we've been stashing supplies up there for weeks. The natives have been lugging them in for us. A steady long pull. Every now and then, when we know the Japs are occupied, we fly in whatever we can. We've been using two C-47s and that old Lockheed 10."
"A what?"
The two men stared at one another. Once again it had leaped into being. The old Lockheed 10. The same kind of airplane in which Lou Goodman, for the first time, had taken a kid named Whip Russel into the air.
Whip's eyes sparkled. "Hell of a thing, ain't it? Lou, why don't you join up with us?" The words rushed from Whip as if he were afraid he might not say them if this moment passed. "I mean," he went on hurriedly, "running our operation from the ground. Jesus, if anyone knows all the answers, it's you. We need a man who can make iron airplanes out of wood if he has to, and you're the best there is!"
"Hold it, hold it," Goodman chuckled, but his laugh had a touch of harshness to it. "I couldn't get my ass out of Garbutt Field if I wanted to. And believe me, son, I want to."
He shook his head at himself. "Or do I? Hell, I don't know. But this whole caper you people are putting together — "
Goodman turned to stare through his office window at the heat-baked nothingness of Garbutt Field. "You've had some crazies in your time, Whip, but this one takes the cake.
I — "
"I can bust you out of here," Whip said with sudden quiet.
"When did you make general?" Goodman demanded.
"I mean it," Whip said stubbornly. "All it takes is a phone call. Our code name is Billygoat — "
"Appropriate. It stinks."
" — and we've got top priority on a secret basis."
Lou Goodman scratched his belly, came to a sudden decision. "Tell you what, boy. Don't make any phone calls. I can always break out of here to inspect Moresby if I say it's necessary. Okay; suddenly it's necessary. I'll go along with you crazies just to see how it all stacks up."
A crooked grin appeared on Whip's face. "On to other things. You've got a B-25 here with long-range tanks, don't you?"
Goodman nodded. "We do. Belongs to the 317th. They're waiting for some special radios for it."
"We'll borrow it for a while."
A wary look crossed Goodman's face. "I don't think I'm going to like this."
"It'll be a blast, Lou. Make your vital body fluids move faster. I said we haven't used skip bombing against the Japanese yet, that we were waiting until the whole outfit was ready to go. But someone's tried it a few times. You know Bill Kanaga?"
"Yeah, I know him. Hawaiian. He's almost as crazy as you. B-17 driver. What about him?"
"He's going into Rabaul, into Simpson Harbor, tomorrow night with his B-17."
"Night intruder run?"
"Uh uh, boss. I didn't say over Simpson Harbor. I said into it, and we're going along with him. That's why we need that 25 with the long-range tanks."
Goodman stared, speechless.
"And we'd like you to go along with us, see how the whole thing works."
Whip had never seen Lou Goodman turn dead white before. But the big man did it now.
The blood drained from his face as he nodded his assent.
11
Seven-Mile Drome was still the same stinking, broiling, bug-infested, dusty, humid and pestilential outhouse Lou Goodman remembered. The best of the airfield facilities remained primitive, support operations were a ghastly joke, the fighter defenses an embarrassment. Only the Japanese remained adept as they made unannounced sweeps down the mountain slopes for target practice against the hapless occupants of Seven-Mile. Airfield defense here was a mockery; no siren, no radar, a pitifully few machine guns. The air-raid warning system comprised one sentry who, when alarmed by the sound or sight of approaching Japanese aircraft, fired three shots rapidly into the air. At least the system was foolproof. If you didn't hear the sentry firing off his alarm you were certain to hear enemy bombs exploding.
Shortly before they returned to Seven-Mile an additional warning system had been put into effect. The
"A what?"
The two men stared at one another. Once again it had leaped into being. The old Lockheed 10. The same kind of airplane in which Lou Goodman, for the first time, had taken a kid named Whip Russel into the air.
Whip's eyes sparkled. "Hell of a thing, ain't it? Lou, why don't you join up with us?" The words rushed from Whip as if he were afraid he might not say them if this moment passed. "I mean," he went on hurriedly, "running our operation from the ground. Jesus, if anyone knows all the answers, it's you. We need a man who can make iron airplanes out of wood if he has to, and you're the best there is!"
"Hold it, hold it," Goodman chuckled, but his laugh had a touch of harshness to it. "I couldn't get my ass out of Garbutt Field if I wanted to. And believe me, son, I want to."
He shook his head at himself. "Or do I? Hell, I don't know. But this whole caper you people are putting together — "
Goodman turned to stare through his office window at the heat-baked nothingness of Garbutt Field. "You've had some crazies in your time, Whip, but this one takes the cake.
I — "
"I can bust you out of here," Whip said with sudden quiet.
"When did you make general?" Goodman demanded.
"I mean it," Whip said stubbornly. "All it takes is a phone call. Our code name is Billygoat — "
"Appropriate. It stinks."
" — and we've got top priority on a secret basis."
Lou Goodman scratched his belly, came to a sudden decision. "Tell you what, boy. Don't make any phone calls. I can always break out of here to inspect Moresby if I say it's necessary. Okay; suddenly it's necessary. I'll go along with you crazies just to see how it all stacks up."
A crooked grin appeared on Whip's face. "On to other things. You've got a B-25 here with long-range tanks, don't you?"
Goodman nodded. "We do. Belongs to the 317th. They're waiting for some special radios for it."
"We'll borrow it for a while."
A wary look crossed Goodman's face. "I don't think I'm going to like this."
"It'll be a blast, Lou. Make your vital body fluids move faster. I said we haven't used skip bombing against the Japanese yet, that we were waiting until the whole outfit was ready to go. But someone's tried it a few times. You know Bill Kanaga?"
"Yeah, I know him. Hawaiian. He's almost as crazy as you. B-17 driver. What about him?"
"He's going into Rabaul, into Simpson Harbor, tomorrow night with his B-17."
"Night intruder run?"
"Uh uh, boss. I didn't say over Simpson Harbor. I said into it, and we're going along with him. That's why we need that 25 with the long-range tanks."
Goodman stared, speechless.
"And we'd like you to go along with us, see how the whole thing works."
Whip had never seen Lou Goodman turn dead white before. But the big man did it now.
The blood drained from his face as he nodded his assent.
11
Seven-Mile Drome was still the same stinking, broiling, bug-infested, dusty, humid and pestilential outhouse Lou Goodman remembered. The best of the airfield facilities remained primitive, support operations were a ghastly joke, the fighter defenses an embarrassment. Only the Japanese remained adept as they made unannounced sweeps down the mountain slopes for target practice against the hapless occupants of Seven-Mile. Airfield defense here was a mockery; no siren, no radar, a pitifully few machine guns. The air-raid warning system comprised one sentry who, when alarmed by the sound or sight of approaching Japanese aircraft, fired three shots rapidly into the air. At least the system was foolproof. If you didn't hear the sentry firing off his alarm you were certain to hear enemy bombs exploding.
Shortly before they returned to Seven-Mile an additional warning system had been put into effect. The
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