Martin Caidin - Whip

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Whip

MARTIN CAIDIN

for

AL CASAROTTO

This one is on me . . .

AUTHOR'S NOTE

Although the characters in this novel are fictional, the combat is real — even the

final great battle. There was a B-25 bomber group very much like the one in this

book and it fought with deadly effectiveness at treetop and wavetop level. Even

Whip Russel has his real-life counterpart in Bill Bagwell, a pilot for all seasons and

a flying friend of many years.

Martin Caidin

The heat rose about them in shimmering waves so that the horizon was buried within a

shimmering heat carpet. It was savagely bright. Glare does that. The air glowed with the

naked sun, intensely painful to the unwary, and past headaches brought experienced

men to seek the rare vision-comforting shadows of the northeastern Australia scrubland.

More than sun this day, really. Dust fine-grained and pervasive thickened the air. It was

stinking weather in a, stinking land, where men sought any distraction to veer their

minds from oppressive tedium and inescapable discomfort. Yet at this moment,

wherever they were, whatever they were doing, they slowed in their efforts or stirred

from their glazed-eye trances, for there had appeared an intrusion unexpected in their

miserable lives. In this nothingness of the parched land splashed forever around

Townsville in northeastern Australia, scattered about lackluster airfields with their tents

and shelter halves and weathered shacks, and the aircraft, some whole but more broken

in many different ways, events dragged haltingly to a stop. It took no small thing to do

that, to lift a man's head from his dejection with diarrhea and cramps, with skin rot and

malaise.

The intrusion was a sound. The sound of engines, and that in itself was a surprise,

because they'd by God heard enough engines throbbing from the sky and from the

ground to last their lives, and they heard them all the time, day and night, as if the

country just beyond sight were occupied by huge swarms of mosquitoes that never shut

up. After all, aircraft and engines were the only reasons for this forsaken hellhole and the

only justification for the men suffering as they did. It was here that old and battered

machines staggered in to be repaired or modified or cannibalized and engines ran

whenever men brought them to readiness, and the engines ran low and slow, popping

and snorting, and when they were run to full power and propellers slid into flat pitch,

they howled and screamed. So they were accustomed to it, it was part of their lives.

But there was a subtle difference to this engine sound. It took an experienced ear to

detect it, but Garbutt Field ran thick with men capable of such distinction, and so they

shook themselves free of the moment, and looked up and squinted into that goddamned

glaring sun and sky.

Synchronized thunder. A beat of sound that came from so many engines that it should

have been garbled, an accepted cry of rumbling discord, but it wasn't, and then they saw

what they knew must enter that glaring sky, the black, winged shapes far off in the

distance, and with only that first glance, that momentary pinging on the eye of the

shapes, they knew this outfit differed from any other they'd known before. Garbutt Field

was home to sick and broken machines, and when the bombers staggered onto the dusty

runways they were flown by men often as weary and bone-bent as the aircraft in which

they sailed the skies. No, these strangers were different, already recognizable as

twin-engined, and from the high-shoulder-wing configuration and slab sides no question

they were B-25s.

What snatched at the attention of the men across the parched ground in this early fall of

1942, in a world where the Japanese were triumphant and near-masters, was the way

those people up there were flying those machines.

There is a touch to certain pilots and it is created, it is never simply born, of discipline and

pride and confident skill, in themselves and their fellow pilots, and whatever it was, those

men up there had it. No one aircraft chased another. They flew formation, tight, riding

easily the thermals and the spinning slipstream of great propellers and the vortices

pummeling back from wingtips. But other men also did that well, so this was not the

siren call that beckoned attention from the ground. There was some invisible mark that

etched this formation growing in size as it approached Garbutt Field, and for the

watching men, for whom defeat and misery were no strangers, a surge of pride stirred

somewhere deep within them.

It was precision to such an extent it was beautiful, and as the machines continued their

approach they could see more clearly just how beautiful was that formation. They flew

as if one man touched the controls of all eleven aircraft, and the men watching from the

ground, knowing that distance has a habit of glossing over imperfections, held their

breath and wondered if this also would mar what had grasped at them. But as the

thunder swelled and the machines enlarged with decreasing distance they saw there

were no imperfections, and Jesus, but they're holding it in tight, all bunched together as

if they were in a goddamned aerial parade with the air soft and untroubled, and the

widened eyes were joined with grins and startled exclamations. Everyone who could hear

and see was looking into the sky, screw the sun and the glare, and they watched the

eleven bombers as they came on down low, very goddamned low, right onto the bloody

deck, thank you, until their thunder was a massive pounding and the watching men

knew that the eleven pilots at the controls also knew just how good they were, were

trying to impart that pride and confidence, and there wasn't any better way of doing it

than what they were doing, rushing now with furious speed and hammering sound

waves over the dusty earth, and oh, Jesus, but they're beautiful.

They were even more surprised when the Mitchells came close enough for details to be

seen, for most witnesses from the ground had assumed these aircraft to be new

replacements from the States, pilots with fresh uniforms and factory-new machines,

smelling that mysterious new-airplane smell, untouched by Japanese steel, in their last

moment before the acid test of the agile Zero fighters. But, no; they were wrong. These

airplanes were worn, battered, beaten, holed and scattered across their metal surfaces

with their smallpox scars of tin covering bullet holes and patched over gaping tears made

by exploding cannon shells. Just what in the hell were these men doing?

By now the commanding officer of Garbutt Field had emerged from his makeshift office,

trailed by his staff, and the cooks and administrative and hospital personnel, and

everyone on the field who could walk, because the thunder of twenty-two engines close

up was overwhelming, pounding the earth, sending dust flurrying upward in a fine mist,

and the strange B-25s flattened it out on the deck, smack down the runway, all eleven of

them holding what everyone knew by now had to be their combat strike formation, and

as they swept by, they came hauling up in a sudden, steep wild climb, the first nine

bombers in a vee of three vee's, then the last two, and they were really hauling coal now,

flashing before the blazing sun, as they rolled smoothly, beautifully, out of their

climbing turns, their thunder more ragged with the thunder of those great props. They

seemed to ease into an impossible floating movement as the pilots let up on the power

and from every bomber, virtually at the same moment, flaps were sliding back and

down from wings, the three legs of the landing gear of each bomber jutted stiffly into the

wind, as the watchers below strained to make out more details, because the first three

B-25s had curved gracefully, like fighters, through the pattern of the airfield, and rolled

around, sliding into final approach, still in tight formation, and staying tight, and "Holy

cow! Look at 'em!" and they looked and another man shouted, "Them crazy bastards are

gonna' land like that! Jesus, in formation, yet!"

You just didn't do that at Garbutt Field. The runway was all screwed up with

undulations and dust and rocks, and it wasn't that wide, it just wasn't the place to pull off

this kind of superprecision crap, but no one had told those pilots up there, and they were

doing it, and every man on the ground who knew what the inside of a cockpit looked

like knew also that the manifold pressure gauges and the revolutions per minute and fuel

pressure and oil temperature and the rate of descent and the air-speed needles and the

gyro compasses in each plane were dead-on, every set of instruments in each plane like

those of its companion aircraft. If the instruments worked, that is.

They came sliding down their invisible rail in the sky, glued together and all of them

shimmering in the heat rolling off the runway, and as the earth came to meet them, the

pilots had their trim set just right and they flared, control yokes easing back with

practiced skill, without deliberate thought, for this was rote and instinctive motion, and

the nose of each bomber came higher as they bled off air speed and ghosted their descent

to earth, looking for all the world like three great stiff-feathered creatures about to alight

in their desert nest, and then the main gear wheels spurted back dust and they were

rolling, no longer flying, rolling on the main gear and as speed fell away the noses came

down and the single wheels before each bomber touched and then from three airplanes

there were nine trailing dust plumes, all three aircraft holding position, still tied with their

invisible knots. Thunder rumbled easily along the ground as the pilots fed in a touch of

power and taxied in formation to the end of the runway, to a cleared area for parking

where a startled lineman had run and began motioning with his hand signals. They

wheeled about in line formation, the black airplane in front turning smartly with deft

bursts of power and the B-25 came to a stop, rocking gently on its nose shock.

The other two bombers aligned with the first ship, the black killer, and the men in the

cockpits were busy with their checklists, shutting down systems, attending to power and

flow and pressure, but not yet cutting the final umbilical of power. Behind them, down

the far end of the runway, the next vee of bombers was lightly treading dust, and the

men on the field watched and marveled, feeling the pride that had been so long missing.

Captain Whip Russel released his seat belt and freed his shoulder harness, sweat

springing from where the webbing had pressed against his body. He pulled open side

windows and watched his copilot do the same, so some breeze would be caught from the

flailing propellers and thrown through the sweltering cockpit. Russel half stood behind

the control yoke of the pilot's side of the cockpit in the black B-25. He paid no attention

to First Lieutenant Alex Bartimo to his right or to the other three men in the aircraft.

They would go through their shutdown checklist without comment from Russel.

The little man in the pilot's seat, all 138 pounds of him raw nerve and rubbed tendon and

fierce intensity, had no eyes for what transpired within his own aircraft. Whip Russel had

brought his eleven bombers into Garbutt Field for major modification work, and first

impressions were important on a field where priorities came from scheming and where

regulations were archaic memories. They could mean the lot between getting what he

wanted or running into the stone wall of a fast administrative shuffle. This was the first

time Garbutt Field had seen the 335th Bombardment Squadron, Medium, and Whip

Russel was determined they were damned well going to see some professionals at work.

He glanced through the plexiglas of his cockpit, studying the other bombers rolling

down the runway, the third trio about to set down, as the two Ass End Charlies cut it in

close.

"Keep it in tight, you bastards," Whip growled into his microphone. No one bothered to

answer. No need. These cats had it all together and Whip's radio call was more

conversational than required. They feathered down from the glaring sky, raced ahead of

their dust plumes to the roll-off point and one by one lined up and stopped, exactly so,

engines on all the iron birds still running, but now with a sound that made a mockery of

the sweet precision thunder of flight. A Wright Cyclone on the ground is music to no one

save a pilot or a mechanic.

The watching men were still motionless, caught up in the powerful display of flight and

touchdown, and now they waited to see what these strange pilots would do with their

battered aircraft. Whip Russel was satisfied now. He knew that in each cockpit the

shutdown procedures had been started and the pilots and copilots were waiting on his

word, and he grinned as he thumbed his mike. "All right, troops. Everybody cut 'em." In

eleven cockpits hands moved mixture controls and throttles and adjusted switches and

twenty-two engines expired, by no means in unison, because there aren't any men born

who can bring that many Wright Cyclones to perform their last exhalation on

command, but still there was a mass rumbling to a halt, metal bodies and wings shaking

as the engines gave up their power, the great propellers twitching in their final revs.

The silence was incredible.

It was the signal to resume human activity, and the men drifted forward, looking up at

the planes, gesturing or shouting greetings to the men who slid down through the belly

hatches, gawking and wondering at this quiet curtain to the unexpected performance.

There was more to stare at than just airplanes. These bombers were marked and not only

with the telltale signatures of Japanese bullets and flak. On the nose of the lead B-25, the

black machine, beneath the cockpit windows on each side, was a macabre death's head,

a skull with a bullwhip handle jabbed mockingly through one eye socket, twisting in

upon itself so that it assumed the appearance of crossed bones beneath the skull. There

were Japanese flags and the half-silhouettes to mark sunken ships and rows of bombs to

indicate missions flown. This was a hardened, combat-tested outfit.

Now, more than the planes, the men stationed at Garbutt Field waited to see who

commanded this maverick bunch who flew with angel touch on their controls. Because

now the word was spreading through the clustered onlookers. They knew this outfit. The

carved notches in the form of painted markings identified the killers.

The Death's Head Brigade. Sometimes they were called the 335th Special. They were

famed throughout the Southwest Pacific, and their leader was more than that. Infamous

would do. Whip Russel. They knew his name, and they'd heard stories of how he'd made

a mockery of both the high command in Australia and the Japanese in their own

territory. There were stories that General MacArthur would have personally liked to have

killed Whip Russel because of his incredible insubordination, but he didn't, and he

wouldn't, because the 335th was more of a pain to the Japanese than it was to

headquarters, and God knew we had few enough outfits who could hold their own

against the enemy, let alone run up the devastating success enjoyed by the 335th Special.

The Japanese, of course, also would have relished Russel's demise, but unlike MacArthur,

they were doing their very best at it, and failing.

Understandably, the men crowded forward to see this phenomenon who had defied

MacArthur and the Japanese and seemed to have survived both in excellent health.

His crew was already on the ground, standing in the shade beneath one wing as the

engines crackled and popped as they gave off their heat, when Whip came down

through the forward hatch, the last man to descend from all the bombers. No one could

miss that lithe and fluid motion.

A voice rang out from the watching crowd. "Shit, he is a little dude, ain't he." Some

laughter followed the remark, but it was friendly, even admiring, because a long time

ago these people had learned the physical size of a man didn't count for much in hauling

an airplane through the sky, especially not when you enjoyed the reputation of this man.

They pressed closer, wanting to see him better, to watch him move, to listen to him say

something, anything, when the sounds of an approaching jeep with horn blaring began

the dispersal of the still-gathering assembly.

The jeep came to a halt in a cloud of its own swirling dust. Seated by the driver was an

enormous man. Not simply big, but fat, almost corpulent, and no one needed to ask to

understand this was a civilian rushed into uniform for whatever skills the army wanted

so badly it would overlook his physical grossness. He sat quietly, one thick leg on the

edge of the jeep, his khakis stained with sweat and coated with various layers of dust and

oil and grease from airplanes. His hands were dirty. Beneath his nails was a grime that

could not be removed for months, compounded as it was from the lubrication of

warplanes and his own hard work. Finally he rose, so that he could rest his massive

forearms on the windshield runner of the vehicle, surveying the line-up of bombers, until

he halted his gaze on the man who commanded the Death's Head Brigade. For a long

moment no one spoke. Then the fat man, whose colonel's eagles were barely visible

against the stains of his uniform, spoke slowly. His deep voice carried surprisingly strong

through the air.

"Captain," he addressed his words to Whip Russel, "you are a goddamned disgrace."

No one moved.

"Captain, you are out of uniform."

Which Whip Russel certainly was, since he wore only boots and faded shorts and a .45

automatic strapped to his right side. His body was a strangely lined mixture of dark tan

and white stripes from bandages worn in the sun while he recovered from wounds he

refused to allow to keep him out of his cockpit. Above the heavy combat boots his legs

were bandy-muscular, almost ludicrous. The faded shorts could have come from any

decade preceding the present. His stomach was braided muscle, he carried a three-day

growth of beard and his hair was unkempt.

No question of the reaction to the colonel's words. The men watching the scene showed

disbelief and open contempt for the observation. Jesus, here they were in this freaked-out

desert of northern Australia, with the Japs just over the horizon kicking the shit out of

everybody save this one outfit, and all this fat bastard of a colonel can do is complain

about how this little guy dresses. Jesus, no one in the whole outfit had a complete

uniform!

Whip Russel strolled lazily from beneath the wing of his bomber to the jeep. He stopped,

dust scuffling about his boots, and he looked up at Colonel Louis R. Goodman,

Commanding Officer of the 112th Maintenance Depot, that took in Townsville and

Garbutt Field and a dozen other airstrips scattered across the parched Australian

countryside.

"And you, Colonel," drawled Whip, "are one fat son of a bitch."

Men gawked. And shook their heads, and waited for the fireworks.

Colonel Louis R. Goodman grinned hugely. "That I am, Whip," he boomed jovially, and

the two old friends who'd not seen one another in nearly two years clasped hands. "Get

in, you little bastard. I'll buy you a beer."

"You live in a lousy neighborhood, you know that?" Whip gestured lazily from the back

seat of the jeep, leaning forward as they drove from the flight line.

"Well, I can't hardly argue with you," Goodman replied, his gaze following Whip's

gesture. "It's all pretty obvious."

It was. About them, near and far, were dispersed aircraft and teams of mechanics and air

crews in what was virtually raw desert country. Scrub trees showed haphazardly,

augmented by low, stunted plants unfamiliar to Whip. "What I don't understand," he

said to the colonel, "is why people this far back from the shooting have to live like this."

His reference was to the "permanent" frayed tents and other makeshift dwellings.

"Because we ain't got nothing better," Goodman grunted. "Hell, Whip, look around you.

See those canvas sheets over there? We don't have anything with which to build what

might even pass for a hangar. When we tear down an engine we build a tent around it,

otherwise the dust would get into everything and the engine would tear itself apart the

first time it flew." Goodman sighed. "Man, we're not just short of the right equipment, we

don't have any right equipment. This whole complex is the biggest scavenging yard you

ever saw. My people are even making their own tools, for Christ's sake. We can't get

sheet metal for repairs. The only way we've stayed in business is by stripping old cars

and trucks and cannibalizing planes we don't believe should be sent back into the air.

I've been screaming to headquarters just for the tools to do the job. Never mind that half

my men are sick to death from lousy food and our medical supplies are a joke and they

sleep with scorpions and God knows what else. They'd accept all that and just bear up

under it, if they could only do the job we need doing. And that's patching up the worn

machines and modifying the others that come in here." He cast a baleful look at his

passenger. "I imagine we'll get around to what you want before too long."

"Uh huh. Before too long."

About them, in the individual stands back from the road, were bombers standing

without purpose, awaiting long-overdue repairs. Their wings and bodies showed scars

and gaping holes, and Whip studied with his practiced eye the black punctures where

Japanese bullets and cannon shells had ripped through metal skin and structural

members, leaving the aircraft dangerously weakened until the metal could be made

whole again.

"You still carrying operational groups from here?" Whip asked.

Goodman nodded. "We do. Its a case of their patching airplanes together until they have

enough to go on a mission. We've got the 19th Bomb Group right here at Garbutt — you

can see a few of their B-17s over there — but they don't fly too often. The only way they

can stay in the air with the Japs, flying the small formations they do, is to get upstairs

where the Zeros can't hack the thin air. The problem, Whip" — and again there was that

sigh that reflected incessant, nagging problems — "is that the superchargers on those

things are a mess, and we're short of oxygen equipment, and every time they try to fly to

thirty thousand feet they're lucky to stay up."

Goodman motioned for his driver to turn left. "Over there we've got two squadrons from

the 22nd Group. Marauders. They've got the 33rd Squadron out at Antill Plains, about

twenty miles south of here. Their 2nd and 408th Squadrons are at Reid River, another

twenty miles to the south. Whip, they got an out-of-commission rate of about fifty

percent. We just can't keep those things flying without parts. Hell, when they're

grounded, the crews live with their airplanes. They got live rounds in their weapons to

keep the other crews from stripping their machines."

Lou Goodman shook his head. "Before I got into this side of the war I thought I knew

men pretty well. I didn't. I didn't know a goddamned thing about how people could put

up with absolute, hell, and do everything they could to stay in the fighting. You'd think

these crazy bastards would welcome the chance to stay the hell away from the Japs. But

it doesn't work that way. I was talking before about the 19th, the people in the B-17s.

Their morale is so low it wouldn't reach the bottom of a cat's ass. Their planes are wrecks.

I wouldn't want to fly one around the pattern. No supplies. Nothing. They were

scheduled to fly a mission up to Rabaul with ten bombers. It was the goddamndest joke

you ever saw. They scraped parts and pieces from all the planes so they could get just

two airplanes off the ground. And one of those had to turn back when the oxygen

system went out." Goodman paused and dug in a shirt pocket for a sweat-stained

cigarette. "The other plane went all the way to Rabaul."

Whip raised an eyebrow. "Alone?"

"Alone. They didn't come back either. The crew that had to turn back were almost mad

with frustration. Felt that if only they'd gone along they might all have made it."

Whip shook his head. "Don't count on it. Two B-17s is like waving a flag up at Rabaul."

"I know, I know. I'm just telling you about the crews. You've flown out of Seven-Mile,

right?"

Whip pictured one of the main airfields in Papua, the southern half of New Guinea.

Seven-Mile Drome lay seven miles outside the harbor town of Port Moresby on the south

coast of New Guinea. "Yeah, I've been there, Lou."

"Then I don't have to say anything about it, do I." It was more a statement than a

question.

"No, Lou." They both knew the score about Seven-Mile and the other fields around

Moresby, where everyone was a lot closer to the enemy. Seven-Mile was also the advance

combat base through which Australia-based bombers staged for refueling on their way

to strike at Japanese targets. Crude and rough were kind words for the field which the

Japanese used for target practice several times a week, day and night. What Whip

thought about, and he knew his thoughts were shared by Lou Goodman, was that as

bad as it was for the men who flew, it was sheer murder for those who patched and fixed

and worked to keep the Marauders and Mitchells going.

The world in all directions from Seven-Mile was a bitch. In the summer the grass burned

into brittle straw, and the only thing worse than the hordes of insects were one special

breed — the Papuan mosquitoes, which were numberless and maddening by day and

by night. A man couldn't accustom himself to the weather, because he had to endure the

weird combination of choking dust from the airstrip and dank humidity from the

surrounding jungle and the sea. Yet this was only the backdrop to the real problems.

Men can endure almost any type of weather or terrain, but they've got to have a fair

chance at their game.

Not at Seven-Mile. When the Mitchell bombers, and others, went to Seven-Mile, it was

usually to stage out of the airstrip for a series of swift and hazardous strikes against the

Japanese. They had to be swift because of enemy attacks against Seven-Mile, which were

always extremely hazardous because of the quantity and the quality of the enemy's

fighters. The pilots and air crews knew their chances for survival left much to be desired,

but few of them would have willingly exchanged places with the men who kept their

battered machines in the air.

The ground crews knew an existence limited strictly to bone-weary sleeplessness from

work day and night. The groggy state into which they fell while they worked was

broken only by the shriek of Japanese bombs or the stutter of cannon fire from Zeros

sweeping up and down, strafing at treetop height. It didn't do their morale much good to

see Japanese fighters in tight formation performing loops and other aerobatics directly

over the field in a nose-thumbing challenge for the American or Australian fighters to

come up and do battle. Which, wisely, the pilots who flew the P-39s or P-40s refused to

do. There are few ways to commit suicide faster than to try to fight a Zero from below.

Whip Russel recalled one time in particular when they came back from a mission.

Taxiing down one side of the runway he saw two Buddhalike figures in the parched

grass on the far side. There, two of his mechanics — Sergeants Charles Fuqua and

William Spiker — were sitting perfectly upright. Their legs were crossed beneath their

bodies, and they were sound asleep. These two men, and the others who worked with

them, if luck proved to be on their side, might average three hours' sleep a night when

the raids increased in tempo. They considered five hours at any time a delectable luxury.

Whip shook his head. For this moment he had shifted from the rough jeep ride to the

north, beyond Australia and across the Coral Sea to Papua and that triple-damned

operations area of Port Moresby. Those mechanics…

"Lou, you know what's worse than all this?" Whip waved his hand to take in all the

wretchedness and scrubland and rotten facilities. "Here, and at Seven-Mile, and

wherever else we've been in this godawful country?"

"I think I do," the colonel said warily, "and when I think about it I get sick."

Whip couldn't hold back the words. There was just no goddamned escape from this crap.

"It's the men, Lou. What the hell keeps them going? Working for us, the pilots and

crews, the way they do?" He spread his hands and looked at the palms as if seeing them

for the first time. "I've had these guys working with open cuts and sores in their hands,

for Christ's sake."

Goodman nodded. "Despite the fact that almost every man jack out here feels he's been

written off."

Goodman motioned for the driver to turn back to the right, to take them through the

B-17 dispersal area. The Fortresses were great ships but Russel was glad he didn't have to

drag one of those big bastards and their four engines through the air. It was like trying

to run a railroad when you flew a bomber that big. And when you sat in that left seat on

the flight deck you didn't really have the chance to fly and fight, you could only fly,

while a whole team did battle. It made you feel like a sitting duck. Not that these

Fortresses were doing very much of fighting a war, either like a sitting duck or a busted

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摘要：

WhipMARTINCAIDINforALCASAROTTOThisoneisonme...AUTHOR'SNOTEAlthoughthecharactersinthisnovelarefictional,thecombatisreal—eventhefinalgreatbattle.TherewasaB-25bombergroupverymuchliketheoneinthisbookanditfoughtwithdeadlyeffectivenessattreetopandwavetoplevel.EvenWhipRusselhashisreal-lifecounterpartinBill...

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Martin Caidin - Whip

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