Armageddon_ A Novel of Berlin - Leon Uris [248]
After Scott did as he was told, he recovered enough of his senses to study his sorrowful appearance in the mirror.
“You better get some sleep. You’re due at the CO’s office at 0730. There’s flak up we may be flying out to Germany.”
“I can’t go back to the base looking like this.”
“I’ll take you to Cindy. She’s been looking for you.”
“Did she find me?”
“No.”
“Then let me sleep at your place.”
“I said, she’s waiting for you.”
“With a pickax. I can’t take any of her static tonight She started me on this bender in the first place.”
“Sure, she’s got a hell of a nerve getting teed off just because you tried to pick up another broad right in front of her ... a married one at that.”
“Nick, you going to let me sleep at your place or not?”
“Come on ... Captain ...”
Nick shoved a fin into Tiger Quong’s protesting palm. The two of them assisted the wobbly flyer into Nick’s car and he drove toward Honolulu, then up to the Pali Hills, where Nick maintained a flat that belied his rank.
Nick Papas had been a flight engineer for fifteen years and remained in the Air Force because it supplied a source of new blood for his card-playing proficiencies. Nick backed a number of enterprises in Chicago’s Greek section staffed by relatives; a bar, a garage, a piece of a laundry, and a small hotel.
Despite his harsh appearance he was a pushover, with deep loyalties to persons other than Greek relatives. He supported the Church heavily and a string of charities from an orphanage to an animal shelter.
Scott Davidson was about his closest buddy. He had flown with the captain for nearly two years, and during the war Nick was there when Scott’s plane cracked up on a jungle runway.
With rough gentleness, Nick helped the captain undress and spilled him into bed. Scott clung to it, groaning, as the room started to whirl.
He folded Scott’s rumpled uniform, pinned a note on it for the houseboy to press it first thing in the morning, then set the alarm and lay in bed mulling over whether or not to call Cindy.
He wondered why bastards like Scott Davidson always tied up with nice girls like Cindy. Nevertheless it was something to watch him wheel and deal. Scott was a sort of alter ego.
“Hello, Cindy ... this is Nick. Sorry to call you so late.”
“Did you find him?”
“He’s at my place. I thought it would be better. I got to hustle him down to Hickam first thing in the morning.”
“Is he all right?”
“He’ll live.”
“Thanks, Nick.”
“Good night, Cindy.”
The next morning, with the help of thiamine chloride and charcoal pills, tomato juice and coffee, and in a rejuvenated uniform, Captain Scott Davidson was able to make a creditable appearance in the office of Colonel Garrett, commander of the 19th Troop Carrier at Hickam Field.
In thirty-six hours Scott would lead a group of eleven Skymasters as chief pilot on orders reading “extended training mission.” The flight plan was Hamilton Field in California to Westover, Massachusetts, to the Azores, and end at Rhein/Main in Frankfurt, Germany. Everything in the squadron would go; spare parts, office equipment, all crews, all personnel. Colonel Garrett said everyone should carry enough gear for two months “temporary duty” in Germany. He confided to Scott that twelve Skymasters of the 20th Troop Carrier Squadron at the Panama Canal and nine
Skymasters from the 54th in Alaska were getting ready for the trip to Germany. A big show seemed to be shaping up.
Scott had to get off his binge quickly. As chief pilot there were stacks of paperwork, briefings, meetings, inspections. Late in the afternoon all personnel were called and Colonel Garrett dropped the bomb with less than twenty-four hours to go. The meeting broke up with a stunned scrambling. Half the men were married, and others deeply committed to the area with apartments, cars, and furnishings. Once the shock set in, a breakneck scurrying ensued to salvage, say farewell, get the squadron ready.
Scott took a last look around the pleasant little studio apartment that stood along the Ala Wai Canal. There