“That's right. This is our new home.”
“Oh good. It's nice sitting here in the sun. Maine is so cold makes my frames ache.”
Clancy and Dedmon grinned at each other and shook their heads. Some things just defied a rational explanation. Time for a quick mission orders recap. “Profile mission everybody. We're going to hit Hawaii. We'll fly out at 40,000 feet, go to 43,000 for our bomb run then come home. Argus, radar only. No visuals.”
“How long before the rest of the group comes down Bob?” Clancy put his clip-board into its holder and settled himself into his seat.
“At least six months. And that's assuming there's no change in the Administration. Did you get your vote in?”
“Of course. As long as that?”
“General LeMay came down to inspect the base and had one of his raging furies. Reportedly he made the base commander cry. Described the married quarters here as unfit even for a particularly slovenly breed of syphilitic cockroaches and is having the whole lot torn down. The group won't move down until the enlisted married quarters are ready. Iron-Ass says the officers can wait a little, they can afford to rent off-base.”
There was a silence as Dedmon and Clancy waited nervously, glancing around to see if General LeMay was going to suddenly materialize in the cockpit. He didn't and they relaxed. “Enlisted getting their married quarters first. That's a break with tradition.” Clancy's voice was thoughtful
“General LeMay,” Dedmon reckoned they'd got away with one Iron-Ass, two would be pushing their luck “Says that we can't expect our ground crews to work the duty hours they have to while they're worried about their families. So they get priority for new living accommodation. I've seen the new quarters up at Offutt. Six-man rooms for the unmarried enlisted men, small studio apartments for the married couples. They're spartan but they look pretty good and they don't cost so much more than the old designs. I hear some of the enlisted men's wives have started calling the General 'Saint Curtis'.”
“Yeah.” Clancy's voice was disbelieving. “They don't have to work for him. Right, we've got tower clearance to taxi out. Hawaii here we come, for God, America and Saint Curtis!”
The McMullen Household, Simonstown, Republic of South Africa.
“Maisie? Where are you? Luv, I'd like you to meet Jorgie and Deke. Who are known to the world as the Management, workforce and administration of McMullen Metalworking Industries. We're bosses now.”
“It’s agreed? That's wonderful. Jorgie, Deke, John's said so much about you,”
“Nothing too awful I hope.” Maisie McMullen giggled and shook her head. “And John's told us all about you Maisie, said what a fine job you'd made of the house. Didn't do you justice though, this place is beautiful. John, your wife's got a real talent for doing a house. And for cooking too by the smell from the kitchen.”
Maisie McMullen flushed. She'd bought a standing rib of beef for the dinner tonight and stared at it, not knowing what to do. For a decade, Britain had been at war and then suffered a miserable peace. Food had been in short supply and cooking large meals was a forgotten art. The joint she'd bought had been more meat than her family had seen in a three-month. She simply didn't know how to start cooking it. In fact, she realized, she didn't really know how to cook at all. Not with real food. She could turn the rations into meals, as good as any and better than most, but real food like this? Where was she supposed to start?
Fortunately, Jorgie and Deke's wives had turned up bring some contributions for the feast and they'd learned of the problem. So Maisie had sat at the table, watched and taken notes while the two South African women had taken over her kitchen and cooked the dinner. Not that the men would ever know that, as far as they would be concerned, Maisie had cooked this meal. She'd also made a private note to get cookery lessons as quickly as possible although she'd already noted how many white households had a black cook and domestic help.
The McMullens lead the way out where the meal was waiting. The party settled down and waited while grace was said, in Afrikaans and English. Then, as he carved the joint (clumsily and not too well but nobody remarked on the fact), he picked up on the business news. “Not only have we registered the company, we've got our first contract. Ammunition boxes for Denel. It’s welding and metal-working so it fits just fine, I'm doing riveting down at the yard while Dirk and Jorgie can look after the boxes. Think we've got a good thing going here.”
“We've got some more good news John.” Maisie spoke a little diffidently, looking down at her plate.
“We have?” McMullen was curious.
“Not you John.” Maisie McMullen put her hand on her stomach. “We've got some news. Just confirmed today.”
It took a minute for the message to sink in, then the room erupted with cheers. The women patted Maisie on the pack and made clucking noises while the men took turns to pump McMullen’s hand. After the fuss settled down, he finished serving the meat and watched the rest of the feast being passed around. Eventually his own plate was filled. Meat and vegetables, more than he'd thought he'd ever see served to a person. He sighed very happily.
“Good simple, solid grub, that's what I like.”
Epilogue
The Oval Office, the White House, Washington D.C.
TRUMAN BEATS DEWEY!
“Did you see the headlines Sir?” The young woman behind the secretarial desk help up a copy of the Chicago Daily Tribune, the headline emblazoned across the front page in huge type.
“I did indeed honey. Half the country is laughing and the other half weeping. I hear Joe Kennedy swears he'll take the whole system to court. Anyway, the boss asked me to come around.”
“Yes indeed Mister Stuyvesant. If you'll just take a seat for a few minutes. The President will call for you shortly.”
It was actually a bit longer than that. Stuyvesant had a chance to read the whole of the Chicago Tribune article on Truman's defeat of President Dewey and speculate on just how many red faces there were in newspapers around the country this morning. Eventually, the phone rang and the receptionist spoke quietly. “If you'll come with me, Mister Stuyvesant, the President will see you now.”
“Congratulations Mister President. A fine win, by seven and a half points according to the latest counts. Electoral College 342 to 189.”
'Thank you, Philip. Harry Truman has already called me and conceded. In a fine, gentlemanly speech I might add. One that should be an example to everybody in this city. My new administration will make a point of finding him a post that honors his qualities. I must admit though, for the last few days, I was beginning to feel it would be I who would graciously concede. How could the press have got it so wrong?”
“Couple of things Sir. One was that they stopped polling too early, a week before the election. They assumed that people would have made their minds up by then and the picture wouldn't shift. They missed that there were two independent candidates who had a strong volume of support. People said they supported them anyway, but when push came to shove they wanted to make their vote count and went for one of the two primary candidates. Wallace's support came mostly from Democrats and what little he kept took support from them. Strom Thurmond's Dixiecrats are primarily Democrat as well but they are also the families of a lot of the boys who went to Russia and didn't come back. They don't want to see that happening again and they broke solidly for you Sir. Joe Kennedy's invectives against Strategic Air Command didn't help. The way that group saw things, it was the bombers that allowed the rest of the boys to come home.”