Force, headed toward Ekron trailing smoke.
Marshall hit the ground, rolling as he punched the quick release button on his parachute harness. He'd somersaulted to a stop, and lay still for a moment, eyes closed, catching his breath, gingerly trying to determine if he'd been wounded or injured. He opened his eyes to a Roman circus scene. A scowling gladiator-muscled farmer was poised with a pitchfork over his throat, about to pin him to the ground forever. Behind the farmer an angry group had gathered, muttering ominously. He thought he understood the Hebrew word for Egyptian.
Marshall closed his eyes, wishing that his Luftwaffe flying gear had some Israeli insignia.
When he opened his eyes again, the pitchfork was still there and the muttering was growing louder. He took a breath and shouted the only Jewish words he could remember: "Gefilte fish, gefilte fish," and then, in English, "I'm an American."
Putting down the pitchfork, the farmer said in a cultivated accent, "Why didn't you say so? You're the damnedest, blackest American I've ever seen. Thought you were one of the Gyppo bomber pilots. I was within a toucher of pronging you."
Marshall told the story to Riley that night at the pilot's hangout, the Atom Bar in Tel Aviv. Bear laughed and said, "I tan so easily, I'd better watch it. In a week, you'll look like a Swede next to me."
They were quiet for a while and Marshall said, "You know, that makes four for me. One more and I'll be an ace."
"Don't bust your ass getting there, John. Being an ace isn't everything."
"That's easy for you to say. You're already one. But there's never been a Negro ace. I'm going to be the first one."
"I hope you run out of wars first, John. Besides, the Air Force won't give you official credit for these Gyppos."
Then, more seriously, "John, I owe you a lot. If you hadn't blown that Spit off my tail, I'd have had it. My engine was already cooking; I'd never have been able to fight them off."
"Glad to do it."
"I know that. But I want you to know you've got a friend for life. I'll never forget it."
Marshall was sure he would not.
*
Nashville, Tennessee/June 5, 1948
Milo Ruddick glanced at the sign and smiled approvingly.
" 'RaceCo,' eh? Good name. Who's chairman of the board?"
"I am, sir. Bob is the president and Troy is the treasurer."
"Well, it's his money, I don't blame him for wanting to be treasurer. How much has he spent so far?"
Coleman nodded his head sagely and whispered, "About a quarter of a million."
Ruddick whistled. "Whooee! Well, I know a good old boy like Troy has figured out some way to charge it off to the government. But I thought surplus airplanes were dirt cheap."
Letting the sarcasm pass, Coleman said, "The planes were cheap enough; we got four Sidewinders for six hundred bucks apiece from the storage yard at Kingman. But it takes dough to modify them."
"How they coming along?" Milo always dropped into his Little Rock drawl whenever he was enjoying himself.
"Great. We've kept two stock, for trainers, and Abe Corrson, one of the all-time great speed merchants from the prewar Cleveland air races, is converting two into racers. Troy's named them Viper I and Viper II."
"Can I meet him?"
They walked into the brightly lit shop where Corrson was bending over a workbench, and Ruddick whispered, "Looks like Tony Galento."
The mechanic had the ominous aura of an all-night filling station operator, with a sloping brow, beer belly, and a once-powerful physique covered by hair that tufted into surrealistic topiary art around his tattoos. He barked a few orders and walked away from the team of mechanics busy transforming two obsolete fighters into racing machines, Sidewinders into Vipers.
After the introductions, Coleman asked, "What are you working on now, Abe?"
Fat as he was, Corrson was a ruthless specialist in airplane weight reduction. "We're knocking off pounds. I got them stripping every surplus ounce. We're pulling all the war gear—gun mounts, firing
Marshall hit the ground, rolling as he punched the quick release button on his parachute harness. He'd somersaulted to a stop, and lay still for a moment, eyes closed, catching his breath, gingerly trying to determine if he'd been wounded or injured. He opened his eyes to a Roman circus scene. A scowling gladiator-muscled farmer was poised with a pitchfork over his throat, about to pin him to the ground forever. Behind the farmer an angry group had gathered, muttering ominously. He thought he understood the Hebrew word for Egyptian.
Marshall closed his eyes, wishing that his Luftwaffe flying gear had some Israeli insignia.
When he opened his eyes again, the pitchfork was still there and the muttering was growing louder. He took a breath and shouted the only Jewish words he could remember: "Gefilte fish, gefilte fish," and then, in English, "I'm an American."
Putting down the pitchfork, the farmer said in a cultivated accent, "Why didn't you say so? You're the damnedest, blackest American I've ever seen. Thought you were one of the Gyppo bomber pilots. I was within a toucher of pronging you."
Marshall told the story to Riley that night at the pilot's hangout, the Atom Bar in Tel Aviv. Bear laughed and said, "I tan so easily, I'd better watch it. In a week, you'll look like a Swede next to me."
They were quiet for a while and Marshall said, "You know, that makes four for me. One more and I'll be an ace."
"Don't bust your ass getting there, John. Being an ace isn't everything."
"That's easy for you to say. You're already one. But there's never been a Negro ace. I'm going to be the first one."
"I hope you run out of wars first, John. Besides, the Air Force won't give you official credit for these Gyppos."
Then, more seriously, "John, I owe you a lot. If you hadn't blown that Spit off my tail, I'd have had it. My engine was already cooking; I'd never have been able to fight them off."
"Glad to do it."
"I know that. But I want you to know you've got a friend for life. I'll never forget it."
Marshall was sure he would not.
*
Nashville, Tennessee/June 5, 1948
Milo Ruddick glanced at the sign and smiled approvingly.
" 'RaceCo,' eh? Good name. Who's chairman of the board?"
"I am, sir. Bob is the president and Troy is the treasurer."
"Well, it's his money, I don't blame him for wanting to be treasurer. How much has he spent so far?"
Coleman nodded his head sagely and whispered, "About a quarter of a million."
Ruddick whistled. "Whooee! Well, I know a good old boy like Troy has figured out some way to charge it off to the government. But I thought surplus airplanes were dirt cheap."
Letting the sarcasm pass, Coleman said, "The planes were cheap enough; we got four Sidewinders for six hundred bucks apiece from the storage yard at Kingman. But it takes dough to modify them."
"How they coming along?" Milo always dropped into his Little Rock drawl whenever he was enjoying himself.
"Great. We've kept two stock, for trainers, and Abe Corrson, one of the all-time great speed merchants from the prewar Cleveland air races, is converting two into racers. Troy's named them Viper I and Viper II."
"Can I meet him?"
They walked into the brightly lit shop where Corrson was bending over a workbench, and Ruddick whispered, "Looks like Tony Galento."
The mechanic had the ominous aura of an all-night filling station operator, with a sloping brow, beer belly, and a once-powerful physique covered by hair that tufted into surrealistic topiary art around his tattoos. He barked a few orders and walked away from the team of mechanics busy transforming two obsolete fighters into racing machines, Sidewinders into Vipers.
After the introductions, Coleman asked, "What are you working on now, Abe?"
Fat as he was, Corrson was a ruthless specialist in airplane weight reduction. "We're knocking off pounds. I got them stripping every surplus ounce. We're pulling all the war gear—gun mounts, firing
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