There were half a dozen Quonset huts and a homemade arrangement of tent canvas and wooden supports that obviously served as some sort of hangar, or at least a means to work on engines out of the snow and rain.
As the jeep approached the area, the B-25 he had seen land taxied down a dirt taxiway, turned around with a roar of its engines, and stopped. Three sailors–it took Darmstadter a moment to be sure that’s what they really were–trotted up to the B-25 and started to tie it down and put chocks in place. The crew door dropped open and an Air Corps officer jumped to the ground. Darmstadter waited for the rest of the crew to come out, and then, when the pilot turned and pushed the door closed, he was forced to conclude that, in violation of regulations–and, as far as he was concerned, common sense–the B-25 had been flown without either a co-pilot or a flight engineer.
The jeep, all this time, had been moving.
“This must be it, Lieutenant,” the jeep driver said, and pointed to a small sign reading simply” orderly Room” nailed to the door of one of the Quonsets.
“I’ll see,” Darmstadter said, and got out of the jeep and walked to the Quonset.
He knocked and was told to come in. Inside were two Navy enlisted men, three Air Corps enlisted men, and three naval officers, all three of them wearing gold naval aviator’s wings. Two of them were wearing USN fur-collared leather, zipper jackets. The third wore a navy blouse, with pilot’s wings, the gold sleeve stripes of a lieutenant commander, and an impressive row of ribbons, Some of them Darmstadter had never seen before, but he recognized both the Distinguished Flying Cross and the Purple Heart.
Darmstadter saluted.
“Sir, I’m looking for the 402nd Composite Wing.”
“You’ve found it, Lieutenant,” the Navy flyer with the DFC said. He offered his hand.
“I’m Commander Bitter.”
“How do you do, Sir,” Darmstadter said.
“You must be Darmstadter,” the lieutenant commander said.
“Yes, Sir,” Darmstadter said. He handed over a Certified True Copy of the teletype message from Eighth Air Force.
The door opened and a tall Air Corps officer, a major, the one Darmstadter had seen climb out of the B-25, entered the Quonset hut. For the first time, Darmstadter got a good look at his leather A-2 jacket. There was a Chinese flag and what was apparently some kind of a message in Chinese characters painted on the back.
“What the hell are you doing flying in that shit?” one of the other Navy flyers said. He was the oldest of the three, a ruddy-faced middle-aged man.
“Oh, ye of little faith!” the Air Corps major said, then turned to Darmstadter.
“You must be Darmstadter.”
“Yes, Sir,” Darmstadter said.
“I could tell because you looked confused,” the major said.
“And like the kind of guy who would dump a C-45.” He paused a moment.
“You’re in good company, Lieutenant. Commander Bitter also dumped one, didn’t you, Commander?”
The middle-aged Navy flyer laughed.
“Goddamn, I’d forgotten about that,” he said.
“He did, didn’t he?”
“Presumably,” Commander Bitter said, his voice revealing that he was a little annoyed at the reference to a dumped C-45, “you’re going to explain what this is all about?”
“I’m going to borrow Dolan for a couple of days,” the major said, and then, as if he had just remembered his manners, offered his hand to Darmstadter.
“I’m Dick Canidy, Darmstadter. Welcome aboard.”
“Sir,” Darmstadter said, “I’m a little confused.”
“So am I,” Commander Bitter said.
“Where are you and Dolan going?”
“An island called Vis in the Adriatic Sea,” Canidy said, then turned to Darmstadter.
“You checked out in the B-25, Darmstadter?”
“No, Sir,” Darmstadter said.
“I’ve never even been in one.”
“Fine,” the major said.
“I was afraid you might have picked up some bootleg time.”
Darmstadter was now wholly confused.
“No, Sir,” he said.
“Eric needs a ride home,” Canidy said.
“We’re going to take Lieutenant Darmstadter along with us.”
“He just said he’s never even been in a B-25,” Commander Bitter said.
“That’s the whole idea,” Canidy replied. He turned to face Darmstadter.