More to Come

By Anthony Skur, Jr

Tommy Thompson’s first assignment in the new Air Force is to the Army’s Intelligence Officer School followed by the paratrooper jump course at Fort Benning, Georgia. His selection by Bob Smith, a super spook out of Washington, was based on the perception that Thompson was the luckiest S.O.B. to have served in the U.S. Army. Luck is needed for the adventures in Korea both on the ground and in the air.

His wife Peggy can’t believe he would voluntarily jump out of perfectly good airplanes but his guardian angel Bartholomew just digs deeper into his bag of luck to keep Tommy alive. Peggy advances in the family business while adding a son to the Thompson family.

The love story begins to unravel with the unlikely savior being Bob Smith.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Anthony Skur, Jr
• Release date: Jan 3, 2014
• ISBN: 9781311757838

Book preview

MORE TO COME

by

Tony Skur

SMASHWORDS EDITION

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PUBLISHED BY:

Greatest Generation Publishing

More to Come copyright ©2013 by Tony Skur

Cover design by Russell C. Connor and Dark Filament Publishing Startup

To find out how you can get yourself published, visit us at darkfilamentpublishing.com

All applicable copyrights and other rights reserved worldwide. No part of this publication may be reproduced, in any form or by any means, for any purpose, without the express, written permission of the author, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review, or as provided by the U.S. Copyright Law.

This is a work of fiction. While some names, places, and events, are historically correct they are used fictitiously to develop the storyline and should not be considered historically accurate. Any resemblance of the characters in this book to actual persons, living or dead, is coincidental and beyond the intent of either the author or the publisher.

Smashwords Edition License Notes

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SELECTED CONTENTS

Chapter 1

Chapter 5

Chapter 10

Chapter 15

Chapter 20

Dedication

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CHAPTER 1

Captain Tommy Thompson, Jr., USAF, World War Two veteran fighter pilot sat alone in this windowless room at Fort Benning Georgia wondering when his classmates were going to show up. No officer in this army platoon leaders’ class had ever been late. He checked his watch for the fifth time. Raising the timepiece to his ear he confirmed it was still ticking. The calendar on the wall confirmed it wasn’t a national holiday. The bright sunlight invaded the room as a door opened and a grayhaired Air Force major entered. No silver aviator wings were on his chest, but on top of his paratrooper’s badge were two gold stars indicating combat jumps. Underneath five rows of awards and decorations proclaimed his participation in events most classified Top Secret.

Thompson I'm Bob Smith your contact with the intelligence committee.

Staring at this uniformed line backer in disbelief, he popped to attention saying, You’re my what, sir?

I’m the guy who selected you to attend this course and then the jump school based on your combat record. I looked through hundreds of personnel records before I found you. You had to be the luckiest son of a bitch in the Army Air Corp during World War Two. In the spook business I'll take luck over brains everytime.

But I’m a fighter pilot.

Yes and you’ll continue to be one with very little interference from me or my group.

I don't have a choice in this?

Your choices are accepting this assignment or go back to Scott Field as the officers’ club manager. What’s it going to be Captain?

In his mind Thompson conjured an image of himself taking orders from the Officers’ Wives Club president and then getting his ass chewed by the lady’s husband, the General, whenever somebody craps in the punch bowl. This picture lasted ten seconds.

I'm yours. What’s my mission?

Pulling down a large map that illustrated Japan and Korea Smith continued, You’ll be assigned to the Military Advisory Group in Japan with temporary duty at Suwon Air Base in Korea. His pointer snaps on a point south of the city of Seoul. You'll be teamed up with Lieutenant Beauregard Kim, a T-33 instructor pilot fluent in the Korean language and a Yale graduate. He is also jump qualified."

Surely you don't want us to spy on their fledgling air force?

No, your job is to find out what's happening at the monazite mines located in what will soon be North Korea. The map buckles as the pointer lands on an area south of the Yalu River. This ore has an uranium content that can be use in manufacturing an atomic bomb.

Koreans, north or south don't have that capability. Am I missing something Major Smith?

You’re right Thompson...the Koreans can't use it but the Russians can.

And you want us to jump into that mess?

Only as a last resort. We're waiting to hear from the last pair that we put in last month. I‘ll have further instructions after you complete jump school.

~ ~ ~

Bartholomew shoved Amos Jackson's grandfather out of the way as a fireball bounced off the highway sign at Marfa, Texas. Grandpa Jackson dusted the sand off his almost new wings and yelled "Score."

"You know Bartholomew, kicking them tumble weeds day in and day out sort of lulls one to sleep. I haven't been paying attention to this heavenly La Crosse game. Who's ahead?"

"The Cherokee tribe is up by two goals. Listen to them screaming and beating those tom toms. At least I think that's drums I hear. With the sky as black as it is, it may be a twister headed this way."

"Bartholomew come here," a powerful voice commanded.

"Who's that?" Grandpa asked looking skyward.

"Just the Boss," Bartholomew replied as he vanished in a blinding flash.

Standing in God's presence, not seeing, only feeling the force and overcome with the peace that engulfed him, Bartholomew wondered why earth couldn't reach this plateau...

"I'm sending you back to take care of Thompson. He made another one of those choices that will put him in harm's way. You used that bag of luck that got him safely through the earth’s second world war...sometimes not too wisely but you achieved what I sent you to do. You kept him alive. Use this next bag more discreetly."

"But who'll take care of Grandpa Jackson? He really needs help."

"And help he will get...turn around Bartholomew. Welcome Granny Jackson as she embraces her first and only love."

He saw that vision for only a split second and then he landed in the swirling red dust at Fort Benning, Georgia.

~ ~ ~

Captain Tommy Thompson, USAF? No sir. I don’t have you listed here as pilot for the C-47s. Perhaps you’re to report in at Lawson Field. This is the Jump School at Fort Benning.

I know that Sergeant. I’m here to take the Jump School course.

We haven’t had that many Air Force officers knocking on our door to jump out of air planes. Let see if the major can help you.

Captain Thompson...sorry about the mix up. You’re in the right place. Have you checked in at the Bachelor Officer's Quarters?

Yes sir.

Good. I’ll run over the protocol governing your stay here at Fort Benning. First and foremost, you have no rank as a student. You will be treated like a soldier with one day of service. To put it bluntly, you’ll be treated like dogshit on jump boots. Your instructor and all instructors will wear black hats. Treat them as you would a visiting god. You will double time every where you go…this starts tomorrow morning at 04:30 hours when you join up with your fellow stick members. They will be mustering in front of barrack 1201. That building is a half-mile from the Q. Don’t be late. Any questions, Thompson?

No sir.

Dismissed.

~ ~ ~

Airborne! Airborne! Airborne! All the way!

Louder, you maggots. I can’t hear you. You think these last two miles have been tough...wait until we hit the hills. Thompson, step up the cadence. You’re the class leader. If you can’t get these wimps to pick up the pace the mess hall will be closed for breakfast.

Maybe a song will inspire them Master Sergeant

You trying to tell me you’re leading a bunch of choir boys?

Yes Master Sergeant. We practice last night before we said our prayers.

If that what it takes to get these sorry asses to the chow hall on time…have at it.

Thirty booming voices rang out,

"There was blood upon the risers,

There were brains upon his chute,

His testicles were hanging from his paratrooper boots.

They picked him up and poured him,

Yes they poured him from his boots,

He ain’t gonna jump no more.

Gory gory what a hell of a way to die.

Gory gory what a hell of a way to die.

Gory gory what a hell of way to die.

He ain’t gonna jump no more."

Detail double time march. You smart asses are going to pay for that.

The mess hall was in sight. The Master Sergeant looked at his watch and gave an order to quick time followed by the order detail halt. Put your noses in the dirt and give me ten pushups...except the choir director can give me twenty five. When your finished line up for chow.

"Master Sergeant, do we get a chance to wash some of this red clay dust off?

Which one of you ladies asked that?

Me sir.

Sir! How many times do I have to tell you thick headed numb skulls I’m not a panty waist officer. I’m a non-commissioned officer in the United States Army. Give me twenty more. And no, you don’t get to wash up. Clap your hands together and shake the dust off. Thompson, you’ve finished your push-ups. Get in the chow line.

No Master Sergeant I’ll wait for the last man to finish and I‘ll go in after him.

Well there’s no sense in just standing there looking at him…join him in his count…matter of fact we’ll both join him. Since I eat with my right hand I’ll do left handed push ups. Together count…one, two, three…louder, I can’t hear you.

A little more than winded and ready to eat a small horse Thompson was the last of the detail to enter the chow hall. That will be forty five cents.

Damn I left my wallet back at the Q.

Not to worry sir, a familiar voice behind him said. I‘ll spring for breakfast You’ve brought me food on more than one occasion.

Gray Mouse. Is that really you?

Sergeant Welch, this officer is in my stick and I don’t want you fucking with him.

Fuck with him…Master Sergeant? Hell this man was my leader at Bastogne. Kept the squad from heading into a trap. I don’t want to fuck with him I just want to kiss him.

Did he jump in with you?

No he just crashes his airplane when I need him most. Damn you’re looking good sir.

Sergeant Welch, I hate to interrupt your lovely welcome home party but he has ten minutes left to chow down. Meet him at the canteen over at the quadrangle at 1900 hours.

Thompson left the BOQ dressed in clean starched herring bone twill fatigues. The requirement to double time while in training status had him covered in sweat and red dust by the time he met Welch at the canteen. The sergeant wore a walking out uniform consisting of an Ike jacket, green trousers tucked into brown spit shined jump boots and an overseas cap with a 82nd medallion pin to it. Above his decorations, his paratroopers badge, emblazoned with two mustard stains, that is gold stars indicating jumps during combat. His Combat Infantry Badge (CIB) glistens as the setting sun’s rays lit it up.

I saw your name on the student roster and figured you really must have pissed somebody off to end up with the certifiable nuts that want to jump out of airplanes. How did you manage to pull this duty?

After attending the company officers’ intelligence school at Fort Hood, the wheels that be thought they would round off my education with jump school. The Intel back ground courses were more than I expected and if they wouldn’t have stress the fitness program during those two months I wouldn’t have made it through these last four days. I hope what we’re doing is going to help us through the tower training next week. What‘s an old soldier like you doing here?

I’m jumping through my asshole trying to keep up with the changes in this man’s army. First we’re still winding down from the big war. Then there’s Truman’s desegregation policy being met with more than a little resistance. We’re trying to integrate the men from the deactivated 555th Smoke Jumpers into the cadre. This Negro division didn‘t see any combat but had over one thousand jumps into the fires in the northwest states. Trying to ease the resulting tight jaws about who works for who is not an easy chore particularly when the word Niger creeps into the conversations. And to top it all off there’s some crazy talk about some place called Korea and the need to get out of the replacement business and build up a new division or at least a brigade. But my real job is being a red hat.

Funny you should mention Korea. That’s where I’m off to for six months after this school. Supposedly as an flight instructor but more than likely as a snoop. What the hell is a red hat? You carry baggage for little old ladies?

Careful Captain…I’m the guy who packs your parachute…a certified, no shit parachute rigger.

Well then let me buy you a beer.

Bribery will get you a good chute every time…that and after I pack a hundred of them, then the sergeant major randomly pull one off the rack and I have to jump with it. You can bet your sweet ass I’m the best rigger on base.

Tell me about the drop towers.

I’m sure your instructor will cover this but since you asked there’s four of them… 249 feet tall. We call them free towers because at the 1939 World’s Fair it cost you money to get this ride. Here it doesn't cost you a dime. When you step out you'll swing out on rollers like you would hitting the air stream. Hopefully you’ll straighten yourself out so you can perform a PLF, you know…parachute landing fall. Otherwise you’ll bust your ass. And if you harness straps aren’t cinched tight I guarantee you you’ll bust your balls. Hell it’s a piece of cake. Enough of this shop talk…you still married?

Yes, and she’s a little bit pregnant.

No such thing as a little pregnant, Captain.

Okay, she’s a lot pregnant. And not a bit happy with me for leaving with a kid on the way. How about you?

She gave up on me when I re-enlisted. Didn’t want anything to do with the army, the separations or me…especially me.

Sorry to hear that Lee.

Hell it makes no difference…we didn’t have any kids, just a dog and she took the mutt.

Speaking of kids what’s Wilson up to?

He didn’t make it…the only one in my stick that didn’t make it to Berlin. I’ll never forgive him for that. I told him to stay in the cellar and piss on the wall, but hell no he wanted to piss on a tree. A sniper got him…a damn thirteen-year-old, school boy sniper killed one of the best warriors I knew. My guys captured that squirt and wanted to string him up. I wouldn’t let them. I made the kid bury him…then I spanked him and sent him home. The war was over one week later.

You know Wilson really hated flying with me in that German observation plane you found for me. He especially hated my landings. But the briefings he gave the general’s staff were perfect and he didn’t use the word fuck one time. Well maybe just once when I volunteered to fly him and the homing beacon back to you. He was a good man.

Yeah a damn good man and a damn good friend. Before I go let me give you one piece of advice. Looking down at Thompson’s feet he advised, Get a pair of jump boots…ones with front edge of the heel cut at a forty five degree angle. Those flying boots of yours will hang up on the threshold of the door of that C-47 and you’ll tumble out instead of jumping out. Good luck sir.

Thanks Lee.

Looking down from the tower, the wind blowing dust devils below him Tommy’s stomach fluttered like a flock of butterflies struggling to escape. A very odd sensation indeed. His first thought was I’m not moving across the ground at 350 miles an hour and his second was, I think I’m afraid of heights.

Well Thompson, you going to look at the clouds or are you going to jump, the instructor yell as he put his size twelve boot on Thompson’s butt and shoved. It took a half of a swing to straighten himself out and ten seconds later he performed a perfect PLF.

That was almost fun, he muttered to himself as released the risers attached to his harness.

Not too bad for a body without feathers, mused Bartholomew. I guess my vacation is over. He checked over his bag of Luck and wondered what came next.

The bus ride to Lawson Field at the beginning of the third week was a quiet one. No wise cracks…hardly a smile from any one except the master sergeant. Every instruction he had pounded into their heads raced through their minds. Legs together…knees bent…chin tucked in…check your chute…remember your PLF. The bus’s brakes squeaked as they slid to a stop creating a fifteen-foot tall cloud of red dust. They were a half-mile from the C-47 that would fly them up to 1250 feet above the ground. No extra equipment was levied on them for the first two jumps. The stick of twenty men doubletimed to the aircraft’s door. There, two serious and straight face non-coms assisted them, insuring their harnesses were tight and their static line hung freely over their shoulder.

You board last, Thompson.

Yes Master Sergeant

"Listen up and do exactly what the jump master tells you to do. I’ll be on the ground at the drop zone at Fryer Field, Alabama with a bullhorn. If you perform the way I taught you, I’ll save my voice. My guess is that you yard birds