Mustang Arrival

Wednesday November 10, 1943

Marc shivered. After nearly a year in Algeria, then almost two months in Florida the cool English weather felt downright frigid. His pinks and greens service uniform was designed to look nice, not keep him warm. The drafty canvas covered bed of the truck didn’t make it better. He folded his arms across his chest to try to retain some warmth.

The Jimmy truck came to an abrupt stop throwing Marc sideways. He straightened up and began to gather his things. A few moments later the driver appeared from around the side, and lowered the gate.

“Hey sir, we’re here.”

Marc grabbed his garment bag and pitched it out the back of the truck, followed by his duffle. He grabbed his kit bag then jumped to the ground. “Thanks for the lift,” then he looked around. RAF Boxted. The sky was dotted with medium altitude puffy clouds. The few trees were bare. Fallen leaves rustled by, blown by a light breeze. Quonset huts were packed fairly close together where the truck had stopped.The air was filled with the smell of engine exhaust.The base was relatively quiet, the faint sound of vehicle and aircraft engines couldn’t drown out the sound of chirping birds. “Um . . . where’s the 355th headquarters?”

The driver pointed across the dirt lane, “Right over there sir. You need a hand?”

Marc shouldered his duffle and picked up his other two bags. “Naw mac, I got it,” he said as he headed across the street.An olive drab P-51B flashed low over the street, the sound of its Merlin engine drowning out everything else.Marc stopped and watched it as it banked hard and lowered its landing gear. Once the P-51 disappeared below the tree line he continued his short walk.

He arrived at the door of a Quonset hut. On it was stenciled “355th Fighter Squadron.” He dropped his garment and duffle bag to the left of the door, got a manila folder out of his kit bag, and left the kit bag next to his other bags.

On entering the hut there were two desks on each side and an open door about halfway back. The only person in the room was a corporal sitting at one of the desks, furiously typing.When Marc entered the corporal stopped typing and looked up, “Can I help you sir?”

Marc approached the desk and handed over the manila folder, “Major Marc Suchet, transferring in.”

The corporal took the folder, opened it and took the top sheet of paper, “Welcome to the 355th sir.” He handed the folder back to Marc. “The commander will want to meet you,” the corporal gestured to the open door, “Boss’s office is right there.”

With a quick thanks Marc went to the open door and knocked twice on the frame.From inside the room he heard a tired gruff voice say, “Enter.”

Marc stepped into the room. To his left was a sitting area with two chairs and a small table, to his right was a desk with one chair in front of it and a man sitting behind it. The man was in an Army Air Force uniform with the gold oak leaves of a major on the right collar. He looked slightly older than Marc. The nameplate on the desk said Bickell. The man looked up from paperwork at Marc as he entered. His eyes paused on the left breast of Marc’s jacket. Pilot wings, a Distinguished Flying Cross, and a bunch of Air Medals.Marc wanted to check out his new commander’s uniform but he was wearing a well worm A-2 leather jacket.

We’re both majors Marc thought, but he is the commander. So Marc centered himself on the desk, stood at attention and rendered a crisp salute, “Sir, capt . . major Marc Suchet reporting for duty.” The major’s rank was new for Marc.

Major Bickell had a half grin on his face and returned the salute with a tired movement. Marc held his salute until Maj Bickell dropped his. “Have a seat,” Major Bickell gestured to the seat in front of the desk. Marc handed over the envelope and started to sit down.

Major Bickell took the folder stood up slightly and extended his hand, “George Bickell, nice to meet you Marc.”

Marc paused and took George’s hand, shaking it. Both of them had a firm grip. “Likewise sir.”

“Look, as long as it’s just us majors in the room, call me George. In front of the guys it can be sir or major.”

“Yes si . . .sure George.” Marc smiled at his mistake. I’m the experienced guy and I already made two mistakes he thought.

George chuckled, “It took me a while to get used to the new rank too.” George leaned back in his chair, “I’ve been waiting for you to get here. This group, and this squadron, are green as hell. We’ve only been in England for three weeks. 9th Air Force promised us some experienced guys. I got you and one other, a captain. We’ve just finished our training on the P-51. We’ve had some RAF Spit pilots come by and brief us on German aircraft and tactics, but I need someone in house to get us ready for what I know is coming.” George looked at Marc with intensity.

Marc understood the challenge intimately. “I lost half my first squadron in our first two months of combat in the Med. I don’t want that to happen again. I’ll do everything I can.” All his combat flights hadn't made him fearless. They'd taught him exactly how many ways young pilots could die.

George nodded, “I know you will. I got a read ahead on your record. You’re just the guy we need.” Now George leaned forward, “The problem is that training's easy. Keeping guys alive during their first three missions? That's the hard part.”

Marc looked at him for a moment, “Where’d you see combat?”

George folded his hands on the desk, “Hawaii, December 7 of 41, and six months later at Midway.”

“No shit. I was at Hamilton Field north of Frisco that day. We all wanted so bad to be there. Knowing what I know now . . ..”

“Yea, it wasn't the way anybody wanted to start a war. Look, I’m a buy-the-book guy. Do it right the first time and give it your all. From what I’ve heard you’re that type of guy too.” George paused looking very serious, “Don’t let these kids down.”

“I won’t. I've buried enough friends already.” The two men looked at each other. A deep understanding had just been established between them.

Then George stood up, “Come on, let me introduce you to the guys. I’ll get my orderly to take your stuff to your room. Welcome to the Bulldogs.”

The walk to the squadron bar was quick. Upon entering there were around fifteen guys in the room. There was the low sound of conversations, and the occasional sound of glasses being placed on tables. The smell of cigarette smoke filled the room. A few tables had guys playing cards. Others sat talking and drinking. A few were playing darts.

George walked up to the bar and raised his voice, “Guys, can I get a moment?” The room quickly fell quiet. All eyes were on the commander. “I want to introduce you to our newest Bulldog. Gentlemen, this is major Marc Sue-chet . . ..”

“Actually, sir, it’s Sue-shay.”

From somewhere in the back of the room a voice yelled, “Sue-shay? What are you? Some kind of Frenchie?” The room erupted into chuckles. Inside, Marc winced.

“Settle down guys,” George paused, the room quieted down, “Frenchie here . . . has a full combat tour under his belt. He has seventy-seven missions against the Krauts and five kills.” The room was completely silent now. All eyes were on Marc. He could feel them looking at his uniform. He heard a few muttered comments. About his DFC, about how many Air Medals he had. About his kills and his ace status. There were nearly reverent looks on all the faces. “He’s going to help us get dangerous.”

George looked at another major and motioned him over, “Frenchie, meet Major Maury Long, our ops officer.” The two of them shook hands. “Maury, I’m turning Frenchie over to you. Like we discussed, he’s your new assistant. Get him briefed up on things around here. I’m certain we only have a few weeks.” George turned and left.

Maury motioned to Marc to follow him, “Come on, I’ll introduce you to our planning staff and show you the ops hut.” The two of them left the building together.

Maury spoke quickly as they walked, “I have so many questions for you I don’t know where to start. Probably one of the first things I’ll do is have you brief the guys on German tactics and capabilities,” he paused thinking, “I’m really glad you’re here.”

“It’s good to be here,” Marc replied. “Those Spit guys you’ve had over. Do you mind if I contact them? I’d like to set up some mock dogfights with them. The Spit turns better than the Mustang and flies close enough to a 109 to teach the right lessons. If we can't get RAF pilots, I'll fly a Mustang as close to Messerschmitt tactics as I can so the guys can practice.”

Maury paused and grabbed Marc’s arm, looking him dead in the eyes, “I know we just met, but I think I want to have your children.” Both of them laughed hard.

“I think I’m going to like it here,” they continued walking, Marc had a faraway look. “I do have one request. Who is the pilot you think is most likely to buy it on his first mission?”

Without hesitation Maury replied, “Bill Callahan. Why you asking?”

“I want him permanently assigned as my wingman.”

Maury looked at Marc questioningly, “Done. You going to make him a project? Why?”

“His mom doesn’t need a gold star in her window,” was Marc’s dry reply. Maury looked at Marc again. The look in Marc’s eyes, like he wasn’t even there. Like he was seeing a year of flying and fighting, caused Maury’s stomach to tighten. It made Maury feel good that Marc was there, and gave him a cold feeling in his heart at the same time.

Marc spent the remainder of the afternoon in the ops hut learning how the 355th did, or would do, business. Maury briefed him on the training schedule, and on who the flight and element leaders were. He listened carefully, taking notes when necessary, and asked questions when he had them.

As dinner time approached Maury escorted him to the senior officer’s Quonset hut. Maury was his next door neighbor in their 8x10 foot rooms.Marc traded his service jacket for his A-2. Then Maury took him to the mess hall. The line wasn’t too long, but it was long enough that they were waiting outside. Marc was shivering and moving from side to side to stay warm. Maury looked completely comfortable with the temperature.

Inside it was warm. The mess was relatively quiet. Low conversations, the sound of silverware against metal trays. Dinner that night was meatloaf, mashed potatoes, salad, rolls and butter. At least there were options for what to drink: coffee, tea, or Coca-Cola.

After they got their food Marc asked Maury, “Which one is Bill?”

Maury pointed out a young man sitting near the end of one of the tables where the 355th sat, “Go give him the good news. I’ll see you at the bar later.”

Marc thanked Maury and went over to Bill. He wasn’t sure if the sandy blond haired kid was old enough to shave. He looked Bill over. How did he move his hands? Were his boots shined? Was he eating fast? Did he look nervous? All of those things painted the picture of a man. He stood by the seat opposite him, “Mind if I sit?”

Bill looked up at him, “Naw . . . I mean, no sir. Have a seat.”

Marc chuckled as he took his seat and began to eat quickly, “Names Marc, you must be Bill Callahan.”

Bill looked surprised, “Yes sir.”

“I’m from Virginia. Where ya from?” Marc asked between mouthfuls.

“Kenosha, Wisconsin.”

Marc thought for a moment, “Dairy farmer?”

Bill was surprised again, “Yea, how’d you know?”

“Lucky guess. Ever been this far from home?”

Bill shook his head, “I never left Kenosha before I signed up.”

“Yea, I’d never been too far from home when I signed up. How’d you end up as a pilot?”

“My older brother was drafted in ’41. I wanted to serve too. Been interested in flying since I saw a flying circus when I was little.” Bill shrugged, “Seemed like the best way to go.”

“You and me both,” This made Marc smile. “Ya got a girl back home?”

“No.” Bill looked happy with his answer. “I’m available for all the women of Britain.”

“Good for you. I’m single too,” Marc smiled at him, “Say, how old are you anyways?”

“Twenty one.” Now Bill looked suspicious, “Why you sweating me?”

“Cause I’m here to give you the good news.” Marc set his fork and roll down momentarily and made eye contact with the kid, “You’re about to be my newest best friend. You’re my new wingman.”

Bill set his fork down. A shiver ran through him, “Wha . . why . . .?”

“Let me make it simple for ya. I’m going to be in the thick of it up there and I need a good guy on my wing. Tag, you’re it.”

“But why me? There're better guys . . .”

Marc didn’t give him a chance to finish, “Cause Maury tells me you've still got a lot to learn.” Bill looked thoughtful. “By the time I’m done with ya you’re going to be the best damn pilot in this outfit.”

There was a look of hope on Bill’s face. Marc continued, “But you’re not going to like me. No more baseball, or playing cards, or chasing skirts when you’re not flying. You’re my fucking shadow. We live in ops. You’re going to listen and learn. If there’s nothing for you to do there you’re with maintenance helping them fix our mounts.”

“Hey, I’m no grease monkey . . .,” Bill protested.

Marc waved a hand to silence him. He took a moment to calm himself before he continued, “You have to know your mount inside and out. You have to know when something doesn’t feel right. You have what? Less than ten hours in the P-51?” Bill couldn’t argue. “Help them sight in the guns, hand them tools. Whatever they need. After dinner is your time.” Bill looked frightened, confused and excited all at the same time. “Listen, you do what I’m telling ya and two things will happen. One, you’ll have a chance. Two, I’ll get us a weekend pass to London.”

Bill brightened immediately.

The rest of dinner went quickly. Afterwards Marc went back to the squadron bar. Bill followed him. He got a pint and walked around, meeting the other pilots. He spent a few moments talking with each one. Where ya from? What’s your story? Throughout the evening nearly every pilot made it to the bar. After making his rounds he took a seat at a table. Bill was right there next to him.

A lieutenant sat down, “What was flying in the Mediterranean like?”

Marc answered the question, “The missions were long, lots of flying over water. Your navigation had to be good.”

A while later three guys sat down, “What was biggest dogfight you were in?”

“About twenty 109s. There were only twelve P-38s. You really had to watch out for your wingman.”

“What was it like the first time you saw a Kraut fighter?”

“First time I saw a Hun I was so focused on him I forgot to check six. His wingman put a bunch of holes in my plane.”

When Marc has a small crowd, “So we’re coming back from Sicily. I’m a wingman. Lead calls tower for landing clearance and we get it. We’re lined up to land. Lead is over the threshold and suddenly he starts climbing. Turned out we were about to land at Telerghma instead of our field, Berteaux, which was about five miles away.” Everybody laughed. “That flight lead died two weeks later.”

One captain sat across from Marc and locked eyes with him, “With five kills I’d think you’d have all the answers.”

Marc met his stare, “If I had all the answers I’d have ten kills.” Again, everybody laughed.

George was there also. Sitting in a corner with Maury. Quietly watching. “Maury, I think Frenchie is going to do okay.”

All the while Marc was nursing the same pint from when he first walked in.

Late in the evening the bar begin to empty. Marc finally left and walked to his room. He only got slightly lost in the dark. Laying in the quiet dark of a strange room his left hand began to shake. Forty-seven young pilots. All of them between twenty and twenty-four. All of them looked to him to teach them enough to keep them alive. All of them depended on him. George depended on him. Marc knew he was only there because he was lucky. So many other pilots better than him hadn’t made it. The confident veteran everyone had met today felt like an act, a lie. It’s what all those green guys needed to see. Before every flight his left hand would shake so badly sometimes he had to fight to get it under control. There was no going back now. He had asked for this assignment. A grim determination filled his mind. He stared at the ceiling for a long time. Eventually exhaustion won.