The small, twin-engined red and white seaplane flew low over the drab gray destroyer
resting at anchor. Any fan of aircraft on the deck would have recognized it
as a Grumman G21 or “Goose”. Since its design, it had become a staple
of adventurers and explorers. This one looked like it had multiple layers of
tape and paint just to hold it together. It carried three occupants; the pilot,
Jake Cutter, his derelict partner and mechanic, Corky, and a black and white
terrier named Jack. The pilot looks as patched together as his plane, with a
Detroit Dukes baseball shirt, leather bomber’s jacket, short billed aviator’s
cap, and khaki pants coming down over worn brown brogans. His face is slightly
weather-beaten, still attractive, and the hair looks perpetually blown back.
His eyes have a slight squint from trying to see through too many sunsets and
sun rises. The eyes are confident, but have seen too much. Now, the eyes are
looking down, at the American naval warship. The scene triggered one of Jake’s
constant inner debates about the deeper meaning of life as represented in his
favorite adventure literature.
He couldn’t help thinking about how Haywood Floyd novels portrayed the
Hero as always ready to rally to the good old US of A in times of trouble. Floyd
was a true patriot – champion of the needy. Jake wanted to see himself
that way. That’s one of the reasons he let General Claire Chennault talk
him into joining the Flying Tigers - besides the money he always seemed to be
out of. General Chennault may have run a lot of cons, but Jake was convinced
he was right about Japan and America. They were on the brink of war. Some of
Jake’s old friends from Cornell had believed that Japan would overrun
China and use the increased resources to come attack the US. Jake saw Chennault’s
Tigers as a chance to fight America’s war before it came to America. Getting
shot down put a whole different feel on things. Nobody ever wrote about Haywood
Floyd getting shot and being grounded – out of the action; he was too
tough for that. Floyd may have been invincible, but now Jake knew he wasn’t.
For the last year or so, there had been way too much time to think over this
patriotism business …
In spite of his introspection, Jake never stopped flying the plane, his moves a form of unconscious competence. The Goose floated lightly from the sky, settled into the water of a nearby lagoon, fell off the step and began to bob with the waves. Clamping his teeth more tightly to the stub of an old cigar, Jake reached overhead to the twin throttles. he leaned forward to peer through the salt-splashed windscreen, out over the flat black foredeck, and added power to taxi to a ramshackle dock crowded with various boxes, crates and bales of cargo. Corky, transitioning from passenger to crew, moved forward under the dash. He was an off-key symphony in rumpled white – stained white t-shirt, grubby white denim jacket, and white dungarees, topped by a grimy white cap, contrasted by a ruddy alcoholic’s complexion and a black two day growth of beard. When he felt the Goose nudge the dock, Corky popped out of the bow hatch, squinting in the bright afternoon sun. He juggled the hatch, a small black and white dog, and a mooring line. As if resolving some difficult mental puzzle, he braces the hatch on his shoulder, tosses the dog to the dock, and throws him the line. The three observers standing on the dock could see that they had worked this routine a hundred times. This time the dog simply looked at Corky from his one good eye, the other being covered by a leather patch, barked once and trotted off the dock and across the beach. His objective appeared to be a two-story building with upper and lower balconies, setting among some trees, trying to lend faded elegance to a poor and otherwise dilapidated village.
Corky called out, “Jack! You come back here. Jack, get back here - you hear me?” Another bark. “Please, Jack?” Jack trotted up the beach, apparently unwilling to repeat himself.
“Never mind, Corkee” spoke a cultured, smooth voice. Corky, still standing in the hatch, noticed for the first time the three men standing in the shade of the tarp he and Jake called a shed when working on one of the interminable things needing repair on their seaplane, Cutter’s Goose. A slender, and very dapper gentleman picked up the line where Jack let it fall and wrapped it fast to a cleat on the dock. He displays the dexterity of a dock hand, at odds with his elegant tan summer weight linen suit and air of sophisticated gentility. Corky does the same with his end to the cleat on the nose of the Goose, but with much less grace.
“Thanks, Louie.” Louie smiled. He is the Magistrate du’ Justice of the island, and owner of the two story building that serves as bar, restaurant, hotel, and government center for the island.
“Pas de qua, mon ami.”
Waiting until Corky cleared the hatch, Jake started to climb out. A tall figure in the painfully white uniform of a US Navy Lieutenant Commander stepped smartly up to him. “Captain Jake Cutter? Lieutenant Commander Waverly at your service. You’ve led your government a merry chase.”
Jake’s jaw dropped, then closed, as he shook his head in puzzlement. “Sorry pal, you must’ve confused me with someone else.”
“Are you denying you’re Captain Jake Cutter?” The final figure of the three, burly, well muscled, and wearing a black sleeve band with the white letters S and P moved silently to stand watchfully at Jake’s side as he climbed from the nose to the dock. The holstered sidearm at his side looked about as necessary as a hook and eye to keep a bank vault door shut.
“Well you sure have the Jake Cutter part right,” dusting off his hands, “but I don’t know anything about the Captain part. When I was flying the Clippers I never made it out of the co-pilot’s seat.”
Lieutenant Commander Waverly steped back as if afraid Jake’s dusty hands will contaminate his uniform. “Aren’t you one of the mercenaries flying with Chennault’s so-called Flying Tigers? I believe you’ve got five kills to your credit. That would make you an Ace in a real Air Corps – but then you wouldn’t have $2500 worth of blood money in the bank.”
“Well, I was. Until I was shot down. They said I was grounded until the leg healed enough for combat flying. I’ve been here ever since.” Jake massaged a cramp in his right leg for emphasis. “As for being a real Air Corps, it’s real enough when people are shooting at you. And for your information, pal, we didn’t think much about the Ace business, we just celebrated staying alive. Same for the blood money – you couldn’t exactly count of the regularity of General Chaing paying his “prize” money.”
Waverly extends his right hand with an envelope in it. “You’re officially an ace now. The status becomes official with your new orders. You won’t be getting the pay you’re used to, but you will be serving your country.”
Jake steps back from the envelope in the Lieutenant Commander’s hand as if it were a snake about to bite him. “Orders?”
“Yes. You’ve managed to stay inactive for over a year now. Don’t you think that’s long enough?” In a more formal tone, “You are to report to the nearest qualified surgeon for evaluation for returning to active combat flight status.”
“Uh, finding a flight surgeon way out here will be quite some trick.”
Waverly smiled grimly. “That’s one excuse you can’t use. We’ve a qualified surgeon aboard our destroyer - the Hancock. We’re to escort you there – at your convenience of course.” Jake wasn’t sure about the sincerety of the last comment.
Corky slipped away from the group and stepped from the dock, following
Jack’s direct paw prints up the beach. He trudged, head down, until he
almost collides with a slender, young, auburn-haired woman in a light cotton
print sun dress. Her shoulders have a light freckle from frequent exposure to
the sun.
“Corky …”
“Uhhhh. Hi, Sarah.”
Corky was facing Miss Sarah Stickney-White. Graduate of Vassar, world traveler, and then beached in Boragora; singing for her keep at Louie’s Monkey Bar. She stood directly in front of him, hands on slim but shapely hips, trying futilely to make eye contact. “Corky, where’s Jake?”
“He – he’s talking to some guys down at the dock.”
“Corky, what’s wrong? You look like you just lost your best friend.”
Finally Corky’s hangdog eyes met Sarah’s. “That about sums it up. I’m going for a beer.” He tried to step around Sarah.
“Corky? What’s that mean?” As she deftly cut back in front of him, one hand on his chest as if to tilt him back enough to see his eyes. “Corky, don’t you think it is a little early for a beer? Jake might not like it.”
Twin beacons of misery shone through unshed tears as Corky replied “that isn’t going to matter much longer.” With that he pushed Sarah’s hand gently away and continued up to the bar. Mystified, Sarah watched him go and, shrugging, walked on down to the dock.
She strolled up to the group overplaying a wiggle in her walk and a vamping tone in her voice. She’s too well mannered to get it right. “Louie, who are all the sailors in the bar?” Before Louie could answer, she turned to Jake with her head to one side. “Hi, Jake. I just saw Corky and he was acting very strangely. He said something about …”
“Just a minute, Sarah. Waverly, this is a pretty poor joke. I’m not in the Air Corps anymore.”
“Apparently you’ve forgotten the papers you signed when you joined up with Chennault’s band.”
Sarah stamped one dainty foot. She wasn’t used to being ignored. “Jake, what’s this all about? You didn’t tell me you joined the Army.”
Jake held up a hand to stall Sarah. “This makes no sense. I was in the Air Corps flying mail years ago. I resigned when I took another flying job. When I was a Tiger, I flew as a civilian contractor. I’m not in the Air Corps. “
Waverly began to look less cool and detached. “C’mon Cutter. You signed the agreement. If the US became involved in the hostilities in Southeast Asia, General Chennault’s pilots automatically transfer to the US Army Air Corps. According to Chennault’s TO, he’s appointed himself a General and you’re listed as a squadron commander with the provisionary rank of Captain. We know you have ‘other combat flying experience’ and that counts toward your rank as Captain.”
Jake thought back to the fluidity of General Chennault’s organization. He never had a proper TO. Too many people were coming and going, and too many never came back from missions. Pilots flew in whatever squadron had the most working planes. Corky, for all his faults with the bottle had kept him in a flyable plane more often than most. But, no one had ever called him a squadron commander.
Jake shook his head. “This has to be a mistake.”
Waverly thrust the envelope back at Jake. “The only mistake here will be your continued refusal to report, Cutter.”
Jake finally took the envelope and stared at the sealed flap. “Well, when am I supposed to report?”
“You’re overdue.”
Jakes thumb paused under the edge of the flap. “Overdue? – this is the first I’ve heard of it.”
“You were sent formal notification when the tensions between Japan and the United States increased.”
Jake moved his head in emphatic negative motions. “I never saw any such notification …”
“Jake, mon ami.” Louie stepped between the two men. “I have already assured these gentlemen that had such a communication come for you I would have presented it immediately. I explained to them the irregularity of the mail, especially foreign mail.” Louie’s voice dripped disdain as if only French mail could be on time. Bonne Chance Louie looks back at Lieutenant Commander Waverly as if to re-emphasize his point. “The mail is somewhat slow here in the French Marivellas.”
“Thanks Louie.” Jake tried a different tack. “So, you guys off the Hancock?”
Waverly held his formality like a shield. “That’s right. We’re holding station a few miles off shore.”
“I crossed over you when I came in. I was surprised to see an American warship in these waters.”
“It’s just a short distance from our assigned duty post.”
“Pretty lonely for a duty post out in the middle of nowhere. What are you guys doing out there?”
“As far as you are concerned, we are just on routine patrol. We received authorization to do some limited reprovisioning here and soak up some shore leave. BuPers heard you might be hiding around here and asked us to see if we could get you to respond to your notification. Frankly, I don’t understand your reluctance, your country needs you.”
Jake looked at the piles of cargo on the dock. Some of them were goods he had contracted to deliver. Their customers needed him. “I have some commitments here I need to honor.”
Waverly shrugged. “We’re instructed to escort you to the Hancock in the morning, unless you would rather go this evening. After your physical, we will escort you back here to pack what you will need. You’ll have until the clipper leaves to resolve any important issues.” Again, the tone of voice implied that nothing Jake was concerned about could be very important.
Sarah tried to protest. Louie gently took her arm and placed his finger upright in front of his lips signifying she stay quiet.
Jake’s shoulders sag. “What do I do then?”
Waverly sensed victory. “The clipper is here in a week and you are authorized proceed to China aboard her. You’ll be able to rejoin your unit by supply transport.”
“You guys take a lot for granted.”
Another white suited shrug. “Your country needs …”
“… you. Yeah, you already said that.” Jake wiped his forehead, knocking his cap askew. “Well, I guess that says it all. With this news, I think I need a beer.” Jake starts to turn to leave. He stops. “Oh, do you have orders for Corky?”
Waverly shook his head. “The Air Corps isn’t required to provide employment for surplus personnel.”
Jake looked at Louie and back to Waverly. “You don’t understand - he was my mechanic when I flew for the Tigers. Surely he’s part of the agreement.”
“He’s not required.”
“But he’s the best mechanic in the Pacific. I’ll need him if I’m flying combat.”
“The Army Air Corps has all the mechanics they need. The biggest need is for experienced pilots.”
Jake started to shake his head. “Hey, Corky is more than just a mechanic - he’s my friend. We look out for each other. I can’t just go off and leave him.”
Waverly was unmoved. “Our only concern is to make sure you report for duty.”
“Well, we’ll just see about that.” Jake stormed ahead of the others up the hill. He barged through a pair of bat wing doors into a dark wood-paneled room filled with hot, sweating patrons and cigarette smoke. He headed straight for the long low Mahagony and leather bar, passing Jack, who laps beer from a china soup bowl. As Louie entered the bar, Sarah in tow, Jake turned to ask “Louie, can I borrow your radio? I need to straighten this out.”
Louie looked sad. “Jake, I am sorry, but I’m not able to do that.”
“Why on earth not? It’s not right they are leaving him out. Do you think I’m going back into combat without Corky?”
“I don’t think that would be a good idea, my friend.”
“Well, what am I supposed to do?”
“You might leave Corky here. We will take good care of him until you return.”
Corky stood looking like a lost pup. “Jake, you go ahead. I can stay here.”
“Corky, I need you. You are the best mechanic there is. You are my best chance for coming back.”
“Aw Jake, they don’t want some booze-brained loser like me. They’ll find you a good mechanic.”
Jack barked once.
“I’ll be ok here, and I can look after the Goose till you get back.”
Jack barked once more.
“Besides Jake,” Sarah pleaded, “Corky is my piano player. I need him here.”
Jack, determined not to be ignored, barked once more, loudly.
“Oh be quiet, Jack. You aren’t helping any.”
“Sarah’s right, Jake. Corky can stay and work off your considerable bill to the Monkey Bar for lodging and damages.”
Jake looks at the warm brown bottle in his hand. “You’ve got it all figured out, don’t you?” He took all of his friends in in one angry glance. “All of you.”
“It’s for the best, mon ami.”
Jake placed the empty bottle on the bar. “Who’s best? I’m going for some air.”
As Jake starts to leave, Sarah turned to follow. Louie stopped her with a hand and gently shakes his head no. Sarah stopped and watched Jake push through the door into the late afternoon sun. Louie shook his head and turned to go to his office leaving Sarah and Corky at the bar.
Sarah tried to cheer up her friend and piano player. “Corky, we’ll figure something out.”
“Sure. I think I’ll go work on the Goose - though it doesn’t look like Jake’ll need her, or me, much longer.” With that he trudged through the door and down to the docks.
Just after dinner, before her first set, Sarah sits at her usual table, alone. A sandy-haired, nondescript Warrant Officer in a white uniform walked up. “Is this chair taken?”
“I’m not in the mood for company, sailor.” Sarah’s voice was as frosty as the ice blue color of her evening dress.
He pulled the chair out. “Oh, I’m sorry. I was going to ask how your father was.”
“My father? How do you know my father?” Sarah’s voice took on an excited tone.
“My name is Josh Winters. I was a sociology major before I joined up. I took his course in Ancient Egyptian studies. Thought it might help me understand the world a little better.”
Sarah smoothed her dress as she sat up straight in her chair. “Oh, well sit down. I’d love to hear what daddy was like in the classroom.”
Josh gingerly sat down. “Are you sure? You said you didn’t want company.”
“Well, if you knew my dad, that’s different. I never sat in any of his classes. I just went with him on some of the digs. He was a terror to the students there. Can I have Gushie bring you something from the bar?” She turned to try to spot Gushie weaving through the crowd. This wasn’t easy as Gushie’s head rarely rose above the heads of seated patrons. This was a function of his lack of legs and constant confinement to a wheel chair.
“No, that’s OK.”
Sarah turned back to look at Josh. Her expression is strangely distant. “Well all right. He’s dead you know.”
“I beg your pardon?” Josh looked sympathetic.
“My father, he was murdered in Egypt just a few years ago.” Sarah’s voice is flat as if she is trying to restrain a strong emotion. One she is not willing to share.
“I was sorry to hear that. He was a brilliant man.” Josh waited, wondering just how empty-headed Sarah Stickney-White really is.
“OK, you knew my father, still, how did you recognize me? Wait a minute … you knew he was dead? And you still asked me how he was?”
“Please, Miss White, not so loud.” Josh leaned forward. “I really did know your father, both in and out of the classroom, if you get my meaning. You’ve done a pretty good job following in his shoes.”
“I’m sure I don’t know what you’re talking about. Just who are you?”
“Like I said, I’m Warrant Officer Josh Winters. I’m assigned to the Hancock for my communications specialty. We spend a lot of time in this area. I thought this would be a good chance for us to finally meet face to face.”
Sarah looked at him suspiciously. Her first thought was that this wasn’t the first graduate student of her father’s to make a pass at her. “Whadda you mean, finally meet face to face?”
“Well, usually we are just dots and dashes to each other.”
“Oh!” Sarah turned to stare at her drink. “Oh!”
“So, Miss White, I’d love to know more about your father.” Louder, more obvious.
“Oh! … Oh!” Sarah tried to collect herself, knowing that right now she sounded like one of Louie’s old, scratched phonograph records. The ones he used to play before she started singing in the bar. “Please excuse me, I just never really expected to meet someone … out here … who knew my ... my father. This is quite extraordinary.”
“He talked often about you. You must have been very close.”
“Yes, when Mother died, we only had each other. I sort of took over taking
care of him. I wanted to help his work then, but he insisted I finish my studies.
I arranged to be with him as often as I could.” Sarah is impressed by
how Josh never stops scanning the bar. He is always aware of who comes and goes.
A tall slender man in white suit, black shirt and priest’s collar entered
the bar. He removed his white hat to reveal thick yellow hair. His walk is almost
a march, and his carriage very erect. The face was strong, even handsome. The
eyes are very blue, and somehow disciplined. They seemed to look at, and evaluate
every person in the bar.
Josh turned away from the door as if to focus more on Sarah. He couldn’t help thinking that that was not such a horrible task. The delicate, pointed face with large eyes and dark auburn curls provided a pleasing vista, and the freckles seem to contain a Morse Code message he would love to decode. “Do you know that German who just came in the door?”
Sarah had to lean toward him “What did you say?”
“The tall German in the priest get up – who’s he?”
“OH,” Sarah smiled. “That’s just Reverend Tenboom. He’s no German, he’s Dutch. He’s a missionary on the island. I can introduce you if you would like.”
"No. No. I’ve seen him before, and he’s no Dutchman. He’s Wehrmacht. Do you know what his game here is?"
Sarah smiled tolerantly. “You must be mistaken. He’s a Dutch Reformed minister. His church is located at the other end of the village. He has a small flock he’s very devoted to – some more than others – if you get my meaning.” Sarah feels a small core of doubt. Reverend Tenboom has always seemed more old-world Prussian to her, than Dutch, but many of the New England pastors she had known growing up had the same sort of stiff formality.
Josh started to rise. “Maybe, but I can’t risk being seen by him. I’m going out by the private dining room. Washington needs to hear about this. We had no idea Germany was interested in this island. Come to think of it, maybe we’d better contact them from your room. It would look less suspicious than me going back to the ship right now.”
Sarah looked uncertain. “Do you think you ought to do that? It might call attention to us.”
“We’ve already established our bona fides to any eavesdroppers.”
Sarah still wasn’t happy. “But you know what people will think we are doing.”
“It’s all part of the business, baby. Let’s go.” Reluctantly Sarah lead the way out of the bar with Josh keeping his face tucked close to her shoulder. He snagged a bottle and two glasses off a table as they walk by. “This will make it more convincing.”
“I don’t know that I want to be that convincing.” Sarah looked around hoping none of her friends noticed her departure in Josh’s company.
In Sarah’s room, they contacted the ship and relayed a message to Washington. Little did Sarah know that that simple coded message would start Willie Tenboom on a five year journey to a cold, empty death near Leningrad in wintry Russia. Josh reviewed the rest of the message.
“Says here that there’s a German sub in the area and Washington wants to know where its tender is. They want to use it to find the sub. A sub in these waters could cause our allies a lot of problems. Wants us to check it out. Any ideas?”
“What’s a tender?”
“That’s the ship that keeps the submarine supplied with fuel, ammunition, and parts. Any replacement crew usually serves aboard the tender until needed.”
“What does a tender look like?”
Josh shrugged. “That’s just it. It could look like anything as long as it has the cargo space, and ability to lift loads on board. It could be a tramp freighter, fake passenger liner, even a bogus hospital ship.”
Sarah checked some notes in a tattered notebook she kept with her radio. “Well, there haven’t been any strange ships calling here. If they’re coming in to get supplies, they’d have to be going to Tagataya.”
Josh stares at the floor. “How would we check that out? We sure can’t take a destroyer in there looking for it.”
“Louie needs medical supplies. I could offer to get them and take some time to look around.”
Josh looked at Sarah’s costume for signing. “Will he let you?”
She waved a hand in assurance. “Oh sure. I’ve run errands for him before.”
“I see. OK. How will you get there?”
Sarah smiled. “That’s easy, silly. I’ll just have Jake fly me there.”
“Jake? Oh, you mean Captain Cutter. Is that a good idea? I mean, can you trust him?”
Sarah looked at Josh as if he were a retarded child. “Jake Cutter’s not just the best pilot in these islands, he’s the only pilot. If you need this information quickly, he’s your only choice.”
“Well, all right. I’m just concerned about him disappearing on us.” Josh replied unhappily.
“I don’t think I like that crack, mister. Jake’s my friend and a good one. He’s as true blue as you. Now, I’ve got to get back downstairs for my first set. I have to keep up my cover, you know.”
Josh eases out of sight of the door. “You go ahead. I’ll slip out behind you. Even if we don’t care what people think, it wouldn’t do to be too obvious.”
“I’ll be very happy if you aren’t seen. I’m afraid I do care what people think. I’ve a reputation to uphold.” Sarah started for the door.
“Trust me, this’ll only enhance it.”
She paused, her hand on the door knob. She spoke over her shoulder, almost as if speaking more to herself. “I’ve never liked that phrase. It seems every time I hear ‘Trust me’, something awful happens. Like when my daddy was murdered.” She left the room.
Jake was hurrying up from the beach to catch Sarah’s show. He wanted
to apologize for being a heel. He also hoped one of the sailors had brought
in some new songs for Sarah’s routine. Much as he liked Sarah, he was
honest enough to know that she wasn’t a very good singer and relied more
on her looks than her talent. He saw her on the balcony. He didn’t call
out; he knew she probably wouldn’t hear him over the sounds from the bar
below. He started forward out of the shadows just as a dim white figure exited
Sarah’s room, looked furtively about, and goes the other way. Jake stops
to watch.
After the unknown sailor faded from sight, Jake walked on into the bar. There’re
the usual locals, some passengers waiting for the Clipper to come in, and a
number of sailors. He didn’t want to admit how disturbed he was over what
he thought he had seen. He never saw Sarah that way. He admitted he’d
always kind of kept her on a pedestal. Absent mindedly he ordered a bottle of
beer, looking down the neck into the foam as if it were hiding an answer.
“So you’re the one we’re chasing all over this ocean for.”
Jake looked up startled from his reverie. “I beg your pardon. You speaking to me?”
Sailor lurched forward. “Yeah, I’m speakin’ to you. Why’d they send a destroyer to this god-forsaken hole to find a chicken pilot?”
“Hey pal, it’s not like that. I just hadn’t heard, that’s all.”
“An’ I say you’re chicken.”
Jake started to turn away. The sailor made clucking sounds to his pals who laughed. Corky spoke out.
“Hey, buddy, you ever hear of a Messcherschmidt 109?”
“Yeah, that’s the hot little German number giving our fighters such a hard time in Europe – it’s on our recognition cards for gunnery training. What about ‘em? He ain’t likely to find one of those here.”
“Naw, he shot them down in Spain, using an open cockpit biplane, a Breguet BR 19.” Jack, who’d been watching Corky, barked twice.
“Aw, I don’t know what all that means, but I figger he’s just lucky.” Jack barked once. “Be still you mutt.”
Jake turned to Corky with a bottle of beer in his hand as an offering. “Corky, let it go.”
Corky blasted on, eager to defend his friend. “If … if he’d only done it once, you’d be right. He did it more than once.”
Jack barked twice and the sailor kicked him. Jack yelped.
Jake held out his hand. “Hey, there’s no need to kick the dog.”
“Worthless mutt’s been under foot all evening.”
Jake carefully held onto his temper. “Mister, I’ll tell you this just once. Please don’t kick my dog. You shouldn’t do that.”
“Your dog. It figures. He’s as useless as you are.” The sailor looked at his buddies for support.
Jake felt like his face was about to crack from the effort of keeping a smile on his face. “Look, say anything you want about me, but Jack doesn’t deserve that.”
“Chicken pilot, chicken dog. Nobody here can keep me from sayin whatever I want.”
Jake’s reply was a roundhouse left that sent the sailor flying back against his friends’ table, mashing it and his nose flat. As sailors leapt up to avoid the falling body, one used his momentum to rush forward, butting Jake against the bar, knocking bottles and glasses all around. Gushie glided back from the action, getting out a note pad and listing damages.
Jake kneed his attacker in the face as he attempted to duck the awkward swing of yet another sailor. Corky, seeing his partner out numbered, attempted to haul one sailor back only to be knocked against the piano where he dazedly sank to the stool.
Louie came from the office, to see Sarah backed against the bar trying to hold her drink above the fray, and Jake take a hard thrown punch in the face. The punch opened a gash above Jake’s eye.
Tsking, Louie walked down the stairs to the bar floor. Gushie held up his pad as Louie walked by, earning an approving nod.
“Enough.” Without raising his voice he gained the attention of half the room. Some sailors starting to enter the fray stopped and sat down at an undamaged table.
Another sailor, recoiling from one of Jake’s hastily aimed punches started to collide with Louie, who stepped back, tripped him, and placed an immaculately polished black left shoe on the man’s chest, preventing him from rising.
“Enough!” although only marginally louder, this caused all combatants to pause. Jake took the opportunity to shake his head, trying to clear the blood from his eyes. Louie shook his head. “What’s the meaning of all this?”
Jake swayed forward. “Louie, it’s my fault. I lost my temper and threw a punch. I should have known better.”
Louie held out his hand and Gushie placed the totaled inventory of damages in his fingers with a smoothness born of much practice. Louie’s eyebrows peaked at the total.
“Wait a minute, Jake.” Corky blurted out. “That’s not fair. Louie, he only punched the bozo for kicking Jack.”
“Is this so?” Louie looked at Jack.
Jack barked twice. He trotted over and placed one paw on the arm of the downed sailor with a small whine.
“That one.” Corky pointed at the same sailor under Louie’s foot.
“You?” Louie looked down at the sailor as if he were something unpleasantly odorous sticking to his shoe. “Kicking a dog is a very serious offense.” Jack barked twice. “Thank you, Jack. We have laws in the mandate about abusing animals, monsieur.”
Louie leaned down and placed Gushie’s bill in the sailor’s pocket.
The sailor managed to pull the slip from his pocket and read the total. “Hey, you can’t pin this on me.”
Jack barked twice.
Louie smiled. “You are unhurt, Jack?”
Jack barked twice.
“Bien. You are fortunate, monsieur that the dog is uninjured and does not wish to press charges.”
The sailor squirms, still unable to rise with Louie’s foot on his chest. “What kind of looney bin is this? Dogs doan understand talk.”
“This is no looney bin, monsieur. Jack is a respected patron of this establishment.”
“He’s a stupid mutt.”
“You are entitled to your error, monsieur.” Louie leaned more heavily on his left foot, crossing his arms on his raised knee to look in the sailor’s face. “You are also entitled to pay the damages in lieu of a fine. I shall expect the payment in the morning or I shall speak to your commanding officer. I’m sure he will take a dim view of your failing to – how you say – square your debts – with the establishment.” Louie lifted his foot, leaving a black mark on the white shirt. “Oh, and you are through here for this evening - fini.”
The sailor continued to protest as his friends lead him from the bar.
Sarah started to look at Jake’s eye. He shrugged off her attentions, more brusquely than usual. “I gotta see if Jack is OK. Jack, come here boy.”
Jack barked once.
“What’s wrong? It wasn’t my fault was it?” Two barks.
“Aw c’mon, Jack. I didn’t swing until he kicked you. I was trying to protect you.”
One bark.
“It figures. A great end to a great day.”
Sarah tried once more. “C’mon, Jack. Show a little gratitude. Jake, let me look at that eye.”
“It’s all right. I don’t need your attention.”
“Well, that’s a fine attitude.” Sarah pointed at a stool, eyes flashing. “Now you sit down here and let me look at that eye.”
“It’ll be ok.”
Sarah points again. “I’m going to make sure. I need you to fly me over to Tagataya.”
“What for?”
“I’m going to pick up medical supplies for Louie. It might take a couple of days to get them together so I’m going to stay over.” Sarah gently sponged blood away from Jake’s face. She leaned against him to wash the rag out in a bowl of water Gushie obligingly put on the bar for that purpose.
“Don’t do that.” Jake pulled slightly away from her.
“Do what?”
Jake tried to set some space between them. “Do you have to lean against me like that?”
Sarah stood straight, cloth in hand. “Jake, what’s wrong?”
Jake looked down. “I don’t want to talk about it.”
Sarah looked faintly hurt, and puzzled at the same time. “Jake, is there something I’ve done?”
“I said I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, all right.” Sarah resumed sponging the cut above Jake’s eye. “We’ll talk about something else. What was it Corky said? He said you flew against Messcherschmidts in Germany?”
“Corky’s got a big mouth. Ow!” Jake winces. “No, I flew against them in Spain.”
“During the Spanish Civil War? You were there?”
“Yeah, I was there until they started pulling the American brigades out.
“I never knew.” Sarah said softly as she attempted to get the cut to close with crossed strips of tape. Her deft manner suggests that she has had a lot of practice on Jake. “What on earth were you doing?”
Jake shrugged, wishing he hadn’t. “I wasn’t going anywhere with the clipper run and I ran into an old school buddy from Cornell. He talked me into it. When he joined the Abraham Lincoln Battalion in the Republican Army, Corky and I tagged along. I flew whatever I could find that would fly. Corky’s Spanish let him be my interpreter as well as mechanic.”
“But why’d you go fight in someone else’s silly old Civil War?”
Jake finally met Sarah’s eyes. He noticed again how lovely they are. “Well, it was an opportunity to fly.”
“But people’re shooting at you. That’s dangerous.” Sarah shakes her head.
“That was the point.” For a moment, Jake forgot why he was upset with Sarah. He spoke with intensity. “Flying mail I went up against every combination of wind and weather and machine you could imagine. Combat was the final test - someone doing their best to kill me. You always tried to make sure the other guy did the dieing, but the chance of death put an extra edge on the flying, made you feel more alive.
“But, Jake, was it worth it?”
His voice softened. “There was a guy in our unit, Bill Bailey, who wrote to his mother explaining why he was fighting. I remember the gist of what he wrote because it spoke for all of us … He told his mom about how many of the things you do in life are little more than just existing. How, in Spain thousands of mothers never had a fair shake in life. They’d elected a government that mattered to them, but a bunch of bullies wanted to take it away. We were there to help those poor people win the battle for their better future. Some folks thought it was about Communism, but it wasn’t really. The Hitlers and Mussolinis out there were killing Spanish people who didn't know the difference between Communism and rheumatism. We just wanted to help them try to win what was rightfully theirs.”
“Golly, Jake. You sound like a crusader.”
Jake looked embarrassed. “Someone had to do something. At first, I didn’t think about why. I guess when someone starts shooting at you; it really clarifies in your mind why you’re doing whatever it is you’re doing.”
Sarah put the bandages and other materials away. “So joining the Flying Tigers was just bouncing from one crusade to another?”
“When they started pulling the American brigades out, I had Corky head out with the ground troops. I flew out a little later. Corky and I managed to link back up in all the confusion and we grabbed the first ship heading toward home. We actually ended up down in South America. Was bumming from one flying job to another, when I ran into Chennault and he made his pitch. Seemed like a good opportunity.”
Suddenly Sarah changed the subject. “Jake, can I ask you a favor?”
“I don’t know how much I can promise these days.”
“This is easy. I really do need you to fly me to Tagataya for a couple of days and then bring me back. Can you do that please?” She whispered “I’m on a mission.”
“Sure, I guess. As long as you’re coming back before the Clipper leaves for China. When do you want to go?”
“Day after tomorrow. I’ve got a lot to do to get ready, and Louie is radioing tomorrow to arrange the shipment.”
She pressed down on a corner of tape over a gauze patch she had used to protect the ridge of Jake’s eye and stepped back to evaluate the result.
Jake felt his brow and winced at his own touch. “Thanks, Sarah.”
She gave him her best smile. “What are friends for?”
Jake felt guilty for the way he’d acted but he was still upset. The battling
emotions give him a headache. “Yeah. Think I’ll turn in. Tomorrow
could be a long day.”
Return to the Monkey
Bar