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. . . to Darmstadter . . .
“And then with everyone finally onboard, Hank managed to get his now overloaded olive drab steed airborne, its props actually trimming the treetops as the bird strained to gain altitude.”
. . . then, finally, John Craig looked to Darmstadter for his response.
Darmstadter shrugged.
“It was nothing,” he said. “You just do what you have to do.”
“I’d never heard that story,” John Craig said.
“And you wouldn’t from Hank,” Canidy said. “He’s what they call ‘modest.’ And to think that Hank here almost never made it as a pilot. But that’s another story.”
“What?” John Craig said.
“It was nothing,” Darmstadter said again. “I just had to learn to get over a queasy stomach during aerobatic maneuvers.”
“It was more than nothing,” Canidy said. “The Elimination Board had him on probation, and he was about to get thrown out for throwing up and becoming disoriented in rough air.”
Canidy saw a look of recognition in John Craig’s eyes.
He’s thinking he’s not the first guy to have some obstacle to overcome.
Canidy went on: “Getting booted would’ve meant that he’d never gotten his wings, which would’ve meant that he’d never made it into our merry little band of spies”—he paused, after a moment cleared his throat, then finished—“which would’ve meant that he’d never plucked my sorry ass out of Hungary.
“But,” Canidy finished, “he overcame it. And he now is one of the finest pilots I am privileged to know. And a kiss on the forehead is my reminder I have not forgotten my deep debt.”
Darmstadter appeared embarrassed.
“So,” Canidy said, changing the subject, “what the hell is going on out here?”
After a moment, Hank nodded at the guard and said, more than a little angrily, “For starters, spending far too much time keeping our aircraft from being requisitioned for Husky by anyone at AFHQ who can even spell ‘OSS.’”
“What does that mean?”
“I guess they figure if they can take our birds, we can’t get into trouble. Everything we’re doing is being tightly controlled. We have been assigned a limited airspace for practicing our jumps. And our aircraft now are not allowed to fly more than a mile out to sea.”
“What the hell?”
“It’s about AFHQ making sure we don’t go anywhere that might reveal Husky. Last week, we had a Gooney Bird accidentally stray outside the one-mile limit—the pilot was distracted when he dropped his cigar—and next thing he knew when he looked up, puffing away, there were two Lightnings along his nose. They’d been on coast patrol and sent out to escort him back to base.”
“Jesus! Ike really is serious about putting the clamps on things.”
Darmstadter shrugged.
“Yeah, but it has actually become a game for us.”
“A game?” John Craig said.
“A challenge. You went through Dick’s school—our job requires us to figure out how to sneak around obstacles. Eisenhower doesn’t know it, but he’s actually helping us practice our skills.”
Canidy laughed out loud.
“Well, that really answers one of my next questions.”
“Which is?”
Canidy glanced at the Gooney Bird, then looked at Darmstadter.
