long?"
Goodman wanted to curse. "Jesus, Whip, use your head."
"We hadn't counted on being out for the rest of the war."
"The chaplain's on leave, son. Go tell it to Jesus."
"Okay, okay." Whip held up his hands. "If those are your numbers I know they're the best."
"Believe it. They are."
"Well, I guess a couple of us will go upcountry then."
"You can't get much more upcountry in Australia than where you are now."
"Not here. Papua. New Guinea."
"What the hell for? You that eager to get shot at again? I thought you'd wait for your iron birds to be ready."
"We've got things to do. We're leaving most of the people here, but Muhlfield is going with us. He's the key to the whole operation we've got in mind." Whip's eyes had narrowed and Goodman knew he was easing into, well, whatever it was that pulled him back to the combat zone.
"Care to fill me in?"
First Lieutenant Paul Muhlfield — Mule — nodded. "Ain't no way we can keep from telling this man what we're doing, Captain."
"Yeah." Whip turned back to Goodman. "I didn't say anything about what we've got cooking because I figured we put you into enough hot water as it is. Mule used to spend a lot of time in the hill country of New Guinea. Before the war, I mean. He did some flying there for the Dutch. Some old Junkers and Lockheeds up to the gold mines in the back country. He knows the place better than most of us know our own neighborhoods."
Goodman turned to look at the silver bar on Muhlfield's collar. "How much time you got?" he asked.
Muhlfield showed a thin smile. "Fourteen thousand hours, Colonel."
"You're how old?"
"Forty-three."
"What the hell are you doing being a first looie? Major or light colonel would be more like it." Goodman was surprised and he didn't bother hiding it.
The weathered face looked back at him from amazingly clear blue eyes. "They know how old I am," he said softly. "It's training command or flying some old clunker of a transport. So I lied and told them I was twenty-three and I wanted bombers."
"Mule, there ain't nobody ever believed you were twenty-three years old."
"Course not, sir. But the man sitting across the desk from me was an old pilot. Like myself. He lied."
"The whole goddamned war is being run by thieves and liars," Goodman murmured. He sat up straighter. "All right. Tell me what harebrained scheme you maniacs are working on."
Whip picked it up. "We're flying back to Seven-Mile Drome at Moresby because we want to see how Field X is coming along."
"Field who?"
"We call it Field X because no one's bothered naming it yet. Its up Kokoda way, but not near anything. Completely isolated. Look, Lou, we've been working on a special assignment. That's why its so important to get our airplanes modified into gunships, the way we've worked it out. The Japs are giving us their own special brand of hell because of all the fighter fields they've got along the northern coast of New Guinea. Salamaua, Lae, Buna, the whole lot of them. That's only part of the problem. The real nut is that they know every field we've got. They're able to keep track of just about everything we do."
Whip took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You know the numbers, Lou. They've been knocking the crap out of our fields, they outnumber us, and well, I don't think you believe our press releases. General Smyth down at FEAF is going to let us take a crack at a project I've been selling him for some time. That's to get an outfit up in the middle of the combat zone, but without the Japanese knowing anything about what's happening.
That way we can keep them guessing, hit them in a way they just don't expect. If we can get them off balance, and they don't know where we live, we can do them some damage."
"You're going to be living right in their back yard, Whip."
"I know, I know," Whip said, impatient with the explanation he had to offer. "Look, right now we've got the B-17s hitting Rabaul up on the far end of New Britain. Every once in a while we send some
Goodman wanted to curse. "Jesus, Whip, use your head."
"We hadn't counted on being out for the rest of the war."
"The chaplain's on leave, son. Go tell it to Jesus."
"Okay, okay." Whip held up his hands. "If those are your numbers I know they're the best."
"Believe it. They are."
"Well, I guess a couple of us will go upcountry then."
"You can't get much more upcountry in Australia than where you are now."
"Not here. Papua. New Guinea."
"What the hell for? You that eager to get shot at again? I thought you'd wait for your iron birds to be ready."
"We've got things to do. We're leaving most of the people here, but Muhlfield is going with us. He's the key to the whole operation we've got in mind." Whip's eyes had narrowed and Goodman knew he was easing into, well, whatever it was that pulled him back to the combat zone.
"Care to fill me in?"
First Lieutenant Paul Muhlfield — Mule — nodded. "Ain't no way we can keep from telling this man what we're doing, Captain."
"Yeah." Whip turned back to Goodman. "I didn't say anything about what we've got cooking because I figured we put you into enough hot water as it is. Mule used to spend a lot of time in the hill country of New Guinea. Before the war, I mean. He did some flying there for the Dutch. Some old Junkers and Lockheeds up to the gold mines in the back country. He knows the place better than most of us know our own neighborhoods."
Goodman turned to look at the silver bar on Muhlfield's collar. "How much time you got?" he asked.
Muhlfield showed a thin smile. "Fourteen thousand hours, Colonel."
"You're how old?"
"Forty-three."
"What the hell are you doing being a first looie? Major or light colonel would be more like it." Goodman was surprised and he didn't bother hiding it.
The weathered face looked back at him from amazingly clear blue eyes. "They know how old I am," he said softly. "It's training command or flying some old clunker of a transport. So I lied and told them I was twenty-three and I wanted bombers."
"Mule, there ain't nobody ever believed you were twenty-three years old."
"Course not, sir. But the man sitting across the desk from me was an old pilot. Like myself. He lied."
"The whole goddamned war is being run by thieves and liars," Goodman murmured. He sat up straighter. "All right. Tell me what harebrained scheme you maniacs are working on."
Whip picked it up. "We're flying back to Seven-Mile Drome at Moresby because we want to see how Field X is coming along."
"Field who?"
"We call it Field X because no one's bothered naming it yet. Its up Kokoda way, but not near anything. Completely isolated. Look, Lou, we've been working on a special assignment. That's why its so important to get our airplanes modified into gunships, the way we've worked it out. The Japs are giving us their own special brand of hell because of all the fighter fields they've got along the northern coast of New Guinea. Salamaua, Lae, Buna, the whole lot of them. That's only part of the problem. The real nut is that they know every field we've got. They're able to keep track of just about everything we do."
Whip took a deep breath, let it out slowly. "You know the numbers, Lou. They've been knocking the crap out of our fields, they outnumber us, and well, I don't think you believe our press releases. General Smyth down at FEAF is going to let us take a crack at a project I've been selling him for some time. That's to get an outfit up in the middle of the combat zone, but without the Japanese knowing anything about what's happening.
That way we can keep them guessing, hit them in a way they just don't expect. If we can get them off balance, and they don't know where we live, we can do them some damage."
"You're going to be living right in their back yard, Whip."
"I know, I know," Whip said, impatient with the explanation he had to offer. "Look, right now we've got the B-17s hitting Rabaul up on the far end of New Britain. Every once in a while we send some
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