mine—but there were times when he insisted upon living in a man’s world and I think that much of his resolute determination to follow the campfires rather than the bridge parties had been deeply ingrained in me. I had always liked aviation meetings like the ones at Itami. I liked evenings in Bachelor Officers’ Quarters. I liked going with Mike to the little fish restaurant. And I liked getting a gang together on the spur of the moment, racing through the darkJapanese night and winding up at some American movie in Osaka or Kyoto. Most of all I enjoyed working at the airstrip when somebody I knew in Korea boomed in with the latest hot scoop.
For example, one day a big Swede who flew an Air Force C-47 as a taxicab from one Korean air base to the next arrived in Itami and we had a long night of laughing about some of our experiences in that dismal country. I especially remembered the time he was ferrying a bunch of us into Seoul on a rainy day. The cloud cover was broken and there were only about five holes through which you could descend to the island in the middle of the river where the airstrip was. We got tied up behind a Marine pilot who had never flown into Seoul before and he was being extra cautious. He missed the first hole through the clouds, he missed the second and damned if he didn’t miss the third. The Swede piloting our plane began to get irritated and he shouted to the tower, “For Christ sake, tell junior to land that kite.” When we landed the Marine was waiting for us and demanded to know who had called him junior. We looked among us to see who was tallest and a six-foot-four Air Force man stepped forward and said, “I called you junior. You were screwing up the procession.” The Marine looked up at the big man and said, “I’m new around here. I was looking for the island.” The real big man said, “I’m glad you found it cause we damned near ran out of gas.” I started to laugh and for a minute it looked like a fight and all the rest of the time we were in Korea whenever we saw a Marine plane some wise guy would yell, “There goes junior.” I told Mike Bailey about this but he didn’t think it funny. Living with these pilots again I honestly did not want to go into Kobe and sit around a fancy officers club and try to explain to Mrs. Webster why I wasn’t courting her daughter.
But that’s what I had to do. In his office the general asked me a lot of trivial questions he couldn’t possibly have been interested in and then led me down to the Cadillac. At dinner I looked for Eileen but he said she was in Kyoto visiting a museum and wouldn’t be able to join us. I looked at Mrs. Webster eating her shrimp cocktail and lost my appetite.
It was a chilly meal and after dessert the general excused himself to do some paperwork and I observed silently, “If my father ever becomes Chief-of-Staff I’ll warn him not to put Mark Webster in charge of intelligence, because he sure telegraphs his hand.”
Mrs. Webster didn’t bother to telegraph hers. When we got toher apartment she asked bluntly, “What’s wrong between you and Eileen?”
“I’m sure she must have told you.”
“Lloyd, don’t be evasive. You haven’t seen her in more than a week.”
It was obvious that this was one time when I’d better stick to the truth. I said, “We had a quarrel. She told me…”
“A quarrel? Whatever about?”
I gulped and said, “She’s afraid I’m too much like my father.” Mrs. Webster started at my honesty but made no move to stop me so I finished. “And I think she’s—too bossy.” There was something in the inflection of this sentence that betrayed clearly the fact that I thought Eileen was too damned much like her mother. But Mrs. Webster never batted an eye.
So I added, “And then I’ve been working.”
“Ridiculous,” she snapped. “Mark found you this job because there wasn’t any work attached to it.”
“If that’s why I got it…” I began with standard
For example, one day a big Swede who flew an Air Force C-47 as a taxicab from one Korean air base to the next arrived in Itami and we had a long night of laughing about some of our experiences in that dismal country. I especially remembered the time he was ferrying a bunch of us into Seoul on a rainy day. The cloud cover was broken and there were only about five holes through which you could descend to the island in the middle of the river where the airstrip was. We got tied up behind a Marine pilot who had never flown into Seoul before and he was being extra cautious. He missed the first hole through the clouds, he missed the second and damned if he didn’t miss the third. The Swede piloting our plane began to get irritated and he shouted to the tower, “For Christ sake, tell junior to land that kite.” When we landed the Marine was waiting for us and demanded to know who had called him junior. We looked among us to see who was tallest and a six-foot-four Air Force man stepped forward and said, “I called you junior. You were screwing up the procession.” The Marine looked up at the big man and said, “I’m new around here. I was looking for the island.” The real big man said, “I’m glad you found it cause we damned near ran out of gas.” I started to laugh and for a minute it looked like a fight and all the rest of the time we were in Korea whenever we saw a Marine plane some wise guy would yell, “There goes junior.” I told Mike Bailey about this but he didn’t think it funny. Living with these pilots again I honestly did not want to go into Kobe and sit around a fancy officers club and try to explain to Mrs. Webster why I wasn’t courting her daughter.
But that’s what I had to do. In his office the general asked me a lot of trivial questions he couldn’t possibly have been interested in and then led me down to the Cadillac. At dinner I looked for Eileen but he said she was in Kyoto visiting a museum and wouldn’t be able to join us. I looked at Mrs. Webster eating her shrimp cocktail and lost my appetite.
It was a chilly meal and after dessert the general excused himself to do some paperwork and I observed silently, “If my father ever becomes Chief-of-Staff I’ll warn him not to put Mark Webster in charge of intelligence, because he sure telegraphs his hand.”
Mrs. Webster didn’t bother to telegraph hers. When we got toher apartment she asked bluntly, “What’s wrong between you and Eileen?”
“I’m sure she must have told you.”
“Lloyd, don’t be evasive. You haven’t seen her in more than a week.”
It was obvious that this was one time when I’d better stick to the truth. I said, “We had a quarrel. She told me…”
“A quarrel? Whatever about?”
I gulped and said, “She’s afraid I’m too much like my father.” Mrs. Webster started at my honesty but made no move to stop me so I finished. “And I think she’s—too bossy.” There was something in the inflection of this sentence that betrayed clearly the fact that I thought Eileen was too damned much like her mother. But Mrs. Webster never batted an eye.
So I added, “And then I’ve been working.”
“Ridiculous,” she snapped. “Mark found you this job because there wasn’t any work attached to it.”
“If that’s why I got it…” I began with standard
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