Daniel Wyatt - The Mary Jane Mission

“Bob?” The voice came from a short, well-dressed man, bald on top, a cleft chin, and supporting a large stomach. He had what appeared to be a scotch-on-the-rocks in his hand.

Robert recognized the man, although they hadn’t seen each other in forty-five years. He checked the name tag to be certain. “Tom. Tom Bates.” He shook the outstretched hand of the former Mary Jane armorer.

“Geez, Bob, you haven’t changed that much. You haven’t put on a pound. Then again, look at me.” They both laughed. “What have you been doing since 1945?”

Robert took his drink from the bartender. “Thanks.” Turning back to his friend, he said, “Oh, the normal stuff. Got married. Worked. Raised a family. I became a full-time grease monkey for a Ford dealer in Phoenix. Retired now. How about you?”

“I went into real estate in Los Angeles during the big boom of the sixties. Then I retired to a ranch near Fresno, where I live with my wife. Lots of room for the grandchildren. Ride my horses. Light the barbeque. Pick fruit.”

Robert smiled. “The good life. How many grandchildren you got, Tom?”

“Ten. I had four kids. Two boys, two girls. How about you?”

“Two boys for me. One lives in Japan. He’s still single. The other, the youngest, Les, has two kids. He’s the military man of the family, an F-18 fighter pilot in the navy, stationed on Guam.”

“A son in the navy? That’s great!” Bates gulped from his scotch. He turned away from the bar to look the room over. “Hey, isn’t that Phil Cameron?”

Two sets of eyes shot to the entrance where General Cameron stood with his French-born wife. Several couples surrounded the Camerons, greeting them. The room suddenly came to life.

“See you later, Bob,” Bates said, and left.

Cameron and another man, whom Robert recognized as Cameron’s co-pilot on the atomic mission, approached the bar and fit into a space beside Robert.

“Two beers,” Cameron announced to the bartender.

“Yes, sir.” The bartender handed over two bottles of beer with two tall, clear glasses.

“Still like beer I see, Phil,” Robert said, grinning.

During the war Cameron was a unique commanding officer. In charge of the 509th — a group strength of 1,700 men — he had his own private army. A team. First names. No salutes. No ranks. Just do your job and respect the other person and his job. But any leaks or loose talk… you were banished to Alaska or worse for the remainder of the war.

Cameron didn’t utter a reply until he read the name tag. “Bob Shilling. It’s good to see yuh.” They shook hands. “It’s been a long time.”

“It sure has.”

“You remember my co-pilot, Dick Hall?”

“Actually, we never did meet. Hi.” Robert extended his hand and the smiling man gripped it solidly. Hall was a husky individual, blonde-white hair, well-tanned.

“Bob was the crew chief of the Mary Jane .”

“Oh… really.” Hall’s smile vanished.

Robert expected the reaction. No choice but to change the subject. “Yeah, she was my ship.” To Cameron, he said, “So, will Fifi be ready for your run over North Field tomorrow?”

Cameron forced a grin. “If they get the repairs done to her, I will. She’s still in a hangar on Guam. They’re going to burn the midnight oil tonight to get her ready.”

“What’s the trouble?”

“Engine number three. No power. I’m flying back tonight to see how things are going.”

“Good turnout,” Robert observed, eyeing the room. “Heard there’s going to be over five hundred attending.”

Hall leaned forward. “And once the 509th gets going, this sleepy little island will never be the same. We’re going to paint her red.”

Early in the afternoon the next day, Robert remembered Hall’s words as he and Edna were on one of the many tour buses heading out in a convoy to the old 509th headquarters at North Field. From what he could see from inside the vehicle, Tinian hadn’t really changed all that much since World War II. The only significant difference was the drop in population. During the war, the island had been busy with activity due to the thousands of permanent and temporary citizens. Now, the population stood at 850, according to the driver — a small, dark-skinned man — conducting the tour. He told those aboard that he was Chamorro, that is, of Micronesian, Filipino, and Spanish descent and that he had been born on the island just after the war.

The tour continued through jungle and over hills. The driver spoke briefly of the many watermelon farms and the possibility of the United States setting up a military base once again on the island. This would be a great boon to the slow tourist industry. In addition, he continued, the long, flat topography of the island was suited for lengthy runways. Not only that, but if the Americans came back, and if the tax dollars were spent wisely, the islanders would receive better medical treatment and the best of schooling for the children.

Edna smiled. She was enjoying herself, amused that the streets were named after Manhattan throughways. The driver explained that when Tinian was captured from the Japanese in the summer of 1944, one of the US Engineering Corps who had laid out the island was from New York City and he had a great idea. Because the island was shaped like Manhattan, he wanted to bring a little bit of home to the Pacific. Thus, Broadway and 42nd Street was the most important crossroad. Other streets were Park Avenue, Madison Avenue and the picturesque Riverside Drive that ran along the water’s edge.

Stepping down from the bus, Robert had his arm around his wife. Together, they watched the other buses unload on one of the old dispersal sites near Runway Able. The crowd was casually dressed for the heat, wearing shorts and light tops. Many were hung over from the late-night celebrating.

The sun was warm in the partially-clouded sky, with a slight breeze coming off the ocean. It looked like rain clouds were massing. This was the Mariana Islands’ rainy season. A few hundred feet away, the surf was pounding against the rocky shoreline.

“So, this is it. Your base.”

“Yeah, this is it,” Robert answered his wife. “There’s the 509th compound behind us. A nice monument marks the spot. And there” — he pointed — “are the four runways, all over 8,000 feet long. Over there” — he pointed beyond the runways — “are the hard stands, where we did most of the work on the B-29s. In the summer of 1945, Tinian Island was the largest operational airfield in the world. That way is straight north.” He nodded this time. “You can see Saipan only three miles away. More B-29 airfields were there too. And more again on Guam.”

Edna squeezed her husband’s arm. “Now, aren’t you glad you came?”

Robert didn’t answer. Instead, he turned his attention to a large, shiny aircraft coming from the south. Others soon saw it too. Then the sound … as the aircraft drew closer. After all these years, Robert could still recognize the distinctive roar of the four radial engines. Fifi had made it. He hadn’t seen a B-29 in flight since the summer of 1945. Suddenly, the war came back to him like it had never done before. The long hours laboring away over the largest and most intricate bomber of the war. The stress. The worry. The aching arms. Then, for the first time in years, it all came out. His eyes began to water and he wiped them with the back of his hand. He was proud of his individual war effort. Really proud. He smiled at Edna, shyly, as she too began to get choked up.

Fifi banked out to sea and came around for an upwind landing on Runway Baker. Flaps down, the speed dropped off. By the time she touched down, Robert and Edna weren’t the only ones in tears.