Griffin W.E.B.: Honor Bound 01 - Honor Bound

Clete then looked to the left and repeated the circular descent signal to the pilot of the F4F flying twenty-five feet off his wing-tip, and who already had his goggles in place. There was another exaggerated nodding of the head to signal his readiness to comply with his orders.

Clete took a final look at his instruments. Everything was in the green. He was sure that he had taken a couple of hits—indeed, there were fresh eruptions in the aluminum skin of his right wing—but apparently nothing important had been hit.

He pushed the nose of the Wildcat down and to the right, retarded the throttle, adjusted the prop, and began his descent.

A thousand feet indicated off the deck, he put the F4F into a much sharper turn, simultaneously pulled back on his stick, and released the cog that held his wheels in place. The forces of gravity came into play, pulling the wheels from the retracted position. The manual crank one was supposed to use for this spun rapidly and more than a little dangerously, but the wheels came down. The forces-of-gravity technique was specifically prohibited by U.S. Navy Bureau of Aeronautics regulations, but BuAir regulations seemed irrelevant on the 'Canal.

He leveled off, headed out to sea, turned, and made a straight-in, shallow approach to Henderson. Several B-17s were parked near the Pagoda—the control tower—and three F4Fs were on the taxiway by the threshold of the runway, waiting to take off.

The moment his wheels touched down, he knew he was in trouble. The Wildcat veered sharply to the right, taken over by forces far too strong for him to overcome using his rudder.

Time seemed to move very slowly as adrenaline started to pump.

Either my right wheel is gone, or the strut is not fully lowered.

No. I would already have started to cartwheel.

I'm going off the runway, that's for sure.

What I've probably got is a punctured tire.

The choice is to stick with it and see what happens— which means I will either run into a revetment or a parked airplane. If I don't cartwheel first. Or to take my chances putting the nose in the ground— which means I will turn over.

He cut the master switch, released the wheels lock, and shoved the stick forward.

For a moment, nothing happened.

Then came a screech of tortured metal as the propeller bit into the earth. And he felt himself being thrown against his shoulder harness with a force infinitely stronger than an arrested landing on an aircraft carrier.

And then the F4F flipped over on its back, and there was a horrifying screech of tearing metal as it slid across the field.

And then, with a lurch that threw him against the side of the cockpit, the airplane stopped.

He tried to move and couldn't.

You've got to get out of here. Dead switch or not, this thing is going to blow up.

He managed to put his hands on the shoulder and seat-belt buckle, and to lift it. He fell out of the airplane onto the ground.

My God, I can't move! What did I do, break my back?

I can smell avgas!

Worse, he could see it leaking from a ruptured tank.

I don't want to go this way!

He managed to start crawling. Every breath hurt, and he was convinced he had broken a rib, several ribs. He couldn't use his left arm. There was no pain, it just didn't work.

He crawled toward the tail, pushing himself with his feet.

God, don't let me burn!

And then hands, strong hands, were clutching the thin material of his Suit, Flying, Cotton, Tropical.

He was dragged across the ground.

More than one guy has to be doing that. Two.

There was the-whoosh of gasoline igniting.

Whoever was dragging him stopped doing that, and suddenly someone was lying on top of him. The weight hurt his ribs.

After a moment, a voice said: "I don't think it's going to blow up."

Some of the weight pressing him into the ground came off. Then the rest of it.

"You all right, Lieutenant?" a voice asked.

"I don't know," Clete replied, truthfully.

He tried to roll over, to get his face out of the dirt.

Strong hands pressed him back.

"I think you better wait until the Corpsmen show up before you try to move," a voice said—a suggestion that was in fact an order.

God, he thinks my neck is broken! Or my back! Is that why I don't feel any pain, except when I breathe?

He heard the sound of a jeep engine approaching, and then the particular squeal of a jeep's brakes.

And then there were hands, fingers probing him.

"You with us, Lieutenant?" a gruff but surprisingly gentle voice inquired.

"Yeah."

"It looks like you bent your airplane," the voice said. "Can you move your legs?"

Clete moved them.

"How about your arms?"

"I know I can move the right one," Clete said, and demonstrated.

"I'm going to roll you on your back. If it starts to hurt, yell."

It hurt, but he didn't feel much real pain.

He found himself staring up into the face of a rough-hewn Navy Corpsman, who looked far younger than Clete imagined from hearing his voice.

The Corpsman was manipulating his left arm.

"Any pain?"

"It feels like it's asleep."

The Corpsman pinched his upper arm painfully.

"Hey!"

"How about here?" The Corpsman chuckled, and painfully pinched the skin on the back of his hand.

Clete said, "Shit."

"It looks like you had a good landing, Lieutenant," the Corpsman said.

"What?" Clete asked incredulously.

"I thought you guys say any landing you can walk away from is a good one."

"I didn't walk away," Clete argued. "Somebody dragged me."

"Close enough," the Corpsman said. "What we're going to do now is put you on a stretcher, haul you to the hospital, and let a doctor have a look at you."

Lieutenant Colonel Clyde W. Dawkins, USMC, walked up to the hospital bed of First Lieutenant Cletus H. Frade, USMCR. Dawkins was commanding officer of Marine Air Group 21. He was a tall, thin, sharp-featured man in the middle stage of male-pattern baldness, and he was wearing khakis, sweat-stained at the armpits and down the back. Over his arm he carried a Suit, Flying, Cotton, Tropical; a T-shirt; and a pair of skivvy shorts.

"I have been led to believe, Lieutenant Frade," he said, handing Clete the clothing, "that you have once again disgraced the United Marine Corps. I am here to rectify that situation."

This was intended as a joke, but was not received that way. Frade's face showed embarrassment, even humiliation.

"Clete, for Christ's sake, that was a joke," Dawkins went on hastily. "Believe me, you are not the first aviator who ... had a small bowel problem... going through something like you just went through. Including your beloved MAG commander."

"I used to think that 'shitting your pants' was just a figure of speech," Clete said.

"Now you know it's not," Dawkins said. "I'm just surprised this was your first time."

"Sorry about the airplane. Skipper," Clete said, wanting to get off the subject.

"What happened?"

"It veered to the right on touchdown. I probably had a flat; I don't think the strut collapsed."

"Feinberg told, me he saw you taking hits from the tail gunner of the Betty ..." Dawkins said, referring to a Japanese bomber aircraft.

Feinberg? Who the hell is Feinberg? Oh, the New Guy.

"... just before her wing came off," Dawkins went on. "How many does that make, Clete?"

"I thought I felt something," Clete said, sitting up on the cot to demonstrate with his hands the relative positions of the aircraft. "I took her from above and to the left, and was pulling up..."

He was naked under the sheet, and Dawkins noticed the ulcerated insect bites and the ugly blue-black of his left arm and shoulder.

He must have really slammed into the side of the cockpit,Dawkins thought. I'm surprised nothing was broken.