“All he wanted to do was go to bed with me. I couldn’t do it. He was just too possessive. Not only that, but I made a vow to my father that I would stay pure until my wedding day. I’m a twenty-five-year-old virgin. In this day and age, you probably think that’s funny.”
David answered quickly. “Not at all. I think that’s very honorable and proper.”
“You do?” She turned to him.
“Yep. The man who marries you will be a lucky man. You must love your father very much to make such an important vow.”
“I do love him. What about you? Do you love your father?”
David took a long time to answer the biting question. “He’s a difficult man. We haven’t got along since I moved to Japan. I still don’t know about this visit. I wish my mother would come alone. She’s a lot more fun and… more accepting of others, regardless of, well, you know.”
She nodded. “I know. Race, creed, religion, and whatever.”
“Exactly.” He took her in his arms. “Look, can we talk about something else?”
Chapter eight
PACIFIC OCEAN
The B-29 commander knew that darkness would surround the bomber for another two hours. They were approaching the half-way point of their mission.
He swung his attention to the transmitter control box on the fuselage to his left. He turned the transpower switch to ON and set the frequency selector switch to the desired low-frequency band. Then he set the TONE-CW-VOICE switch to TONE. All was in order to transmit an important message to Iwo Jima. He pushed the throat mike to his Adam’s apple with his left hand and with his right thumb pressed the PUSH-TO-TALK switch on the control wheel.
“HAWKEYE THREE-SIX TO BAKER TWO. FAT BABY GETTING SPANKED,” he said in a slow voice. The commander didn’t bother to wait for a reply. Due to previous orders, he knew that no one would answer. The receiving station’s instructions were only to absorb the message.
The commander nodded at the flight engineer, who left his chair and went into the next compartment. The engineer winked at the radio operator on his left. He stopped by the edge of the hatchway that led to the bomb bay. There he was met by an individual in glasses and flight gear, coming through the tunnel above him. His nickname was “Four Eyes.” The two opened the hatch towards them and crawled in. Now they were inside the dark and wind-whistling bomb bay, their backs to the open hatch. Attached to the top of the bomb rack was a long, six-ton, cylinder-shaped metal object. With the help of a strong flashlight, the man in glasses read silently from a piece of paper:
Checklist for loading charge in plane with special breech plug (after all 0-3 tests were complete)
1. Check that green plugs were installed.
2. Remove rear plate.
3. Remove armor plate.
4. Insert breech wrench in breech plug.
5. Unscrew breech plug, place on rubber pad.
6. Insert charge, 4 sections, red ends to breech.
7. Insert breech plug and tighten home.
8. Connect firing line.
9. Install armor plate.
10. Install rear plate.
11. Remove and secure catwalk and tools.
Four Eyes took some tools from the metal box left inside the bay and with the flight engineer as his assistant, went to work on the object. After a few minutes, the engineer stuck a hand through the hatch and held up three fingers for the radio operator to see, who in turn pressed his intercom.
“NUMBER THREE COMPLETE, COMMANDER.”
“ROGER.”
The commander’s thumb went to the PUSH-TO-TALK switch. “HAWKEYE THREE-SIX TO BAKER TWO. NUMBER THREE COMPLETE.”
By the time Four Eyes reached the point of injecting the gunpowder and charge, he wiped his brow and took a deep breath to calm himself.
“Steady, boy,” the flight engineer encouraged him as he handed the perspiring man the proper wrench.
Four Eyes followed step Number Six carefully. Finally, he inserted the gunpowder into the four sections, connected the firing line, and with exactly sixteen turns tightened the breech plate.
The flight engineer stuck a clenched fist through the hatch.
“NUMBER EIGHT DOWN, COMMANDER,” the radio operator said.
“Here we go again,” Les Shilling said to himself. Punching through the F-18’s radio frequencies, he tried to contact the B-29, only 2,000 yards astern to the bomber at two o’clock high.
“ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE TO TWO-NINE-SIX-FIVE-FOUR-SIX. DO YOU READ?”
Les had no choice but to try contacting the B-29 by using its six-digit original factory numbers as seen and documented from the photos. After some minutes, he heard what was probably the bomber trying to make contact on a low-frequency band with another party, which wasn’t answering.
He would wait… and listen in.
Working quickly now, Four Eyes tightened the armor and rear plates.
“THAT’S IT, COMMANDER.”
“HAWKEYE THREE-SIX TO BAKER TWO. FAT BABY WIRED FOR SOUND.”
The flight engineer patted Four Eyes on the back. Wiping his brow with a handkerchief, Four Eyes looked relieved the job was over. All that was left — later — was to exchange the green plugs for red ones.
Les had something to go on now. “ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE TO HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. DO YOU READ?”
An answer came quickly. “ZULU TWO-FOUR-THREE. THIS IS HAWKEYE THREE-SIX. WHO ARE YOU? OVER.”
“I WAS GOING TO ASK YOU THE SAME QUESTION. WHAT ARE YOU DOING OUT HERE IN THAT OLD CRATE? OVER.”
The commander glanced across at his pilot. “What’s with this joker? What kind of callsign is Zulu with three numbers?”
“Zulu!” the pilot said.
“Yeah. Doesn’t he know the Able-Baker alphabet?”
“Guess not. How dare he call our airplane a crate.”
“Yeah. Yuh see anything?” the commander asked.
The two pilots strained into the night sky through the Plexiglas to either side.
Nothing.
“COMMANDER TO TAIL GUNNER. DO YOU SEE SOMEONE FOLLOWING US?”
“YES, SIR. THERE’S SOMETHING OUT THERE. A FIGHTER, I THINK. HE’S STAYING BACK AT 2,000 YARDS.”
“NO ID?”
“NO, SIR. TOO FAR AND TOO DARK.”
The commander took a breath and pressed the R/T. “CRATE, HUH? WHAT DO YOU WANT, LITTLE FRIEND? IF YOU ARE A FRIEND.”
“I’VE CAUGHT UP TO YOU. NOW TURN AROUND AND LAND IT.”
The two pilots exchanged bewildered glances.
“Caught up to us? What’s with him?” the commander wanted to know.
The pilot shrugged. “Maybe it means an abort.”
“An abort?”
“We’re out of radio range. Maybe something’s gone wrong. He does sound American.”
“I REPEAT. TURN HER AROUND. IF YOU DON’T I’LL BE FORCED TO TAKE ACTION.”
“ARE YOU AMERICAN?” the commander answered.
“AFFIRMATIVE. WHY?”
“HOW MANY HOME RUNS DID BABE RUTH HIT IN 1927?”
Les couldn’t believe his ears. These guys were really playing the game to the hilt. Little Friend was an American World War Two term for a friendly fighter. Big Friend for a friendly bomber. And asking how many home runs Babe Ruth hit in 1927 meant that these guys were trying to find out if he was an American or not.
Les shrugged. Sure, he’d go along with them. “THE BABE HIT SIXTY THAT YEAR, BIG FRIEND.”
“LET’S HAVE A LOOK AT YUH, LITTLE FRIEND. COME UP ON PORT.”
“LAST TIME WE DID, YOUR TAIL GUNNER TOOK A SHOT AT MY WINGMAN.”
“THAT WAS YOU, WAS IT? COME ON UP. WE WON’T BITE.”
Shilling pushed the throttle forward and eased through the night sky. In seconds, the B-29 grew larger through the canopy. Twenty-five yards off and above the B-29’s long port wing, he throttled back.