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“What can the Navy do for the Eighth Air Force?”
“We’re about to decorate one of your officers, and the Chief of Staff said it would be a good idea to touch base with you.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Are you familiar with our Impact Award program?”
“I can’t say that I am,” Korman said.
“Very briefly, when one of our people does something that clearly deserves recognition—when there’s no question about what he’s done and there are witnesses who can be trusted—we make the award just as soon as we can: the same day or the next day, and let the paperwork catch up later.”
“And you say one of our people is involved? What did he do?”
“He was riding as an observer in a B-17 on a raid we made on Dortmund today. Kraut fighters blew the nose off his airplane, killing the pilots, the bombardier, and the navigator. The plane was last seen in a spin with two engines on fire. We put it down as a confirmed loss. But then, at five o’clock this afternoon, it came in at Fersfield with your man at the controls. All by his lonesome he’d flown it and navigated it all the way from Germany with one engine out and the fuselage shot full of holes.”
“I’m surprised Kraut fighters didn’t pick him off as a straggler,” Commander Korman said.
“He avoided the fighters by flying it two hundred feet off the ground.”
“Fucking incredible!”
“It gets better,” Colonel Jerry Whitney said. “He’s a pilot, of course, but not a B-17 pilot. The Group Commander, who put him in for the DFC, said it was the first time the guy had even been inside a B-17; and that’s what he was doing on the mission, getting familiarized. Talk about on-the-job training!
“So when I heard about it, I immediately saw the public relations potential. So I called the Group Commander and told him not to give him the medal, we’d take care of the presentation ceremony.”
“How do you plan to handle that?” Commander Korman asked.
“As soon as I touch base with you, I’m going to call over to Fersfield and tell this guy to move his tail to London. And first thing in the morning, I’ll be at SHAEF, trying to find somebody senior to make the award. Maybe set up a special press briefing. Get the Signal Corps newsreel cameramen in. Using GI cameramen, we’ll have prints to give Pathé, the March of Time, all the newsreel outlets.”
“Sounds fine,” Commander Korman said.
“I’ll get the Navy a print, too, of course—interservice cooperation, right?—and I thought maybe the Navy would like to have a senior officer there, representing the Navy.”
“I’m sure we would,” Commander Korman said. “Who did you say is actually going to make the presentation?”
“That’s not firm yet,” Colonel Whitney said. “But I should know first thing in the morning. I’ll touch base with you again then.”
“I really appreciate your thoughtfulness,” Commander Korman said. “By the time you call me, I’ll have Navy representation firmed up. What’s this guy’s name?”
“Bitter, spelled the way it sounds. Edwin H. Lieutenant Commander.”
“Where’s he assigned?”
“Naval Aviation Element, SHAEF.”
“Got it,” Commander Korman said, “I’ll tell you what I’ll do, Colonel. I’ll pull his records here, and by the time you get him here in the morning, I’ll have a biography mimeographed, next of kin, hometown, what he did as a civilian, and maybe with a little bit of luck, there’ll be a negative of him in the file. There’s supposed to be, but sometimes there isn’t. If there is, I’ll have our photo section run off a couple of dozen eight-by-tens.”
“We’d sort of like to keep control of this, Commander,” Colonel Jerry Whitney said firmly.
“Don’t misunderstand me, Colonel,” Lt. Commander Korman said. “All I want to do is cooperate. This is obviously your show. I understand that we’re getting a free ride.”
“Just as long as we understand each other,” Colonel Whitney said, not mollified.
“Absolutely,” Commander Korman said. “I’ll have whatever I can come up with by 0800 tomorrow. You just come in and I’ll turn it all over to you. I’m really grateful for your cooperation.”
“Well, what the hell, we’re all in the same war, right, Commander?”
When Colonel Whitney was off the line, Commander Korman pulled his letter to his wife from the typewriter, crumpled it up, and tossed it into a wastebasket. It would just have to wait.
