The Final Storm - Jeff Shaara [201]
“Maybe not as much fun as a Japanese city.”
“Can’t talk about that.”
“I know. Not asking anything. Just wondering if this might be a good time for you to show up in church. You can still have your private chat with God. But it’ll do the rest of the boys some good to see you there. There’s a lot of nervousness here, a lot of uncertainty. I’m not talking about secrets, Paul. They’ve gotten used to all the cloak-and-dagger stuff. But they’re getting hit pretty hard by the other crews all over Tinian. I heard about the rock throwing. Some of the other crews make it a point to toss rocks up your tin roofs when they come in from a bombing mission. The boys know they can’t respond, not to that, or to anything else. That’s tough, I know.”
“They know they’re in on something unique, something special. Not much else I can give them.”
“Maybe. Let ’em know you’re aware how tough this is. You’re carrying some heavy-duty secrets around with you, and they know that. They also know they’re being watched, they know someone’s checking up on ’em, reading their mail.”
“Can’t be helped.”
“Oh, I know that. Your Doctor Young came by yesterday, talked to me awhile. Asked a few questions that seemed, well, unusual, coming from a flight surgeon.”
Tibbets knew exactly what Downey was referring to. For weeks now, Don Young had served not only as the 509th’s chief medical officer, but as the eyes and ears for one more type of security. There had been growing concern that the stress of the mission, and the secrecy and shadowy rumors the men were forbidden to discuss, might be causing the entire unit to fray at the edges. Tibbets had given the order himself, that the doctor was to observe the men in every aspect of their routines, including their playfulness, temperament, their speech pattern, how they interacted with one another. If anyone’s behavior was changing in a pronounced way, it might be cause to eliminate him from the final mission. So far the problems had been few, the symptoms of the stress not important enough to take someone off the team. But the doctor’s observations were having an impact of their own, adding to the sense of jumpiness that was already affecting the unit well before they left Wendover.
Downey sipped from the coffee cup, then tossed away the last dregs, said, “It has to happen soon, Paul. They’re winding tighter every day. You know the talk. This mission … well, I’ve heard the same rumors everyone else has, at least right here. Not sure what’s flying around the rest of this island. But if you’ve got a chance to end this war …”
“Can it, Bill.”
Downey was silenced, and Tibbets looked at him, tapped the pipe on the metal chair, cleaned out the spent tobacco. Downey nodded, said, “Not another word, Colonel. Just doing my job.”
“I know that. Look, the mission will happen when it happens. No one needs to know more than that. Not even me, actually. This is being handled the way it has to, and when it’s all over with, everyone will understand that. I can’t coddle anyone right now. Sure as hell, no one’s coddling me.” He suddenly had a flash of an idea. “Tell you what. Write a prayer. When … or if the time comes, I want a eulogy, or an invocation, or whatever the hell you call it. Some sort of send-off, something to make the boys feel like God’s watching over them. Something … kind. Oh, hell, maybe that’s corny as hell.”
“No, it sounds perfect. Absolutely. I’m flattered you’d ask.”
“Don’t be. You’re the damn chaplain. That’s your job.”
Downey smiled.
“Yes, Colonel, it is. I’ll get started right away. I assume I have a day or two, anyway?”
“Can’t answer that.”
Tibbets saw the figure approaching, was surprised to see one of his MPs. The man stopped short, stiffened, saluted.
“Sir, forgive the interruption. Oh, hello,