that the way things looked now, it was only a matter of time until GAT did scrape bottom, unless
this Starstreak deal served to somewhat break the fall.
And that wasn’t just
his
opinion….
Gold nursed what remained of his ale as he thought about the last letter he and Erica had received from Steven. The kid was
doing really well. In the past few months, Steven’s squadron had taken part in the invasions of Bougainville and the Green
Islands, helping the Navy and the Marines to close the ring around Rabaul. Steven was now better than a double ace, with twelve
kills to his credit. Hell, three more and he’d be a
triple
, Gold thought, proud of his son.
He wondered if Steven was destined to best his own score in the First World War? Gold had twenty confirmed kills to his credit.
He hoped Steven did better.
Let him stay alive to best me
, Gold thought, rapping his knuckles against the worn, varnished tabletop to insure Steven’s good luck. It could only be a
pleasure to have his record broken by his son.
Thinking about it, it puzzled Gold that with such a high score, Steven was still only a first lieutenant. He’d heard that
promotions came fast to successful combat pilots. Gold also wondered why his son never mentioned any buddies he might have
made.
But then, his son had always been a loner, Gold mused. A certain amount of that was good—it showed independence—but too much
was bad. A fighter pilot needed friends to protect his back during combat, and to help him blow off tension between the battles.
What most stuck in Gold’s mind from his son’s last letter home was how Steven had raved about his Thunderbolt fighter. The
kid had written that he’d wished Gold could fly the plane in order to experience its raw power. In his letter Steven had wondered
why GAT wasn’t building them like that.
Gold had hidden it from Erica, but God, how it had hurt to have his own son ask such a thing. Gold could read between the
lines. What Steven was saying was that he thought GAT
couldn’t
build a fighter that good.
Gold paid his bill and left the pub. He got back into the MG and continued on to London. He felt listless and discouraged,
sick at heart and almost unwilling to try anymore for fear of suffering further humiliating failure. There was a knack to
success. Gold couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion that his knack had been lost.
Gold was going to have to face the reality of his situation. GAT might well survive the immediate future by hanging on to
Stoat-Black’s coattails, but it looked as if times had changed.
It looked as if times had passed him by.
CHAPTER 5
----
(One)
Santa Belle Airfield
Solomon Islands
22 June 1944
It was around nine that night when Steven Gold, feeling restless, left his tent to go for a walk. It was a beautiful evening.
A refreshing sea breeze had blown away the gnats and banished the clouds, revealing a vast array of stars flying escort for
a fat crescent of pink moon.
There were no runway lights on Santa Belle, and the carriage-mounted searchlights set up to guide AA fire in case of a Jap
air attack had never been used. The occasional lantern spilled lemony light through a partially open tent flap, and here and
there a passerby’s cigarette tip glowed cherry red, but mostly there was only the silvery starlight and the pastel glow of
the tropical moon.
As Steve walked, he thought back on all the action the squadron had seen. Months ago he’d celebrated his twentieth birthday
by shooting down a “Val” dive bomber off Bougainville. That had been his tenth kill. Since then he’d shot down two more Japs—both
of them Zekes—during the struggle to conquer the peripheral island enemy bases that ringed the main Jap base at Rabaul. That
enemy stronghold had been isolated, making an actual invasion unnecessary. Word had come down from the brass that the stranded
enemy forces on Rabaul would be left to wither on the vine.
Around
this Starstreak deal served to somewhat break the fall.
And that wasn’t just
his
opinion….
Gold nursed what remained of his ale as he thought about the last letter he and Erica had received from Steven. The kid was
doing really well. In the past few months, Steven’s squadron had taken part in the invasions of Bougainville and the Green
Islands, helping the Navy and the Marines to close the ring around Rabaul. Steven was now better than a double ace, with twelve
kills to his credit. Hell, three more and he’d be a
triple
, Gold thought, proud of his son.
He wondered if Steven was destined to best his own score in the First World War? Gold had twenty confirmed kills to his credit.
He hoped Steven did better.
Let him stay alive to best me
, Gold thought, rapping his knuckles against the worn, varnished tabletop to insure Steven’s good luck. It could only be a
pleasure to have his record broken by his son.
Thinking about it, it puzzled Gold that with such a high score, Steven was still only a first lieutenant. He’d heard that
promotions came fast to successful combat pilots. Gold also wondered why his son never mentioned any buddies he might have
made.
But then, his son had always been a loner, Gold mused. A certain amount of that was good—it showed independence—but too much
was bad. A fighter pilot needed friends to protect his back during combat, and to help him blow off tension between the battles.
What most stuck in Gold’s mind from his son’s last letter home was how Steven had raved about his Thunderbolt fighter. The
kid had written that he’d wished Gold could fly the plane in order to experience its raw power. In his letter Steven had wondered
why GAT wasn’t building them like that.
Gold had hidden it from Erica, but God, how it had hurt to have his own son ask such a thing. Gold could read between the
lines. What Steven was saying was that he thought GAT
couldn’t
build a fighter that good.
Gold paid his bill and left the pub. He got back into the MG and continued on to London. He felt listless and discouraged,
sick at heart and almost unwilling to try anymore for fear of suffering further humiliating failure. There was a knack to
success. Gold couldn’t shake the gnawing suspicion that his knack had been lost.
Gold was going to have to face the reality of his situation. GAT might well survive the immediate future by hanging on to
Stoat-Black’s coattails, but it looked as if times had changed.
It looked as if times had passed him by.
CHAPTER 5
----
(One)
Santa Belle Airfield
Solomon Islands
22 June 1944
It was around nine that night when Steven Gold, feeling restless, left his tent to go for a walk. It was a beautiful evening.
A refreshing sea breeze had blown away the gnats and banished the clouds, revealing a vast array of stars flying escort for
a fat crescent of pink moon.
There were no runway lights on Santa Belle, and the carriage-mounted searchlights set up to guide AA fire in case of a Jap
air attack had never been used. The occasional lantern spilled lemony light through a partially open tent flap, and here and
there a passerby’s cigarette tip glowed cherry red, but mostly there was only the silvery starlight and the pastel glow of
the tropical moon.
As Steve walked, he thought back on all the action the squadron had seen. Months ago he’d celebrated his twentieth birthday
by shooting down a “Val” dive bomber off Bougainville. That had been his tenth kill. Since then he’d shot down two more Japs—both
of them Zekes—during the struggle to conquer the peripheral island enemy bases that ringed the main Jap base at Rabaul. That
enemy stronghold had been isolated, making an actual invasion unnecessary. Word had come down from the brass that the stranded
enemy forces on Rabaul would be left to wither on the vine.
Around
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