade education was holding him back. Charles saw the sense of it but Mr. Frank was the smartest guy he ever had known, even if he’d only gone to four grades. Laura told him that was because Frank studied all the time to improve himself, but Charles thought it was because Mr. Frank was a genius and Charles knew that he himself wasn’t. Anyway, after Jamie had joined the Navy that became Charles’ goal as well. Jamie kept writing him to ‘get smart’, they teach you stuff, things you can use to make a good wage. They feed good too, Jamie had told him.

So now it was time and Charles rehearsed the speech he had put together to convince Laura. It would have to do--he was sure it would, the recruiter had helped him make it up and he’d thought it over all week long. It was time.

The door was heavy on it’s hinges and it creaked slightly as he entered into the almost empty room with two desks and chairs, some wall posters hung on dingy green walls and a broken down couch. They saved money by using the same office for both the Army and the Navy they’d told him. The Army guy was real nice, talkative and friendly--more so than the Navy recruiter, but Charles had never wavered, it was Navy all the way.

He walked purposefully to the desk manned by the grizzled looking Chief. He stood still and as tall as his slender young frame could in the shadow of the ceiling fan’s revolving paddle blades while he waited a few seconds for the stern faced sailor to speak. Instead, the man slid a set of papers from a folder, pushing them towards him across the cluttered desk.

So you decided huh? Sit down and sign where the X’s are, he’d said gruffly. Then take them home and get your sis to sign them by the O’s. When you bring them back, bring a set of clothes and shoes if you got ‘em. The salty older man looked down at Charles’ dirty bare feet and slowly shook his head. We’ll run you over to the doc’s for a physical and if you pass, you’re in!

The recruiter leaned back and grinned. Under the white tunic sleeve hitched part way up the man’s wiry brown forearm Charles saw a tattoo, some sort of sea snake it looked like. And his teeth were crooked but no cavities showed. The man was almost threatening but Charles stood his ground. Jamie had told him the Navy didn’t need people as bad as the Army did right now, so you had to be one of the best to get in. Charles wasn’t sure he was one of the best but he wanted in and his test scores had impressed the recruiters. You coulda’ gone to college, you know, the Army guy had told him.

No money, Charles had simply said. He didn’t tell him he thought he wasn’t smart enough.

He swallowed one hard swallow, sat down and took the pen from the recruiter. The end was wet with ink which blotted the paper and stained his fingers. His hand shook as he tediously scrawled his name, ‘Charles V. Hunter.’ He held his breath and tried to write neatly. Finished, he silently took the papers and left, saying nothing for fear his voice would betray him. He hurried home, moving from shade to shade, keeping his bare feet moving fast enough not to burn, the sweat building from the past-noon-day sun this first day of May, 1937, the first day of his seventeenth year.

Charles winced as his sister’s plaintive voice penetrated the tense atmosphere of the kitchen.

There’s a war coming on and you’re only just seventeen. At least you could wait a year. Laura’s voice and eyes pleaded for him to heed her wishes, but Charles wouldn’t waver. He turned to Laura’s husband, Mr. Frank, you understand, don’t you? I need to get started doing something on my own. Jamie’s doing OK, even got a couple of stripes now. I’ll be just fine, and they’ll teach me something. He held his breath and waited for Mr. Frank’s answer. The rattle of the dinner pots was quiet as Laura, standing by the kitchen’s small gas stove, waited as well. The room held the three of them, but not comfortably as the table and three chairs took up most of the room. It was hot even with the back door and side windows open and the silence was almost too long before Mr. Frank spoke.

Frank nodded sympathetically, Charles, Laura’s right about the possibility of war, you know. Things in Europe are not going well despite this latest accord given Herr Hitler. Charles noticed the sarcasm in Mr. Frank’s voice at the mention of the German Dictator. It’s my business you know, the news and analyzing it, it’s what I do, finished Frank.

Charles’ heart sank at the words. Laura would never sign the papers at this rate. He looked around the small home Frank had provided. It was one of the new tract houses, small but clean, and in a safe part of town. But it confined him. He wanted out--out to see the world, places he’d only heard of, and he wanted to be on his own. It wasn’t that he didn’t appreciate what they’d done for him but he was old enough now not to be a burden, and he knew with Laura in a family way it was going to be tough enough for Mr. Frank to support another mouth.

I know what you’re saying, Mr. Frank, but I just gotta’ do this. It’s, it’s time, if you know what I mean. Charles couldn’t say it any better but he hoped Mr. Frank would see it.

Let’s think about it overnight, said Frank, we’ll talk at breakfast. Things this serious shouldn’t be hurried. He smiled at Charles, patting him on the back. Hey, the Navy’ll still be there tomorrow, okay?

Charles nodded, he saw the relief in Laura’s eyes, but he knew he couldn’t back down, not now. He’d find a way to convince her.

Later, in their bedroom after their baths, Laura voiced her concerns to her husband. But he’s so young and vulnerable. Laura couldn’t shake the feeling of impending doom. She saw most things from a perspective of fear and resignation despite an outward show of strength and resolve. She looked at Frank across the muslin sheet, damp with the air’s humidity despite the slow breeze of the oscillating fan. Couldn’t he wait another year? Then he could join on his own.

Honey , the boy’s mind is set, you can see that. He’s thought this through and he’s ready. If we stymie him now, what will he do this next year? Just mark time until he can go on his own. No, I agree with him. If war does start, being in already and maybe with some rank by then would be best. And he does say he’ll take all the schooling they’ll give him. His test scores were surprisingly good, so he’ll qualify for the best choices. Frank fell silent as they lay in the dark. He could feel Laura’s warmth radiating in the humid night. He heard her worried breathing.

Finally she spoke in a hushed voice. I’ll sign in the morning, she said in resignation. They fell silent then, holding hands like lovers walking the darkened shore of a lonely beach, falling at last into a dreamless sleep.

Jamie held the single sheet letter towards the dim light bulb hanging from over the kitchen table and read the letter from Laura once more. So Charles had really done it he thought. Damn, he muttered. He worried, Guess I should have been more truthful about it all. Well, the kid brother is old enough to learn life the hard way, he thought. Besides it was true they fed you good and taught you well. Hadn’t he learned air-cooled engine mechanics? And after he finished the Navy school on aircraft engines, he’d started his own little business on the side repairing motorcycle engines, Indians and Harley-Davidsons, mostly. He planned to buy and sell used ‘motors’ as they called them till he could afford to be a dealer. Right now it did offer a side income that was welcome to a married man with two kids.

Jamie was mentally and emotionally tough, even to the point of being hard-bitten. They’d been poor when he was young and he’d only known poverty despite Laura’s claims that they’d been rich till he was three. Living by the wrong side of the tracks had been new to Laura maybe but it was all he’d remembered. He’d learned to protect himself and his brother and sisters from the other derelict kids in the neighborhoods. All his life he’d been a fighter--had to be--and he’d learned well. After he’d turned twelve, no one messed with him or his.

When Jamie was nine, he’d been real lucky to find a part-time helper’s job. It was cleaning parts for a man who repaired motorcycles. Only seven blocks from where he lived, it was perfect, affording him some time away from the tiny railroad house and his mama and Laura and Charlie. At the shop, Jamie soon became responsible for cleaning all the motorcycles before they were repaired. Cleaning meant washing off the grease and oil using the owner’s special ‘gunk’ recipe of kerosene, gasoline and soap. The sounds and smells were heady perfume to Jamie who relished the power of the loud exhausts.

After a full year of working there, the owner had let him start cranking the smaller engines and occasionally ride from behind the storage fence to the shop. Then, seeing the fascination that the machines had for the youngster, the man had offered Jamie heaven-he’d told him one day, Jamie, you see that pile of old parts over there behind the fence?

Jamie had nodded and answered, Yes sir. His spirits had sagged at the mention of the ‘bone yard’ as he had visions of having to clean each and every piece of junk. But the next words he heard were like manna from heaven.

You can have whatever you can find there to make up one motorcycle. The man had put a grimy, weathered hand on the shoulder of the slim youngster. It’s not much I’m offering, but maybe you can get a rider out of that mess.

Jamie had only swallowed and nodded. Nobody had ever treated the Hunters this good in his memory. To be set loose in a pile of parts, why some might not appreciate it but Jamie sure did. He just knew he could do it, could be the proud owner of a ‘riding machine’.

It took him over a year to assemble a set of parts for the frame and handle bars, wheels and engine, down to even the myriad of nuts and bolts needed. But he’d done it. Sure, some parts were from Indian motorcycles, some from others, but most were from old Harley-Davidsons. When he finally got the hybrid pile of parts together and cranked the engine for the first time, Jamie had smiled the first ear to ear smile the man had ever seen on the serious young boy.

From that day on he’d been in love with speed and power. The ‘Harley D’ as he called his collection of parts was some good runner. Jamie had put a bigger than normal engine in a lightweight frame. No one in town could beat his ‘Harley D’ in a two block race. For a few years he’d even raced at the summer races, several times beating all the small machines and most of the bigger ones. Then he’d met Betty, a tanned, dark haired, blue eyed slip of a girl, and love of another kind had taken over. They’d married and soon after Betty was pregnant with what would become the twins. Faced with no other skills to earn a living, Jamie had lucked into a chance to join the Navy. At one of the races a Navy recruiter had approached him. His mechanical ability was needed by the Navy the man had told him. The pay was meager but the possible advancement and training attractive. So he’d come home one day and told his now swelling wife of the change in their life.

Nordic blond, stocky, and hard muscled, the others in his unit called him ‘Limey’. Not because he was English, he wasn’t, his ma was Welsh, but because he could be so sour at times. It was a name he didn’t like but didn’t discourage either. If it kept others at bay, so much the better. Jamie didn’t have time for trouble, he had places to go, money to earn, a family to support.

Jamie looked at the letter again. Now his younger brother Charles was in the Navy as well. He supposed he had been responsible for it to some degree. But it was all true, both what he’d written and what he’d told Charles when he was on leave. In ‘35, it had been rough, no real food, no good clothes. His Mother working her hands off trying to feed them after Daddy lost all they had and died-Jamie was sure-of heartbreak. Jamie wished now he’d told Charles of some of the worst as well as the best of the Navy. Still for poor like them it was the best deal going.

But what was CV, as Jamie often called him, thinking about, this flying thing? Didn’t he know only college boys flew in this man’s Navy? Jamie would set him straight on that score right now. The letter he’d written in response to Charles’s announcement said it all. ‘You gotta be college, at least two years. True, once in a while a Chief got to fly for the Navy and the Army took some Warrant Officers in as pilots, but by and large ‘Uncle Sam Wants You to Fly’ meant you COLLEGE boys’. CV had another think coming if he thought he’d get to fly and with a GED, not even a regular high school diploma yet! Jesus, thought Jamie, Charles had never even seen a plane up close.

Jamie sealed and stamped the envelope with his response, for all the good it would do. By the time Laura would forward it to CV, he’d already be in the middle of basic training. He stood the envelope on its edge against the dime store sugar bowl on the only table in the cramped apartment. Betty and the kids’ were sleeping in the adjoining two tiny bedrooms. Altogether the place had no more room than many of the garages he’d seen on fashionable Poinsettia Street in Jacksonville. Still it was better than his Ma had been able to provide. There they’d slept in one room, the boys in one bed, Laura, Margie and Ma in the other. On hot nights, the smell of the women’s wet hair after they’d washed it made him gag. To this day, Betty had to do her hair in the day so it would be dry when he got home.

He sighed, stretched his arms and stood, reaching for the pull chain of the shrouded overhead light. Their apartment was small, it was a little run down, but it was a start. He was saving the cycle repair business money aside as a someday business starter, they lived on Navy pay alone. Jamie was up for his second class Petty Officer rank already. One thing he’d learned quick and Charles better learn as well, you want to get ahead in this man’s Navy, you study, you study hard and you don’t pick easy ratings if you got a choice. Advancement came quicker in the hardest ratings.

The little girl sobbed quietly, her wet tears mingling with the sweat of the hot afternoon in the dark and dingy, slat board kitchen. The mother had vented her frustrations with an emotional and physical outburst against the younger image of herself. Little Laura, torn between love and hate, was confused and helpless to find the way to please. Her Mother was humming now, leaving the slight girl to watch over her little brothers.

Laura woke, shuddering in fear, the nightmare still strong in her mind. Beside her, stirred her husband. Laura rose walking to the open window, standing there looking at the stars through the dark and humid Florida night. Sticky from the too warm air she walked slowly to and fro, creating a tiny breeze to cool her body. The fan hummed softly, rotating over the bed as Laura tried to shake her nightmare.

She picked out her favorite star in the Western part of the night sky. As a small little child--God, had she ever been just her she wondered--she’d dreamed of Peter Pan and far away places. Especially she’d dreamed at night when finally the day was done and her mother and the babies slept. Before her step-daddy had died, Laura remembered how he had been there to protect her, to soothe the mother who was often so distraught with frustration and bitterness. After Mr. Hunter had died, it seemed that no matter how hard Laura tried, her mother couldn’t be long satisfied. When Laura did the house cleaning for her, one day it would be wonderful, the next too filthy. Her mother’s moods were so unpredictable, and in the latter years, so prone to violence towards her. Laura now knew that her mother had been emotionally disturbed, but that didn’t absolve the fear that pushed inside her heart when she thought of those days.

Jamie had been the favorite and had escaped most of the troubles, but Charles would have borne the brunt of it if Laura hadn’t stepped in for him. As a result, she’d taken most of the abuse mentally and physically.

The anguish of those times still lived in Laura’s memory but worst of all was the emotional terror that she’d endured from the tortured woman who had been her mother. Laura prayed to whatever God there was that she’d never become like that tormented woman. But deep within her lay the fear that the daughter carried the seeds of the mother.

To this day she swore that her own children would receive only love and kindness and all the schooling she could give them. They’d know and appreciate her depth of love no matter what.

When Laura had met Frank he had appeared in her vision as she had been sketching one cloudy weekend day on the wooden boardwalk that lay along the beach of the Atlantic ocean east of Jacksonville. He sat for a twenty-cent charcoal, his steel gray-green eyes burning with an intensity she’d not seen before. When she’d finished he had asked her to lunch at the boardwalk diner.

Mesmerized by the tall, handsome, and confident man of the world, she’d accepted. It was mutual attraction and love at first sight for them both. He became her prince in shining armor and it seemed he could protect her from all the world.

Her thoughts turned from the disturbing images of her too recent childhood to wonder of Charles. How was he faring in the basic training? She hoped and prayed he was handling it well.

Of the two brothers she’d been held responsible to care for by her mother, Laura had always been closest to Charles. Jamie, the older, was of a different temperament and the mother’s favorite. He’d always run his own race while Charles stayed close to Laura. Laura felt more of a mother to Charles than anything else and had taken responsibility for him after the family had totally disintegrated.

Now he had embarked upon a path foreign to her and she feared for the sensitive, young boy-man who could sense her needs and clown her to smiles. The words of his last letter replayed themselves through her mind.

Dear Laura and Mr. Frank, he’d written in his tight scrawl, after what we been thru growin’ up, this is doable. I’m seeing the need to learn like you both said. I signed up for an English course right after Basic. The navy thinks I’m gonna be electronics and need better grammar. The test scores in math’s what got me in electronics. But guess I’ll try to get in aviation as well. They’re talking about putting radio in all the planes now, maybe I’ll hear Mr. Frank’s voice. Gotta go, love CV.

Laura guessed he was using the initials to be more grown up. She could only wonder how he was coping with this new world of his, but she knew Charles had inner strength and deep capability to absorb the shocks life had to offer. Oh Lord, she prayed, help the young and the innocent to survive, be with Charles in this, his baptism of life.

She turned to study the sleeping man in her bed. Such a fine human being she’d married. There must be a Lord after all. Deep inside her, the stirring of new life confirmed this thought.

GREAT LAKES NAVAL TRAINING CENTER the sign said. The boy, now turned half man, looked back at the gate as they left the navy station on the military bus. The rickety vehicle, painted navy gray, swayed on the tight curvy road, making it necessary for him to hold the rail of the bench seat ahead of him. In front of him the heads of the other sailors swayed at random. Time had moved by swiftly after the first two weeks of boot-camp. Charles, now named CV by his compatriots, reflected on the main events of his basic training.

He found he could ‘cut it’ in this navy world. He’d learned flexibility and resilience at home, the navy demanded no more than had the early years, only demanded differently. The other event was responsible for a new found resolve to study, learn, and advance. Mr. Frank had tried his best to instill this desire but it had taken something more than any person could have given to awaken in him this new dedication. The stimulus was flight, specifically Naval Aviation flight.

While at Great Lakes he’d seen some trainer aircraft fly overhead and while he had always wanted to fly he’d never seen an airplane for real, only in pictures. The throb of the engines and the freedom represented by them drew his attention like a moth to light. From the first sightings, he knew he had to find a way to fly, but it had taken no more than one inquiry to find out the hard truth. The Navy didn’t really want non-gentlemen flying their aircraft and to be a gentleman meant getting an officer commission. For an enlisted man to obtain a commissioned officer status, a ‘mustang’ officer, was worlds away from their present station of life. Still, if he could get two years of college he could apply. Scuttlebutt had it that the clouds of war in Europe were prompting the Navy to look at their sadly lacking flying corp, especially in light of that Billy Mitchell’s demonstration of a bombing attack on a Naval vessel. They also realized the bi-plane fighters now serving on board the first aircraft carriers were woefully outdated compared to the German aeronautical marvel,the Messerschmidt ME-109, which was being so deadly and so skillfully employed in Spain.

Charles knew in his bones he could learn to fly given the opportunity. He’d vowed to make the Navy do just that in the next two years. Charles realized he would have to be the best he could be at everything he did. The first step was the English school for which he was now headed. After three weeks, he’d move on to the aviation electronics school. It struck him how fortunate it had been that the next electronics course startup was scheduled well after the end of Basic. The opportunity to take leave had been offered but when he found out the English school just fit between Basic and the electronics school he passed up the leave, much as he hated to. He knew Laura and Mr. Frank would understand. There’d be a three-day leave at the end of the English course. Although it was not approved, he thought he could get down to Jacksonville and back in two days, leaving one day to visit.

In the back of his mind, Charles thought of his last year at home in which his sister and her husband had gone to great lengths encouraging him to start self-improvement through night school. He’d rebelled, quietly of course, by continually putting it off. Actually he had been afraid. Afraid of failure, afraid to know how limited his mental abilities might really be. It was the Navy test scores and the basic training that opened his eyes to the breadth of his real capabilities. One instance in particular stood vividly in his memory, an incident that took place about half-way through Basic. He still cherished that memory.

Recruits, ha-tenshun. Right face. Sound off. The staccato bark of the Marine drill instructor cut through his brain like a piercing pain. After four weeks of limited sleep, physical and mental abuse, summer heat and insects, Charles was dredging the bottom of his energies, his spirit lagging. Like many of the others in his training company, he could not fathom another four weeks of this agony. Fortunately the Navy program left precious few moments to think. How like his poor luck to be placed in the one training company, in the one platoon in that company with a Marine drill instructor. It was an experimental program instituted by the Navy to determine if Navy basic training, so different from their auxiliary Marine force, really accomplished their needs. To everyone in the platoon it was pure, unmitigated hell.

His turn came, Twelve, he barked as harshly and loudly as his seventeen-year-old voice could muster. The pain of blisters over his body from chafing straps and boots was accentuated every time he tensed. Counting out required extreme tensing, to his dismay and to the DI’s knowledge. That the DI delighted in these subtle tortures was common knowledge among the platoon. The countdown, so ragged those first weeks, finished its cadence smoothly and rhythmically.

Girls, he sneered, today we see how you stack up compared to the other panty-assed platoons in this frigging company.

Sweat streamed off the recruits and every blink of an eye to clear droplets of sweat brought roars of insults from the DI to stand at ‘ha-tension’ and that meant No--By God-Moving!

The DI’s eyes rolled up in his head showing only the whites of his eyes. Oh God, how did I come to deserve this candy ass group of pukes? Give me real men, give me MARINES!

He looked the platoon over, eyeballing each member. Charles held his breath and froze his eyes, damn the sweat tickling the corner of his eye. But despite himself, he blinked. The DI caught the quick movement.

Hunter, front and center!

Charles felt his spirits flag to the low point of the four weeks. Swiftly he left ranks, marched to the proper position and braced. The DI sneered, then inspected him, seemingly satisfied. Charles knew better and wondered what torture the devil had in mind this time. Well, well, girls. It’s time and you’re all gonna rise or fall with your pretty shipmate here.

Complete silence greeted the remarks. The troops knew better than to respond.

One man from each platoon will compete in a combination of athletic and mental events. Twitchy here is your entry. The DI swayed backwards, roaring in laughter.

You’ll run the obstacle course and recite the general orders, the Bluejacket commandments, and field strip the Springfield, blindfolded, reciting each piece’s proper nomenclature, and handle one surprise emergency drill. You got that, recruit?

Charles responded, Sir, yes Sir! His sore, blistered body reacted in pain, but he held still without flinching. Wildly his mind sought to review the orders, the commandments and the weapon’s pieces. His knees went weak. Holy Jesus, he prayed, help me through this.

Aw-right, everybody hustle over to the obstacle course, pronto. The DI shook his head in disgust, turned away from the shocked recruits and swore to himself. The screwball Navy and their cockamamie ideas. No wonder the Corps got such lousy treatment. Too bad Congress couldn’t see their way to putting the Corps in charge of the Navy ‘stead of the other way around.

The platoon straggled towards the obstacle course with several conversations breaking out simultaneously. The day’s humid heat had greased them all with glistening sweat as the possibilities of disaster were broached. Charles walked somewhat apart until his bunk partner, Bobby Blailock, caught up.

CV, what about it? Can I help you any?

Bobby’s sincerity rang out, but his lack of knowledge was already known to Charles who each night had been diligently trying to drum the Springfield nomenclature through Bobby’s thick skull.

He shook his head no, Naw, best to let me go over what I can remember. Charles looked at Bobby, Gawd almighty, Bobby, this’ll be the end of me with the platoon. Why me? Charles’ face dropped a notch or two. And just when I was beginning to get accepted by the guys, he moaned.

Hey now, CV, you’ll do okay. There’s five other platoons and you’ll hold up pretty good, I bet. Heck, you must be the best guy in the company on the rifle at least. You spent enough time trying to teach me.

Bobby’s optimism was self-founded and failed to encourage Charles who was slowly convincing himself that personal disaster lay ahead.

As the platoon moved towards the competition course, John Dickerson swore under his breath at the pisspoor choice by the drill instructor, Sergeant Owens. That son-of-a-bitch did this on purpose, all right, he complained bitterly to Davey Smith. Damn it all, I’m the best obstacle runner in the platoon, maybe in the company. That Owens just has it in for us.

Davey shook his head in confusion, I dunno, Dickey, as the platoon had nicknamed John Dickerson. You’re the best guy on physical stuff all right, but those commandments and the rifle still give you trouble. I thought it was a bad choice at first too, Dickey, that Owens was just out to get us again. But you know, I think maybe Owens did okay. Why wouldn’t Owens want us to show up good against the other platoons? Davey looked sideways at Dickey whose blustering had almost stopped. Dickey was your man for a fight okay, thought Davey, but not for a thinking contest. CV was your average platoon member on the obstacle course but he’d been the first to memorize the general orders and the other stuff and he’d taught half the platoon how to strip and reassemble the Springfield blindfolded. Yeah, he said aloud to Dickey and several others who’d caught up. Maybe, Davey looked at the others, maybe, just maybe Owens knows what he’s doing.

Davey looked at the others, Hey, CV’s been the best one of us at the surprise exercises, remember? And he’s got the rifle down better’n anyone. Let’s get over there and boost him up, heck we all sink or swim together by Owens’ orders.

The others nodded agreement, it was true, they all had to work together or Owens was on their backs in a hurry.

Charles stood at the starting line as he heard Davey and the others crowd around, Hey, CV, remember how Dickey runs up our butts? Just pretend Dickey’s on your backside.

CV, pull hard on the rope climb and kick your feet.

He’d heard that okay. The rope climb was not his best event. Somehow he’d not really gotten the rhythm of how to scissors kick your legs while reaching up for the next pull on the rope. The other platoons’ representatives were standing by. Each was nervously waiting for the start of the competition. All would run the obstacle course together, that meant getting jostled by anybody near you, maybe getting knocked down-a real free for all. The sun was hot, the sandy soil already irritating the skin where it had infiltrated the clothes and socks. The boots, at last breaking in, felt heavy on his feet and CV wiped the sweaty palms on his buttocks.

Aw-w-right, line up. The order came from the Chief Bosun’s Mate for the training company. It’s simple enough. On the signal, do your best time through the course. You get knocked down, you get up and keep going. The bear of a man glowered at the recruits, eyeballing each one individually.

The starter gun went off suddenly, with no pre-count warning. For one precious second, they all stood in disbelief, then Charles and one other bolted like rabbits running before the dogs at a greyhound dog track. Two steps ahead of the others, Charles and the boy from third platoon ran separated by several feet.

If he could just get to the rope and wall climb before the crowd behind caught them, he figured he could get over the worst of the course without getting trampled. Charles took a quick glance at the other young man. Charles didn’t know him but the kid could run, already he was a foot ahead of him as they cleared the first log hurdles. Charles lengthened his stride all he dared, the heavy boots weighing his legs and feet like clumps of wet mud.

Out of the log hurdles he could hear his breath resounding in his head as the rope and wall climb came into view around the bend. One hundred feet later Charles jumped as high as he could grasping a free rope dangling from the wall. Already the other boy was several pulls ahead of him and the rest of the pack was at his heels. He pulled hard, kicking his booted feet as his platoon buddies had reminded him, Kick, CV, kick. The words from Dickey slipped into his mind through the heavy concentration of working feet and arms, through his loud rasping breath. In his side vision he saw something falling but the total concentration on kick, pull, kick, pull demanded all his attention to keep from missing a beat and falling himself.

At the top he pulled over the wall, scrambling down the rope net, falling the last four feet in exhaustion. Charles rolled away as fast as he could then hustled to his feet, hoping no one would fall on him. He charged towards the last obstacle and not seeing the other boy, wondered if he’d already finished. Clearing the pond for the most part, landing in the edge of the water after jumping from the swinging rope, Charles sprinted, if the stumbling lurch could be called that, towards the finish. He gasped for air as the end came within reach, passed at the last step by a flash of blond hair and thrashing legs. He collapsed into a trembling heap, then felt himself pulled up and pounded about.

God, what a go! CV, you did great-second-wow!

The long arms of Dickey and Davey held him up while the rest of the platoon shouted their encouragement. Hey, boy, Dickey growled, that’s the best you’ve ever done!

Charles looked at him, blinking the sweat drops from his eyes, Just kept thinking of you running me down, Dickey, he stuttered.

Detail, fall in. The Bosun’s Mate’s sharp voice cut through the company’s chatter. Detail, ‘tenshun.

What we got here is a timed event, he went on to explain. On the word go, you shout out the general orders and the commandments. First one through wins. Only thing is if you make a mistake, you got to start over. In front of you is a DI who’ll check what you say. He glowered, Do I need to point out it won’t be your DI?

The rest of the company gathered around so as to hear the competitors. The chosen ones stood at an uneasy attention, each faced by the Drill Instructor assigned to monitor their utterances. The silence that followed the Chief Bosun’s Mate last words built slowly as the hot sun created rivulets of sweat which rolled down the recruits’ faces, necks, and torsos, soaking their thin tee shirts. Abruptly the Chief s gravelly voice commanded, Sound off!

Charles had been reviewing in his mind the starting words of the general orders, trying to imagine how it would feel to quickly mouth the words in sharp cadence. The sudden break in silence caught him by surprise and for a split second he hesitated. The beginning sounds of those about him caused his first utterances to be halting and out of sequence, the broken rhythm stopping his train of thought. Charles paused and restarted. This time the rhythm was good and the words flowed in a steady stream, his mind automatically stepping ahead of the spoken words to fetch the next set in proper cadence. His concentration blocked out the others and he finished unaware if any were still sounding off. He stood quietly staring at the Drill Instructor’s forehead, avoiding his eyes. He noted the affirmative nod of the Drill Instructor indicating he had finished correctly. Only then did he hear the final candidates wind down their recitations.

Chief Bosun’s Mate Woodan called the DI’s to front and center to report. Looking at the stopwatches, they recorded the times in descending order. They then stepped back in line to face the recruits as the Chief came forward to announce the results. His left hand holding the clipboard, Chief Woodan called out the results, Branson-first, Welssley-second, Hunter-third, Brown-fourth.

Charles’ heart dropped a notch, third. He knew his Drill Instructor would not accept that, nor would the platoon. The next event was the last called event--field stripping and reassembling of the Springfield 30 caliber bolt action rifle they all carried during basic training. As the participants moved to the section of the drill field already laid out for the event, the platoon members gathered around to urge him on, CV, come on man, you can make it up.

Hey, CV, it’s okay, you’ll do better now.

The words rang in his ears but somehow he could not shake the cloud hanging over his spirits. The area had been grass at the early part of the summer, but at this time the grass was brown stubble with sandy soil showing through. The cloudless day’s heat had built to its maximum as they approached the olive drab sheet of tarpaulins laid out side by side. On each sheet lay a rifle. Charles wondered if they were to use their own rifle or just one drawn at random from stock. Lining up by their assigned spots, they waited for the start. As the rules had been stated, this would be the last event. The surprise was incorporated in this event, the new wrinkle being the blindfolding. They usually stripped the weapon, laying the parts down in sequence, then reassembling them blindfolded. This time they would start blindfolded. Charles had realized immediately that putting the parts down carefully in some ordered sequence would be a key to the reassembly. At the shrill sound of Chief Woodan’s whistle, he started the process. By being very deliberate about the way he placed each part on the ground cover, keeping the orientation in a left to right manner, he knew he was not going as fast as possible, still he felt the assembly process would more than make up the time lost and it did. He finished seventeen seconds ahead of the next competitor, and while this made up for some of the lost points on the earlier events, he did not finish first overall but a very respectable second.

The platoon had been ebullient and their DI had even seemed fairly happy, although expressing his regrets at losing out to a bunch of swabbies.

A few days later, Charles and Bobby had been crossing the base on a trip to the maintenance bay with the DI’s request for some parts. At first he’d not noticed their proximity to the airfield, nor the sleek yellow bi-planes that descended from the sky that day. Bobby had pointed them out to Charles.

Hey, CV, look it there, pointed Bobby.

Huh? Charles was focused on the maintenance bay building they were walking towards. It looked like an oversized barn painted a dull grey. On top was a weathervane and a limp, ragged-looking, long, skinny sack. Charles, having never actually seen an airport nor even an airplane, didn’t know the skinny sack hanging there was a wind sock used for indicating the direction and speed of the wind to landing aircraft.

Over there, you can just see ‘em and now you can hear ‘em. Bobby’s excited voice raised a few notches in volume as he pointed upwards to their right. Darn, I’ve never seen real airplanes before, only in a newsreel at the movies.

Gawd, aren’t they pretty?

Charles finally found the planes, now growing large enough to see their colors and to hear their engines with their low pitched rumbling sound.

Jesus--sorry, Lord--they look like big yellow butterflies, he commented more to himself than to Bobby. The sun was high and the humidity that day had built into fleecy white clouds billowing high into the sky. The planes, four of them in a loose formation, descended from the heavens back dropped by the cotton-like clouds. They orbited the field once, preparing to land.

Come on, Bobby, shouted Charles, let’s get over there. He broke into a dead run, sweat building from the exertion, but Charles, now captivated by the oncoming aircraft, could only think to get as close as possible to the apparition.

Bobby ran hard to keep up, panting out his concern at their actions, CV, we got to go the maintenance bay. DI’ll get us doing the heads if we get caught.

Nothing Bobby could say could get Charles’ attention. They ran to the edge of the field and saw the second plane touch down as the first taxied towards the large barn like building--the same building they were to go to!

Charles stood enthralled as he watched the last plane bank its wings, cut the engine, and glide swiftly to the ground as if on a magic sliding board. The touchdown on the front two wheels was whisper perfect and Charles, who now noticed he’d been holding his breath, finally heard Bobby urging him to ‘get moving.’

Come on, CV, he said nervously, let’s get going.

Yeah, he finally spoke, let’s go. Now that he realized the planes were going where they were headed, he couldn’t wait to get to the maintenance bay. Once more he broke into a run.

Charles led Bobby to the big open doors where the planes were now resting. He saw the pilots getting out, two to a plane. As they drew nearer, Charles dropped to a walk, uncertain of what he should do. The lure of the planes, their creaking metal sounds testimony to the cooling engines, their big movable control surfaces, now sitting idle, drew him closer.

Hey you, we need some fuel, one of the men shouted.

Charles nodded, We don’t work here. We came to get some parts. He turned to Bobby, Bobby, go inside there and see if you can find someone.

Sure thing, CV, replied Bobby, relieved to get on with his assignment.

Charles walked to the first plane. What’s it like, up there I mean? he asked.

The pilot shrugged as he took off the little cloth head cover with metal-rimmed glass goggles. Hot down here, cool up there. Ran into head winds and couldn’t make the next stop. You all got fuel here? Supposed to according to the map.

I don’t know sir, I’m still a recruit. Charles didn’t know what rank this fellow was, his jacket covered his rank, but anybody that could fly had to rate a ‘Sir.’ Sir, can I look at the inside?

The pilot nodded, Sure, go ahead. But don’t step on anything not painted black or you’ll go through the fabric.

Charles nodded, I’ll be careful. Thanks. Behind him he could hear people approaching, probably the maintenance people. He stepped to the plane and looked in the rear cockpit where the pilot had been sitting. The front seat was now empty as well but Charles had no interest in that seat, only the pilot’s seat. He saw five round gauges. Two of them were for the engine he figured out quickly. Two of them he couldn’t tell, although one looked like a compass. He backed away as Bobby came up behind. CV, we got to get back, he urged.

Charles pulled his gaze away and left with Bobby. They walked back to the platoon’s area, visions of the planes’ approaches and landings replaying themselves in Charles mind, over and over, the smells of oil and gasoline tantalizing his memory. He could taste the freedom they offered, the detachment from the earth and its troubles.

Bobby, he finally spoke, I’m gonna be a pilot. He looked at Bobby.