but Harry looked around carefully, even taking the trouble to check their table for listening devices before whispering the results to his dad. The estimates for German jet production ranged from three hundred to three thousand per month. Either number would be fatal to the Eighth Air Force bombers. The design criteria for a new American fighter specified a top speed of 600 mph, a range of 600 miles, and delivery in a year. Almost everyone agreed that Lockheed should be given the contract. Besides General Electric, they had selected Westinghouse and Allison to begin developing jets. Finally, they estimated that a six-week course in jet aircraft would be adequate for veteran fighter pilots, with ten weeks for cadets coming right out of flying school.
Harry and Vance went on to talk earnestly about Tom for more than an hour, assessing his chances. Both talked optimistically; neither felt that way.
Finally Harry asked, “Well, Dad, did I embarrass you today?”
“No, you know you did well. I was surprised at Crawford, though; he should not have tried to trip you up like that. You didn’t have anything to do with rejecting Nate’s engine. You probably would have supported it, since you saw the papers on it back home.”
“Crawford’s angry, Dad, and he has some right to be. He did most of the work on getting the Whittle engine over here, then he didn’t get promoted, and he got assigned to some minor jobs back at Pratt & Whitney as a plant representative. I asked him to the meeting because I value his experience. It was probably a mistake.”
“Well, the advice he gave you is pretty good, and it coincides with the group’s consensus. If you can turn theproject over to Lockheed, I think Kelly Johnson and his team can whip up a fighter that will match the Germans’.”
“I’m sure they can—but not in time. If the Germans get a few hundred Messerschmitt 262s operational by mid-1943, you can kiss the American bombing campaigns good-bye. There’s no way the Fortress or the Liberators could operate against them, even if we get a long-range escort fighter delivered. And they’ll figure out a way to make a night fighter out of it, too, to make it tough on the Royal Air Force.”
Vance nodded. “You’re exactly right. I agree one hundred percent! There’s got to be some way to slow them down; bombing the factories might do it, but they are good at dispersal now and getting better. We’ll have to come up with something to trump their ace.”
They sipped Budweisers together. It was unusual; neither man drank as a rule, and they had not previously drunk together. Vance acknowledged this, saying, “A sign of the times, us drinking beer together. Wish Tom was here to join us.”
Unexpectedly, Harry looked up and said, “Anyone else you’d like to have here, Dad?”
Vance choked on his beer. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
Harry looked uncomfortable and said, “Nothing, just making conversation.”
Vance wondered if Harry was hinting about Madeline. He toyed with the idea of telling Harry all about it but decided against it. There was time enough for that when Tom came back. When, not if.
October 17, 1942, Guadalcanal
“Think, dammit; think.” Lieutenant Tom Shannon, sunburned, dirty, and starving, knew that his time had come. He would either make a break for the beautifulConsolidated PBY streaming in at wave-top level or die trying. Twenty minutes before, he had signaled the Catalina as it passed overhead. The flying boat had returned his signal, but had then, to his bitter disappointment, flown off directly to the north. Now he saw it low on the horizon, hurtling south toward the island to pick him up.
His dogfight seemed like months ago. A flight of three Zeros had thundered out of the sun, nose guns winking furiously, the wing-mounted cannon burping slow but steady. He had turned into the flight and sawed the lead Zero in half with a single burst, but the enemy fire had smashed his oil
Harry and Vance went on to talk earnestly about Tom for more than an hour, assessing his chances. Both talked optimistically; neither felt that way.
Finally Harry asked, “Well, Dad, did I embarrass you today?”
“No, you know you did well. I was surprised at Crawford, though; he should not have tried to trip you up like that. You didn’t have anything to do with rejecting Nate’s engine. You probably would have supported it, since you saw the papers on it back home.”
“Crawford’s angry, Dad, and he has some right to be. He did most of the work on getting the Whittle engine over here, then he didn’t get promoted, and he got assigned to some minor jobs back at Pratt & Whitney as a plant representative. I asked him to the meeting because I value his experience. It was probably a mistake.”
“Well, the advice he gave you is pretty good, and it coincides with the group’s consensus. If you can turn theproject over to Lockheed, I think Kelly Johnson and his team can whip up a fighter that will match the Germans’.”
“I’m sure they can—but not in time. If the Germans get a few hundred Messerschmitt 262s operational by mid-1943, you can kiss the American bombing campaigns good-bye. There’s no way the Fortress or the Liberators could operate against them, even if we get a long-range escort fighter delivered. And they’ll figure out a way to make a night fighter out of it, too, to make it tough on the Royal Air Force.”
Vance nodded. “You’re exactly right. I agree one hundred percent! There’s got to be some way to slow them down; bombing the factories might do it, but they are good at dispersal now and getting better. We’ll have to come up with something to trump their ace.”
They sipped Budweisers together. It was unusual; neither man drank as a rule, and they had not previously drunk together. Vance acknowledged this, saying, “A sign of the times, us drinking beer together. Wish Tom was here to join us.”
Unexpectedly, Harry looked up and said, “Anyone else you’d like to have here, Dad?”
Vance choked on his beer. “What the hell do you mean by that?”
Harry looked uncomfortable and said, “Nothing, just making conversation.”
Vance wondered if Harry was hinting about Madeline. He toyed with the idea of telling Harry all about it but decided against it. There was time enough for that when Tom came back. When, not if.
October 17, 1942, Guadalcanal
“Think, dammit; think.” Lieutenant Tom Shannon, sunburned, dirty, and starving, knew that his time had come. He would either make a break for the beautifulConsolidated PBY streaming in at wave-top level or die trying. Twenty minutes before, he had signaled the Catalina as it passed overhead. The flying boat had returned his signal, but had then, to his bitter disappointment, flown off directly to the north. Now he saw it low on the horizon, hurtling south toward the island to pick him up.
His dogfight seemed like months ago. A flight of three Zeros had thundered out of the sun, nose guns winking furiously, the wing-mounted cannon burping slow but steady. He had turned into the flight and sawed the lead Zero in half with a single burst, but the enemy fire had smashed his oil
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