Scotch by night

John climbs the dimly lit wooden stairs. He is not sober, but not so drunk that climbing a staircase is difficult. He turns onto an equally dimly lit landing and walks down the corridor to the room he’s been assigned – number 9. He enters without knocking, and looks around the room of the Philippina prostitute. She is in a bed on his right under a dark sheet, her face turned towards him as if to gauge what kind of a man he is. He nods to her, closes the door behind him and engages the latch. The door looks as though a hard kick will send it flying, but it will have to do.

The smell in the room is similar to the smell in the rest of the building. Perfume and cigarette smoke mix with alcohol and damp wood and damp textiles, all of it seasoned and interwoven with age. It’s quite nauseating. John walks to the window which is open behind shutters that are slightly ajar. His head in the opening he peers down on the busy street. Marine aviators in clean, pressed uniforms like his own fill the street in both directions. One is throwing up just across from him. The outside air is also pungent, but with different notes. The smell of fuel oil from a recent spill blows in from the harbour to be overlaid with the stench from the street. In spite of himself John pulls the window shut, and starts to take off his uniform jacket, then his shirt, making sure the cuff links are secure. He unfastens his trousers and notices some stains on the lower leg as he pulls them off and hangs them over the back of a chair. The jacket and shirt have each found a hook on the dark wall. John looks around and realizes the only source of light is a bedside lamp. Next to it is a bottle of amber liquid, and over in the corner is a washing stand with a jug, a towel and basin.

John looks at the girl again. She is observing his movements with a faraway look, as though what he was doing didn’t regard her at all. But he senses a certain alertness in her gaze all the same. She wants to find out what kind of a man he is before he comes nearer, even though there is nothing she can do either way.

There is no script for this scene, no user guide, but there is no need for one. John drops his underwear on the floor, lifts the cover, and slips into the narrow bed next to the girl. The bed and the floor both creak as his weight shifts to one from the other. Immediately he is struck by the warmth of her skin, and the smell of perfume – he recognizes it as being the one in the room – and the smell of alcohol on her breath. She is naked, slim, and warm to touch. Her breasts are necessarily small since there is no fat on her body.. When he had asked for a slim girl the matron had laughed and muttered “that’s all I have”, before consulting a board with some numbers and cryptic chalk marks, and extending her hand said “second floor number 9”. John paid, and climbed the stairs.

Already the girl has reached for his sex and is squeezing life into it. She is looking through him. John is not surprised. This is only the second time in his life that he is with a prostitute, and already everything is familiar. The first one was near his base in the US, and she was older and a lot bigger in every sense. John helps himself get an erection and rolls on the awkward condoms that he has been issued with. They are smelly and don’t fit very well.

The girl parts her legs and pulls him on top and helps him get inside her. He rests his upper body on his elbows so as not to crush her slender frame, and to allow her to breathe, and starts to fuck her. Her sex is warm and accomodating and fills him with a strange feeling of peace, of being home. His first time with a prostitute was not like that. He had found the woman quite repulsive and had to concentrate to climax, helped by her ability to contract the muscles in her vagina. With this girl from the Philippines it feels natural, somehow, even if she is completely passive and doesn’t look straight at him. She is his to enjoy and he has decided to do just that. In a short time he can feel the climax approaching. He tries to calm down but knows it’s too late. The condom seems to be falling off so he pulls out and removes it and ejaculates on her belly. Then he flops down next to her while the contractions peter out. His cum is absorbed by the sheet which has fallen onto her and is showing her outline in the dim light. She turns to him with a slight smile. “Good man” she says.

She pulls herself up and takes a sip directly from the bottle. He takes the bottle from her and tastes the liquid. It burns his mouth and throat, but it’s a welcome sting and the smells and the squalor are pushed aside by the purifying power of alcohol.

There is nothing more to do, so John gets out of bed and starts to get dressed. The clothes are awkward to pull over his sticky skin. The girl keeps looking at him, now with a different expression, as though she yearned for him or some other man to take her away from her fate.

Marine jacket over his arm he undoes the latch and leaves. He sighs audibly with relief as he steps out through the curtain door, side-stepping to avoid collision with three very drunk sailors that are zig-zagging the entire width of the street.

Back on the carrier John undresses and takes a shower. It’s good to take in the familiar smells of the ship, and to light a cigarette on the flight deck under the clear, starlit sky before turning in. Tomorrow afternoon the fleet weighs anchor.

A short week later John is on the flight deck at dawn. Standing at the very front of the deck the warm morning air rushes at him as the carrier pushes north-east into the rising sun. He tries to think and to focus on what lies ahead, what he imagines lies ahead. His thoughts return to the girl, to the prostitute, and then the bell calls him to the briefing room. With his buddy Pete he is going on a morning scouting patrol ahead of the fleet. Simple enough. Fly out, scout, turn back.

Pete and John climb onto the flight deck to find the Hellcats being warmed up by the mechanics. As John approaches the stubby plane he can smell oil, exhaust and aviation gasoline as the engine is switched off. The mechanic climbs down and shakes John hand. All clear. It’s John turn now so he climbs into the cockpit and gets strapped in. The engine is restarted and John goes through the checklist before take-off. It’s hot, even with the canopy open and the propeller wash coming down along the fuselage. Presently he is through and gives the thumbs-up at the same time as Pete. The deck master waves his flag and John sets the throttle to full take off power, and as the brakes are released he is thrown back in the seat when the Hellcat surges forward, and with a light pressure on the stick the plane takes to the air, helped by the motion of the carrier which is headed into the wind. Behind him Pete’s plane follows him closely as they turn around and head out on a north-easterly course. The carrier comes around to port and follows in their wake.

The planes are climbing out on a steady throttle and course, and John takes a moment to look around. So far the morning has been all about routine, and now comes the mission itself. John realizes that the usual nervousness in the pit of his stomach is missing this morning. It’s as if he is at peace with the world and whatever may come. The sun is slowly rising, below them now, and the sea is a glittering expanse in every direction. John turns his head this way and that, scanning the sea and the sky for the enemy. The two planes level out at 15.000 feet and the pilots keep scanning the sea below and the sky around them as the minutes go by. The engine drones monotonously, the instruments all show good values, and the fuel gauge measures the steady consumption of aviation gasoline. It’s beginning to be difficult to stay awake, but the point where they will turn back is approaching. John is looking back to the right towards Pete’s plane when suddenly tracer bullets pour past it. John jerks his stick hard to the left and in a flash sees Pete bank to the right with parts of the plane flying off. John knocks his head on the side of the cockpit and tracer bullets wizz past where his plane was a second ago. He finds himself in an inverted dive and knows that a Japanese Zero must be just behind him. Again bullets fly past as he rights the plane and pulls hard back on the stick. The Hellcat shoots skywards and he imagines more than he sees the Zeros flashing past under him before they also zoom skywards, carried by the momentum from the dive. John has pushed the throttle to the maximum war power position and the engine is making a terrific noise. He knows from briefings and from experience that this is a race he can win – the race for altitude. The Zeros will climb more slowly than him as the altitude increases and his supercharger gives his plane more power, but right now they are about level with him, maybe 500 yards away, and on the same course. He is alone. A grey line of smoke shows the path of Pete’s final dive, and he has not seen any parachute. John heart is racing and the familiar dryness in the mouth tells him his body is once again in full combat mode. His plane and the Zeros are hanging by their propellers with the engines belching grey and white smoke. The temperature gauges have shot to their maximum positions. John considers running for it; flicking his plane over and diving for the sea. He looks at the compass but fails to make sense of what he sees. He glances at the sun. Which direction will take him to the carrier? He realizes that he has lost his bearings, but there is no time to rue this fact because the Zeros have made their move: they are four to his one, and they have flicked over on their backs to turn towards him in a line-abreast formation, slightly staggered, and are now rolling to right themselves. The distance is closing rapidly, but they are not in a good position from which to fire at him, coming as they are at almost right angles to his course. Maybe they plan to fall into line behind him and open fire as he hangs from his propeller? If he then breaks, he will be toast.

John has a number of battles and dogfights behind him. He has seen Zeros disintegrate in front of his six machine guns, and has returned with his Hellcat full of bullet holes after intense clashes. He has seen comrades fall to the guns of the Zeros, and he has witnessed the gradual erosion of the quality of the Zero pilots at the same time as the quality of the Navy planes has increased dramatically. In his Hellcat he knows he can take on a Zero and come out on top. But four Zeros, that’s another matter.
As often in battle, instincts and training take over. There is no time to reflect on what to do. John wrings the Hellcat over on its back and sets course for the four Zeros. Four… that’s an odd number … the gap is closing rapidly, but they are not yet within firing range. Four – there must be more! The next instant the Hellcat is on its back again and diving in a corkscrew motion below the four oncoming Zeros. Tracer bullets flash past again as the two Zeros coming from above see their attack foiled. They came from above and behind him, and are now breaking to avoid hitting the four other Zeros. John interrupts his dive immediately and returns to climbing; the g-forces push him hard into the seat and he has to pull on the stick with all his force. As soon as the plane is climbing he performs a slow barrel role to take stock of the situation. All six Zeros are well below and some distance away in the process of regrouping. The double row radial engine is still screaming at full war power, and John throttles back to save it from blowing up. The altimeter crosses 15 thousand feet. Angels 15, John thinks to himself as he scans the instruments. Fuel gauges, oil pressure, oil temperature, cylinder head temperature. Hot, but not over the limit. A new sweep of the sky. The Zeros have turned east in a V-formation. It’s unlikely they are on a straight course for their fleet, but John reaches for the radio switch to report their direction. The radio is silent. He glances at the compass. It looks funny, and he realizes it has been hit by a bullet that has come up through the floor. Focusing on the inside of the  cockpit John spots several bullet holes and realizes the plane has been hit. His right boot has also been grazed by a passing bullet.

John levels off and throttles back to cruise, and again looks at the compass. No joy. In the pocket of his trouser leg is a revolver and a pocket compass. He fumbles until he manages to get it out, puts it on his thigh, and is able to work out his current heading. But where is the carrier? He flew out on a bearing of 60 degrees, so he brings the plane around to 240 degrees and pushes the stick forward. Presently the Hellcat descends in a fast glide to get to an altitude where John has a chance to spot the carrier. He tries the radio again despite knowing it’s been knocked out.

John is alone over the Pacific, somewhere east of the Philippines. If he cannot locate the carrier, he will run out of fuel and ditch in the endless ocean, or he can choose to bail out. The short battle at the extreme end of his range has cost dearly , and even if the carrier has been steaming on his course for more than hour, he also has to locate it.

The face of the Philippina girl appears before him in surprising detail. It’s not the first time since that encounter a few days and a thousand miles ago. John feels a mixture of fear and sorrow. As the minutes pass the feeling of fear subsides and sorrow dominates completely. Ever since flying school he has witnessed death regularly and resigned himself to its constant presence and to the significant probability that it will come to him. A few narrow escapes and surviving a night time crash-landing on the carrier deck has not placed him under a lucky star. John is too rational to think that.

In spite of everything John pulls the Hellcat over in a series of barrel rolls. He loves the response of the plane to his every touch. Pushing the stick forward takes the plane into a 45 degree dive, and then John pulls back on the stick, opens the throttle, and loops back on himself; on top of the climb the plane comes onto its back and he rolls it onto its belly – an Immelman turn. He is now heading back where he came from; that won’t do so he turns the plane around in a 180 degree corkscrew dive, relishing the way the g-force pushes him into the seat. Bearing 240 degrees, water everywhere. The fuel gauge is warning him that the flight is nearing its end. John throttles back to economy and sets a lean mixture. The plane slows down and feels sluggish on the controls. This may buy him another 20 minutes aloft, tops.

After 17 minutes the engine cuts out abruptly. The sound of air rushing over the plane is all that John can hear. Stick forward into a dive keeps airspeed above the stall limit, but the sea is approaching fast. Ditching is dangerous, so bring the canopy back, undo the seatbelt, remove oxygen mask, check again that all looks good: a final barrel roll brings the Hellcat onto its back, push forward on the stick and the negative G throws John clear of the plane. All that is left is to pull the cord, and the next moment he is hanging from his white chute over the Pacific. At this exact moment a Hellcat spotter plane from his carrier spots a white blotch in the distance, and a few minutes later, after John has climbed soaking wet into his dinghy, it zooms above him at 30 feet altitude with the engine at full power, waving its wings as it goes.

John swears to himself he will return to room number 9.