In that respect, the Curtiss-Wright Company came to their assistance across the chasm between worlds. They’d foreseen the need to assemble the planes inades, mitive conditions and done everything they could to ease the process. The engine was already installed on the fuselage assembly, and the landing gear was likewise mounted in the wing. Each crate also contained a hefty volume of assembly instructions. The problem was getting the two bulky, heavy objects suspended, properly oriented, and bolted together. After that, it was a supposedly simple matter of installing the tail surfaces, propeller, and attaching all the hydraulic, electrical, and cable connections-supposedly. Without a proper building to work in, most of the heavy stuff was being done in the open air with a pair of mighty timber hoists Ben designed on wheels of their own, that could be moved from one crate to the next. In this manner, a crate was cracked, the top and sides removed, and the contents inspected. If found satisfactory, one of the hoists was manhandled into position by dozens of’Cats, either pushing or pulling until it stood ready to lift the assembly from the iron brace cradling it. With several chain hoists, lifting the heavy wing or fuselage wasn’t that hard. Moving the two together and positioning them just so was an unmitigated bitch.
“Easy there, you pack of fuzzy runts!” Ben roared. “Stop! Belay! Quit lowering the damn thing!” He was heaving on a tagline, trying to torque the tail ever so slightly to the left as a fuselage descended toward a wing. What seemed a gallon of sweat had just burst through his eyebrows and gushed into his eyes. “Just hold on a second, wilya?” he said less forcefully. “Here, take this a minute,” he growled to a swarthy, 3rd Pursuit Squadron Lemurian beside him, handing over the rope. “Keep the same tension,” he warned, then trotted over to a bench where his grimy T-shirt was wadded into a ball, retrieved it, and sopped up the sweat on his face. Walking around the port wing, he studied how the fuselage looked as it neared the leading edge. “Okay,” he said grudgingly, “that’s not so bad. Start her down again, but take it easy!”
He was trying something new on this one. Instead of attempting to bolt two free-swinging structures together, they’d blocked up the wing with the landing gear already down and locked. This way, the procedure wasn’t quite the… kaleidoscope of motion the first attempts had been, but now all the adjustments had to be applied to the fuselage as it came down.
“Easy does it!” he crooned, watching the gap narrow. “Hey, you back at the tail, a little more left!”
“My left, you left?” cried the ’Cat he’d given the rope.
“You lef… Your left, you nitwit!” He studied the correction. “Okay, keep her coming… down… down…” There was the slightest gasp of painted aluminum coming together, then a creaking groan as the wing began bearing weight. “Stop!” he shouted. He sighed heavily and wiped his face again. “There! See if you can wiggle the front bolts in; then we’ll let her down some more for the rest.”
Two ’Cats scampered under the big, flared cowl. “Ow!” one cried.
“Yeah,” Ben said. “Watch where you put your hands; that skin’s hot! You other fellas, soon as that’s secure, get some shade and water!” He turned back to the bench.
“You Colonel Mallory?” asked a tall, thin man he’d never seen.
“Yeah… Say! You must be Jack Mackey! Adar told me to expect you.”
The man saluted. “Second Lieutenant Jack Mackey, reporting as ordered, sir!”
Ben returned the salute, then waved it aside, grinning. “You can forget that stuff unless there’s Navy tpes around. You like Jack or Mack?”
“Mack.”
“Mine’s Ben,” Mallory said, sticking out his hand. They shook. “Where’s your pal?” he asked. “They said there’d be two of you.”
Mack tilted his head. “He’s over there, with the ‘Navy type’-Mr. Sandison. He told me to come see you. Sergeant Dixon’ll be along. He’s the best crew chief in the business. Stayed over there to make some suggestions, I think.” He shook his head. “He really needs to take it easy, sir.”
“The way I heard it, the Japs gave you a rough time,” Ben said grimly.
Mack forced a brittle smile. “The way I heard it, things haven’t been too rosy around here either.”
Ben nodded. “I guess neither one of us knows the half of it, do we?”
“No, sir.”
“C’mon, let’s go collect Sergeant Dixon and Mr. Sandison and find some shade.” He raised his voice. “Hey, you ’Cats, take five… or ten. Catch some shade, but don’t run off! We still have work to do, and then more ground school!” Several Lemurians, mostly cadets, had gathered around the two humans, their large eyes going back and forth between the speakers. Ben suddenly noticed a few of them blinking.. . well, not hostility, but something close.
“Hey, what’s with you guys?” he asked, surprised. He focused on one, a “Navy” jg whose name had somehow become “Soupy.” He was already a pilot with PatWing 1. “What gives?”
“With respect, Col-nol, that’s what we want to know.”
“Huh?”
Soupy looked at the fighter they’d been working on, his ears slightly back. “We hear scuttlebutt. These guys may be just the first of more ‘old world’ Amer-i-caans show up here. That’s swell, but I went to Chill-Chaap, bust my ass, fight swamp lizards, puke on crummy ship. I keep bust my ass, build Pee-Forties.” Soupy’s tail swished. “I don’t volunteer for all that to watch some skinny guy, just show up, fly my plane!”
For a moment, Ben was speechless. Sure, he’d been ecstatic to learn there were other pursuit pilots in the world, real ones, with combat experience. The resource they represented was priceless. He didn’t know how many there were yet; one more was twice as many as they’d had… but Soupy had a valid point.
“That’s not your plane, Lieutenant,” he finally said, “it’s mine! Look up there on the nose and you’ll see where I chalked an M when we first opened the crate back at Chill-Chap. M means ‘Mine.’ It means ‘Mallory.’ As a matter of fact, you open up any of those crates and you might as well imagine an invisible M scratched on every one, because they’re all mine! You want to chalk an S, or paint a naked picture of your girl on one”-there were chitters of amusement-“you’re going to by God earn it in the air!” He shook his head. “I guarantee you’ve earned a shot-all of you have-but so have Lieutenant Mackey and any other experienced pilots who show up here, because right now, they know more than you.” He looked at Mack. “That’s going to change. If you or anyone else wants to fly these ships we’ve worked so hard to save, you’re first going to help me teach these ’Cats every single thing you know about them. After that, it’s up for grabs, and don’t expect it to be a shoo-in. ’Cats are natural born acrobats, and I’ve seen them translate that into flying.” He looked at Soupy and e others gathered round. “That’s the deal.”
Soupy was nodding. “Okay, Skipper. Just so long as it fair. Good to meecha, Lieuten-aant Maa-kee.”
“Uh… thanks,” Mack said, watching the “deputation” depart.
“Oh boy,” said Ben, chuckling. “Let’s hit the shade,” he shouted, so Bernie could hear. Once under a grove of trees with palmated leaves beyond the line of crates, Ben offered Mack a rough-looking, but comfortable lounge chair and poured him a mug of cool water from a carafe nestled in a damp cloth. He saw Sandison approaching, walking slowly and accompanying another thin man.