1630 Hours Local, 29 January 1966
The Control Tower
Bien Hoa Air Base, Republic of Vietnam
Braniff International flight B3T6, a MAC Contract Boeing 707 en route from Clark Air Base in the Philippines, had ingested a two-pound bird in its left inboard engine as it entered the traffic pattern at Bien Hoa. Sucked into the Pratt & Whitney JT3D turbofan at 200 miles per hour, the bones and guts of the shredded bird had set up an overheat condition requiring the captain to shut down the engine. It was no emergency; the big 707 flew perfectly well on three engines. Since it was inboard, the loss of thrust didn't require much rudder offset to maintain a straight heading. The 54-year-old pilot, with 24,000 hours of flying time, merely informed his roly-poly 56-year-old flight engineer to shut off the fuel to the engine as he pulled the throttle back to the stopcock position. He told his co-pilot, a trim 34-year-old ex-Navy jock, to inform Bien Hoa Tower of the shutdown and tell them a crash crew was not required.
The senior tower controller, smart enough to know better than to take any pilot's word about whether the loss of an engine was an emergency or not, promptly punched the crash alarm.
He also knew full well that the engine problem the co-pilot described meant there was no way MAC Contract B3T6 was ever going to depart the Bien Hoa runway that day which meant that the stewardesses would have to stay overnight. The knowledge that there would be real live, round-eyed, American girls on the base caused his rugged countenance to dissolve into a colossal grin.
"Yahoo," he belted out in the tower, not on the air, of course. His perplexed subordinates stared in wonder until he told them his deduction.
"Yahoo," the subordinates echoed as they reached for telephones to tell their buddies to di-di mau down to base ops ASAP if they wanted to see some real American stuff. Normally, the stews never even deplaned when off-loading their G.I. passengers at Bien Hoa.
Procedures require that after the crash alarm is punched, the controller notify Base Hospital, the Wing Commander, and the duty chaplain. However, due to the impassioned personal interest emanating from the control tower, 20 airmen knew what was inbound before the Wing Commander, 32 before the duty chaplain. By the time the big airliner stopped in front of Det 5 of the 8th Aerial Port Squadron, 51 USAF personnel were waiting. Their Wing Commander, Colonel Jake Friedlander, had to use his command jeep's siren to make way to the air stairs.
Confusion was rampant. The fighter pilots, a little late to get the word, had grabbed whatever transportation was available. Their bikes, jeeps, and crew vans edged up to the circle. Air Police security guards deployed to hold the panting crowd at bay. Doors opened and the new G.I. arrivals started down the stairs. They were bewildered by the scattered boos they received. A stern command from a senior NCO put a stop to the outburst.
The last G.I. down the steps cast oblong shadows in the late evening sun. Then came a pause, an expectant hush, a straining. Lips were licked in anticipation. There was a stir at the cabin door, they saw movement inside. The crowd leaned forward, breaths were held--then expelled as first the roly poly 56-year- old flight Engineer stepped out followed by the First Officer, as co-pilots are called in airline parlance. Knowing exactly what was going on, the two men assumed positions on each side of the platform from where they made flourishing movements with their hands toward the open door. The first stew stepped out and looked at the crowd.
"Oh shit, you guys, did you really have to do this?" Sally Churna said to her fellow crew members from between clenched teeth framed by a wide smile. Blond and rumpled, Sally maintained her dazzling smile as she began waving to the troops. The other four girls emerged. The crowd, including the senior NCOs, broke into cheers and whistles that even Bob Hope had never been accorded. Correlli from PIO elbowed his way through the crowd as he recorded the momentous event with his big Graflex cut-film camera.
As protocol dictated, the crew of the visiting aircraft waited for the captain to walk out, then followed him down the stairs. The Captain was greeted by Colonel Jake Friedlander and two of his three squadron commanders. Dietzen was flying, as was Darlington, the Director of Operations. The duty chaplain, a married Methodist, stood behind Friedlander. Doc Russell had sent his ambulance back to the hospital and stood toward the rear of the crowd with Court Bannister. Until the girls appeared, they had been chatting about Toby Parker's depression.
Friedlander and the Captain introduced themselves to one another at the foot of the air stairs. The Captain turned to his crew, "Colonel, may I present the cabin crew of Braniff MAC contract flight B3T6." He introduced each of the five girls to the Wing Commander personally and to the gathered crowd generally. The only names Friedlander really caught were that of a Tiffy Berg, Sally Churna, and Nancy Lewis.
Following their introduction to the colonel, the girls turned to look out over a sea of smiling airmen. The closest men, with face-splitting grins, doffed their hats and nodded. The girls positively lit up. The lines of exhaustion in their faces gave way to smiles that were both broad and genuine. Each girl melted a bit in her heart as she saw, here in this faraway warzone, the face of every boy she had ever known.
The Captain explained there was no way they could take off that night, and a relief airplane with engine mechanics would not arrive until late the next morning. He had arranged all this on company HF radio with Saigon while the G.I.s were deplaning. Jake Friedlander shifted his cigar and waved over the Methodist chaplain.
"Padre," he said, "you are in charge of these lovely ladies. Get them VIP quarters from Billeting and divvy 'em up for dinner at the NCO Club and the Officers Club." Friedlander then motioned to Master Sergeant Booker Washington Smith, the operations sergeant of the 3rd Tac Fighter Wing Air Police Squadron. "Smitty," he said, "fix things up at the NCO Club."
The PIO lieutenant colonel, overjoyed at prospects for favorable USAF publicity, had shown up. Friedlander told him to have at it. Friedlander then gave a few more instructions to other staff members regarding maintenance, security, and communications. He spoke for several moments into the ear of the transportation officer from the motor pool. He motioned the Officers Club manager over to give him detailed instructions regarding a Dining-In to be held this evening. Then he turned to the three male crew members, "We'll fix you guys up with bunks over at the command trailers."
Master Sergeant Smith caught his colonel's eye. Friedlander nodded assent at the unspoken request on the face of the sergeant who then quietly motioned his Air Police to let the airmen crowd around the girls. Friedlander, his staff, and the male crew members stood to one side as the girls, radiating genuine charm, happily greeted the young airmen with a "Hi, there" and "Where are you from?" There was much joyous banter and hellos. The girls couldn't believe they were giving so much enjoyment by merely talking and chatting with the young men. They shook hands and tried to talk to all of them.
They were interrupted as loud sirens and honking drew everyone's attention to the roadway leading to the ramp. Led by an Air Police jeep with flashing red lights and the siren on, was an open six-by-six truck festooned with colored paper and an American flag held proudly aloft by an airman riding in the front seat. The Motor Pool officer waved to the girls indicating they were to climb aboard. Eager airmen helped them up the back of the truck where they stood on the side seats facing out to wave to the crowd. Splitting the civilian crewmen between his jeep and that of his staff, Colonel Friedlander led the impromptu motorcade on a tour of Bien Hoa Air Base allowing the men on duty to see what good luck had materialized. After thirty minutes of joyful parading, the girls were deposited at their quarters as giant cumulus cloud formations radiated red gold from the setting sun.
That evening, after refreshing themselves, the flight deck and cabin crew members divided up and accepted dinner invitations at the NCO Club and the Officers Club. The captain, two girls, and the portly Flight Engineer went to the NCO Club escorted by Master Sergeant Smith. Colonel Friedlander had said he would stop over for a quick drink later. The ex-Navy jock First Officer, in company with Tiffy Berg, Sally Churna, and Nancy Lewis, was escorted to the Officers Club by the married Methodist chaplain, a 36-year-old captain who swallowed frequently.
By 8 PM the club was packed. At first, the drinking and the noise level were held to a minimum. There were no bicycle jousts, carrier landings, or dirty songs. Long tables with fresh sheets spread over them were hastily arranged, candles and wine magically appeared. Then it was time for the formalities.
Colonel Jacob Friedlander officially welcomed the crew of Braniff International flight B3T6 as guests to the very first 3rd Tactical Fighter Wing Dining-In. As an aside, he explained that the Dining-In tradition, borrowed from the Royal Air Force back in the big war, was introduced into the USAF by General Hap Arnold who became quite famous for his Wing Dings. The Dining-In was a ritualized, formal stag affair whose purpose was to raise morale and foster esprit de corps. They usually became, RAF style, drunken brawls soon after the Smoking Lamp was lit. When spouses attended, the title changed to Dining-Out and no drunken brawls ensued. Since in the true sense of the word the ladies present were not spouses of any of the men present, and since they were aircrew, Colonel Friedlander decided this function was a Dining-In.
After the Chaplain made the invocation, the colonel, as President of the Mess, made the proper toasts to the President, the Chief of Staff, and so on down the line to the Commander, 7th Air Force. He then introduced Mr. Vice, by tradition the lowest ranking lieutenant on the base, whose job it was to keep the Dining-In proceeding in accordance with the rules.
Then Friedlander looked around and asked for one each First Lieutenant Toby Parker to stand and be recognized. There was an embarrassed hum of questions until finally Court Bannister asked for and was granted recognition by Mr. Vice.
"Sir," he said, addressing the president of the Mess, "I believe the lieutenant in question is in the excellent hands of the III Corps Mike Force, specifically those of Major Wolfgang `the Wolf' Lochert. I don't believe he got the word about our guests or the Dining-In." Bannister sat down.
Mr. Vice pounded his gavel, a hammer, on the table and said that Captain Bannister was fined one glass of wine in that he had not asked permission of the President of the Mess to be seated.
Bannister stood and drank his fine. He remained standing.
"I note your report, Captain Bannister," Colonel Friedlander said. "Tell the lieutenant to report to me when he arrives. I have some good news for him. You may be seated." Bannister sat. The hastily devised Dining-In was in full swing.
There was no linen or crystal or well served steaks. Diners ordered the standard menu fare of hamburgers or Salisbury steak and rice from the three Vietnamese waitresses who seemed nervous and preoccupied. The fact that no one wore the prescribed formal mess dress meant nothing. Sweaty flight suits, fatigues, and khaki 1505s were definitely in order this night.
No one wore civilian clothes. Even the airline crew wore their uniforms, the men in short sleeved white shirts with epaulets and tie, the girls in the uniform variation that permitted slacks in the tropics. As the meal progressed, the wine flowed faster than anticipated, thus depleting the supply. A hasty trip by a junior officer to the NCO Club took care of that problem. Meanwhile, whiskey bottles and beer cans in profusion joined the wine bottles littering the tables.
The formal portion of the meal ended. After the President of the Mess announced the Smoking Lamp was lit, the impromptu entertainment began. Several F-100 pilots, virtuosos with guitars and ukes, sang the few clean fighter pilot songs they knew. Then the husky Motor Pool officer stunned the gathering by coaxing a beautiful rendition of the Moonlight Sonata from an old upright piano that looked as if its coat of white paint had been applied with a broom. He graciously consented to play requests and just as graciously agreed to play Fleur de Lyse at Sally Churna's suggestion. He then delivered up another beautifully rendered Moonlight Sonata. When he struck the opening chords of Moonlight Sonata for the third time in response to Colonel Friedlander's request for Roll Out the Barrel, it became obvious the one-song pianist was shitfaced.
Before appropriate measures could be taken, a horrendous flatulent quack stunned the participants as the forgotten Higgens the Homeless announced his presence from the top of a screened window. Lying on the roof and hanging his head and arms down from his vantage spot, he peered through the screen to announce further, now that he had their attention, that he personally had trained that bird, a Peking duck as a matter of fact, to vector into the engine at the proper moment to sacrifice itself for the express purpose of bringing joy and happiness to the officers and men of the 3rd Tac Fighter Wing. Higgens stopped talking and looked at the girls from his inverted position. They looked back at the apparition with dazed smiles. Tiffy waved. Higgens waved back. A collective sigh of relief was breathed by those who knew Higgens when he did not yell the demand, as was his wont, at the girls to "SHOW US YOUR TITS." "Higgens, front and center," Colonel Friedlander bellowed, clearly pleased by Higgens' restraint.
For once, Higgens the Homeless was speechless. "You mean now, Sir?" he asked in a suddenly plaintive voice from his upside down position behind the screen.
"Now," the colonel thundered. Higgens' face disappeared as he hastened to comply. The Club fell silent as he entered and reported to the Wing Commander.
"Sir, Lieutenant Higgens reporting as ordered, Sir," the short, wiry, black-haired pilot said, tossing off a snappy salute. The colonel stood up and took the cigar from his mouth.
"For the conspicuous bombastic and flatulent duck interludes you have provided this club and in honor of the fair guests we have tonight," the colonel waved his cigar at the girls, “and in honor of that kamikaze duck of yours that brought them here, you are hereby absolved of previous misdeeds and are formally invited to rejoin the Bien Hoa Air Base Officer's Open Mess. Ladies, Gentlemen, I present Lieutenant Smiggens."
Thus it became obvious the colonel was shitfaced and so began the real party led off by Smiggenhiggens, as he was to be forever known, singing a rousing Be Kind to Your Web Footed Friends accompanying himself with appropriate quacks on his battered but perfectly tuned duck call.
Caught up in the spirit of good fellowship, Fairchild, the Snake Control Officer, went to the squadron snake cage and placed Ramrod around his neck to introduce him to the Braniff crew.
"What the hell," Tiffy said, and posed for a picture with Ramrod around her neck.
Court Bannister and Doc Russell sat to one side drinking and watching the festivities. As usual, Court had beer and the Doc was on Scotch, straight up. At twenty past nine, wearing tiger suits with red, white, and blue scarves knotted at their necks, Lochert and Myers walked in with a stony-faced Parker in tow. Parker wore fatigues. He hadn't known quite what to do with his new flight suit now torn and stained with Phil Travers' blood. The torn skin of his left cheek had been pulled together with three small stitches.
The two Mike Force men put their M-16s and pistol belts on the top shelf of the grey metal coat rack next to the door. Myers carried a small flat package wrapped in brown paper. In response to Court's wave, they edged their way toward his table. Before they could get there, the pilots spotted the tiger suits and set up a great cheer. Several pressed drinks into their hands. Parker gave a fleeting smile. He looked surprised when Freeman told him he had best report to Colonel Friedlander right away. Friedlander arose as Parker approached. The crowd grew silent.
"I should chew you out," the colonel began, "for being the two percent that doesn't get the word about the Dining-In." He waved his cigar at the tables. "Instead, I have some news for you." He puffed his cigar. "I have it on good authority you are recommended for, and in all probability will receive, a high decoration for your deeds at Loc Ninh."
Great clouds of smoke from the cigar. "Furthermore, I have it on good authority that, provided you can pass the physical, you may enter a pilot training class at the end of this tour." He paused while the crowd cheered. "Finally," he said, "because of your great FAC abilities you are being released by 7th Air Force, one each Colonel Norman to be exact, to be reassigned to the new FAC school at Phan Rang where you will serve as Executive Officer to the commander."
More cheers as the pilots slapped Parker on the back. He seemed dazed by the proceedings and somewhat detached. Friedlander ordered Parker and the two Green Beret officers to come to his table and meet some people from the real world.
As he made the introductions, Toby Parker found himself staring into the amber eyes of Nancy Lewis, who did not recognize his ravaged face. She looked right through him at Wolf Lochert and Tom Myers because she recognized the tiger suits as worn only by men from Special Forces.
She held her questions until Colonel Friedlander made the introductions, then she asked Lochert and Myers if she might speak to them. They said of course, and, to the envy of the main table, led her to where Bannister and Doc Russell were sitting. Toby Parker tagged along, slightly uncomfortable with how far back in his mind he had pushed the memory of his encounter with her and Bubba Bates. Russell and Bannister stood up, Lochert held her chair, and they sat down. She asked her well-memorized question without preamble.
"Did you know Sergeant First Class Bradley L. Lewis, an advisor on Team 75 out of My Tho to the 7th ARVN Division?"
Lochert and Myers exchanged glances.
"I'm his wife," Nancy Lewis said before they could ask. "He was reported missing months ago," she added.
"You bet I knew him," said Wolf Lochert. "And a better soldier never humped the boonies."
"Knew him, Major?"
"Well, ah, yes ma'am. I don't, ah, know exactly what the Department of the Army said about his being missing, but the circumstances under which Brad disappeared don't leave much hope for his survival," Lochert said with obvious reluctance. Nancy Lewis caught at his burly arm.
"Tell me," she commanded, "tell me all you know. You're the first person I've found who knows anything about Brad." The table was quiet as Wolf began.
"There really isn't much to tell. He was out in the Delta when the Vietnamese platoon he was with got backed against a canal by the VC. I had contact with him on the radio net from the Division CP. We got some TAC air diverted to him, but the weather was going sour. A Beaver FAC could barely put in the air because the visibility was lousy in the rain. The ceiling was so low they couldn't drop bombs, and could barely see to drop low level stuff like napalm and CBU. The flight leader told the FAC he couldn't risk hitting friendlies.” He paused, wondering if he was doing the right thing telling her such details. He studied her level eyes and decided it was.
"I heard Brad tell the FAC they were taking heavy fire and were down to about twenty effectives. He said to tell the pilots to come right on in and hit whatever they could. I had the feeling that even though he was supposed to merely advise, he had actually taken charge." Lochert paused to take a swallow from a Coke Bannister handed him.
"After a while, we heard him tell the FAC the fighters were doing good, even if he was taking a few short rounds, because they were dead without them. Then his radio went out during a fighter pass." Lochert wet his lips and took Nancy Lewis's hand between his knuckly paws.
"Twelve Viets out of a platoon of 40 straggled back to My Tho that night. They were in bad shape. One was the best of the three squad leaders. He said the platoon leader, a lieutenant, and the platoon sergeant were killed along with Brad when some napalm splashed over on them." Lochert took a deep breath. "The next day, we got a few minutes on the ground from a helicopter. There had been a lot of, ah, damage done to the bodies. We brought out what we could, but we were not able to make individual identification. In accounting for those alive and the remains, we came up with three missing. So, well, we reported Brad as missing, but presumed dead." He squeezed Nancy's hand. "I'm sorry," he said. "He was a good soldier. He was the best." Myers nodded in agreement.
None of the men at the table could think of anything else to say. One simply doesn't run into surviving spouses in Vietnam and have to tell them what happened to their husbands. Via letter, yes, from the commander; maybe even a visit once Stateside for a particularly good buddy, but face to face, never.
Nancy Lewis could see the men were plainly uncomfortable. She didn't know how to tell them that somehow she felt Brad was dead.
"Thank you," she said looking from Lochert to Myers. "Let’s have a drink."
Doc Russell sprang to the bar. He used his bulk and inoffensive manner to procure Scotch doubles all around. He returned to the table in time to hear Nancy Lewis say she felt better, much better, thanks to their words and obvious esteem for her husband. Inside she felt empty and just wanted to curl up and cry herself to death; but, by God, these were Brad's people and she sure as hell was going to perform her role in the grand tradition.
"To my soldier, Brad Lewis," she said rising and holding up her glass of Scotch. The men rose. "Here, here," they intoned and drank. As there were no fireplaces or even room in the crowded club to throw a glass against the wall, they smashed their glasses on the floor, never to be sullied by a lesser purpose. Startled, but without missing a beat, Nancy Lewis did the same. Doc Russell went off for another round. Nancy decided it was up to her to change the subject.
"What was your name again?" she said, looking at Parker. She spotted his nametag. "Oh, sure, I remember you. You took on Bubba Bates at the Tan Son Nhut terminal last December. I'll never forget how sweet you were to come to my rescue," she said making no reference to her wristlock on Bubba Bates or that Toby had been slammed to the deck twice.
"Bates, huh. When did all this take place?" Lochert asked of Parker who was beginning to perk up.
"The same day I first met you, Major," Parker responded.
"Call me Wolf," Lochert said, punching Parker's arm and turning to the amber-eyed girl.
"This man," the Wolf boomed, "laid out the same Mr. Bates at the Tan Son Nhut Officers Club a short time back, and ran off with his girl," he finished up proudly. "Then, this week," the Wolf bored on, "this week he saved the collective asses of me and Tom here and some other people." Lochert stood up.
"A TOAST," he bellowed to the Club at large. Not satisfied with the latent response, he shouted in a voice that could crack steel, "A TOAST." The huge Green Beret major got his way. The Club paused in their ever intensifying merriment and watched Lochert shoulder his way to the bar and climb up. Myers walked over, ripped open the package he was carrying, and handed him two red, white, and blue scarves, identical to the ones they had at their throats.
"OUT CRAWLING IN THE JUNGLE YOU AIR FORCE PUKES COULDN'T FIND YOUR," he looked at Nancy Lewis, "COULDN'T FIND YOUR NOSE WITH BOTH HANDS. BUT IN THE AIR, IN THE AIR YOU ARE MAGNIFICENT. AND THE BEST OF ALL YOU PUKES DOESN'T EVEN WEAR WINGS." He leaned forward to point out Toby Parker who was thinking this was worse than the face-off he had with Lochert when he first met him. Myers pushed Parker up onto the bar where Lochert knotted the coveted III Corps Mike Force scarf about his neck then kissed him, French style, on both cheeks which, by now, were flaming red.
"TOBY PARKER," Lochert thundered.
"HERE, HERE," the crowd yelled.
After appropriate words, Myers tied the second scarf around the neck of Court Bannister for his air support on the two Mike Force operations and his ode on the team house wall. He did not kiss Court's cheeks.
Court steadied himself and held his Scotch glass high. "The Mike Force," he toasted.
"HERE, HERE. SHIT HOT. YAY," the crowd cheered, tossing down whatever booze was at hand.
The party was now in full swing. It began to feed upon itself and boosted even the most laggard of spirits. A drifting rain had cleansed and cooled the air. The new tape recorder was cracking out the trumpets and drums of the Tijuana Brass; real American girls graced the scene; all was well at the Bien Hoa Air Base Officers Club.
Things were more decorous in the NCO Club because Master Sergeant Booker Washington Smith said he would pure beat the living crap out of any man who dared raise his voice or in any way sully the reputation of Air Force NCOs while the girls were there. In both clubs, surprisingly, members had to get behind the bar and help serve drinks as the Vietnamese help seemed to be dogging their jobs. At the Officers Club, Doc Russell remarked it seemed as if there weren't as many on duty as when they first arrived.
Tiffy Berg had fallen in love with Ramrod. Totally oblivious to any Freudian phallic interpretation, she had wound the compliant rock python around her body in as many ways as she could think of while shadow-boxing solo versions of the Frug and Watusi within a clapping and cheering circle of bug-eyed pilots.
The poised, statuesque, blond Sally Churna only sipped the drinks that kept appearing magically at her elbow. She held another crowd of pilots spellbound as she played strip liars dice with Jack Ward and Bob Derham. So far, she had lost nothing while the hapless pilots were already barefoot and nervously fingering their flight suit zippers.
Lieutenant Donny Higgens, no longer homeless, was sitting next to Sally staring at her in rapt adoration, absently tapping his duck call on his knee. He drank little and seemed to be trying to gather up courage to ask her an important question. In due time, Sally said to herself, she would pay attention to this shy lieutenant who was so obviously smitten.
Over toward the bar, Tom Myers excused himself saying he had to get back to the team house. Nancy Lewis hugged the rugged captain goodbye. He made his way to the coat rack, took his M-16 and pistol belt, and headed out the door. In tiger suit with weapons, he looked lethal and competent and out of place among the partying pilots.
Nancy turned back to the table and thought she caught Toby staring at her. As she sat down, she realized he was detached and unfocused. He wasn't staring at her, he was staring through her. He was inexpertly and absently smoking a cigarette. She decided to concentrate on this sorrowful young man in hopes it would take her mind off her pain.
"You never wrote," she said.
"What?" Parker said. "What did you say?"
She touched his wrist. "Hey, Toby Parker, it's me. The terminal at Tan Son Nhut; Bubba Bates; remember?" As she spoke she realized Parker's face had lost all the eager and youthful enthusiasm she had seen on his first day in Vietnam.
"Oh sure, I remember," Parker said, again surprised at how long ago and remote that day seemed. He thumbed Tui's jade earring back and forth in his palm.
"Those Special Forces men think a lot of you," Nancy said when she realized he wasn't going to say anything more. "What exactly did you do?"
After a second, Parker focused on her. He looked deep into her eyes. They were wide and clear and the amber color, more than anything, reminded him of his first day in Vietnam and of his life before that day. She sensed he wanted to speak and pressed his hand.
At first his words were wooden and bare of description, and did not convey his feelings or concern. He spoke more as a chronicler of the events than a participant. He hadn't told the story of Tui or Phil Travers to anybody so he had to search for the right words. As he continued deeper into the story of the two people who meant so much to him, he again heard Piaf sing, and, later, the thump and whine and crashes of battle.
He relived hitting Travers and he saw Haskell's eyes as he died. Then heard Doctor Russell telling him at the hospital that Travers was gone. He told her of the flight suit Travers had given him and how on the first mission he had worn it Travers was killed. He barely mentioned his role in any of the events. He told how Tui saved him at the My Canh, but not how he saved the Mike Force troops. He concentrated, morbidly she thought, on Travers's death. Then she saw the hard lines leave his face and his eyes well. The torn line in his cheek looked red and puckered.
Finally, his voice was husky and the words came tumbling out as if he were trying to purge himself of memories too painful to retain. As he talked, she felt better inside. Her own recent pain subsided as she saw the haunted look slowly leave Parker's face. When he was finished, his thoughts swung back to Tui.
"This is what she gave me," he said, taking out the jade earring the métisse girl had given him before she disappeared that last night. Nancy looked at it and knew then that Parker had no more romantic illusions about her. She glanced at his face and saw him starting to retreat back to his vacant expression. She decided to see what she could do to make him smile again.
"C'mon," she said, grabbing his hand to tug him up from the table, "let’s go see what's going on."
They joined the crowd watching pilots run then jump and slide on their bellies on beer-covered tables. They were making carrier landings as taught by a real navy jock, the Braniff First Officer. He was currently instructing them how to do night carrier landings during which they had to wear a blind