Stormy Weather

By Phillip A. Elwood

Politics, action and romance combine to take the reader through the greatest and most destructive event of the Twentieth Century.
Historic events and historic figures are interwoven in this exciting and heartwarming story of just one family from the Greatest Generation.
Son of a World War II veteran, and an admirer of all who served, Elwood puts his heart into his storytelling with Stormy Weather.

• Language: English
• Publisher: AuthorHouse
• Release date: Jul 15, 2013
• ISBN: 9781481773034

Phillip A. Elwood

Phillip A. Elwood was born in a small mid-western town but moved to Louisiana in 1971. He is married with two grown children and five grandchildren. He is an Air Force veteran and currently still lives in Louisiana.

Book preview

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CHAPTER 1

December ’41

The long black Packard sedan rolled silently to a stop outside the opulent ivy covered home in Arlington, Virginia. The bright winter sun glinted off the chrome trim and polished fenders, suggesting careful and constant attention. Small muddy splashes around the wire wheels were all that spoiled its pristine beauty.

The thick ivy on the house clung to red Georgia clay bricks laid with careful precision nearly a hundred years before. One of Robert E. Lee’s neighbors built the home with skilled slave labor. Glistening white pillars flanked the golden knobbed door, silently standing guard with perpetual patience. A Civil War mini-ball had chipped a rib on the right pillar which, since it held historical significance, had never been repaired.

The brown winter grass of the manicured lawn spread down a slight hill to the front gate. Encircled by an oval driveway, the gardener always clipped it to a carpet-like perfection.

Senator Clayton Storm opened the back door and climbed out of the huge Packard. His football-ravaged knees protested with loud pops and painful twinges. Impeccably dressed, his black shoes reflected as much sun as the Packard’s fenders. His tailor-made suit and overcoat fit his square shoulders as if he’d been born in them.

Take the car on around James, he told the chauffeur. I won’t be going anywhere else today. The driver nodded and silently slipped the big car back into gear, gently steering it toward the garage. A quiet purr and the crunch of the tires against the pavement were the only sounds the magnificent car made. Once under the protective roof of the garage, James would clean the muddy wheels and ready the car for the next day.

Once again fully erect, the Senator’s knees loosened as he strode toward the door. Removing his hat, he pushed open the heavy oaken portal. Margaret! He called. I’m home! His wife of thirty years didn’t answer. He checked the den, then the bedroom, and finally decided to look out back. There he found her, bundled against the December chill, kneeling over her prize-winning rose bushes. I should have known, he thought, smiling.

He silently crept up behind her and with a devilish grin, stroked his thumb… well, where he shouldn’t have. Yeek! She screamed. Potting soil flew in several directions as she leaped forward into the soft black dirt of the flowerbed, burying her hands up to the wrists. She flopped over onto her bottom and glared at him through a tightly restrained grin.

The Senator chuckled as he reached to help her to her feet. Black earth stained her soft cotton gloves and then the Senator’s hand as he effortlessly lifted her up. He wrapped his arms around her waist and kissed her softly on the cheek. I’d think you’d not be so tender down there after having had five children my dear.

She pushed him away in mock anger and growled, Having had five children is what made it tender you old ass. At forty-nine, she was still a beautiful and vital woman. Her honey-blonde hair reached below her broad shoulders through a red bow at the back of her neck, the tiny shock of gray circling her left ear enhanced rather than detracted from her beauty. What are you doing home so early? She asked him.

Slow day, he sighed. Thought I’d spend it working on the speech.

Then I’ll clean up here and fix you a snack, she told him.

Aw splendid m’dear, splendid, he drawled, trying to mimic his favorite comedian, W.C. Fields. She swatted his hand away as he squeezed a handful of her firm buttock. He slapped on his gray felt hat and waddled, Chaplinesque, toward the house. She smiled behind him and felt the flush of true love yet again in her heart.

Returning to the flowerbed, she lovingly rearranged the straw to protect the plants from the cold, then gathered up her gardening tools. She tossed them into her wooden toolbox and carried it to the small potting shed near the patio. She couldn’t see the dirty handprint on the cheek of her butt.

Senator Storm entered his study and tossed his hat onto the tall teakwood rack in the corner. He seldom missed the gleaming brass pegs, and once again his aim was perfect.

Slipping off his jacket, he fell into the leather chair and shuffled the stack of notes into a coherent order. He jammed a fresh sheet of paper into his new Royal typewriter, took a deep breath, and laboriously began to peck away with two fingers. Typing was grueling for him, but he always insisted upon doing it himself.

Like his wife, the Senator looked younger than his fifty years. The wisps of gray in his thick brown hair merely added to his classic good looks. Between the obligatory golf games twice a week and the obligatory tennis matches on Saturdays, he stayed in fairly good shape, though if he sat in one spot for more than ten minutes his knees stiffened up. Still tall and robust, he drew more than an occasional admiring glance from the young ladies who worked on Capitol Hill. But, he knew; he would always be a one-woman man.

Margaret entered the study with a thick roast beef sandwich and a cup of coffee and placed them on the edge of the desk within his reach. She circled behind him and read over his shoulder while massaging the tight muscles in his neck. That’s really good, she whispered, her voice deep and throaty. The touch of her cool fingers relaxed him.

I hope so, he muttered tiredly. He took a deep breath and settled his head back onto her chest. Her large breasts framed his head like pillowy bookends, warm and soothing. He could feel her beating heart against the back of his head, bringing memories of many passionate nights over the years. Fighting arousal, he patted her hand and reluctantly returned to his pecking. Realizing the gravity of his work and not wishing to distract him, she kissed the top of his head, patted his shoulder, and left the room.

He concentrated on the words of dire warning he rapped upon the paper. He reminded his audience of the threats around them. He told them of the nightmare in Europe and the carnage in the Far East. Sooner or later, it would drag the United States into the conflict, despite the opinions of many of his colleagues. The Isolationists had preached the litany of non-involvement, of peace at any price. But he disagreed with them.

What was now being called The Battle of Britain had been an impressive victory for the British. The RAF with its Spitfires and Hurricanes dealt the Luftwaffe a definite pummeling. But the rout at Dunkirk and the fall of France had been an equally impressive dose of reality.

But even with the Lend-Lease Program, England could not go it alone against Herr Hitler and the Senator knew it. He had to convince those who disagreed that America could no longer wait on its laurels. She had to arm herself for war, and do it now.

The Japanese aggressions in Indochina were equally disturbing to him. His few friends in the War Department kept him clued in on the almost daily intelligence on Japanese atrocities in Burma and China.

He knew of the American Volunteer Group or Flying Tigers. Claire Chenault’s band of mercenary pilots risked their lives every day in hopes of slowing the advance of the Japanese. But he also knew they weren’t very successful. Undersupplied and out-gunned, they could do little to repulse such a huge enemy.

Storm sat back in his chair nibbling on the sandwich, deep in thought. His greatest worry wasn’t so much about whether the United States would enter the war, which was inevitable; it was his sons, who would most probably be participating in some way or another.

Ray, the oldest, was twenty-eight and too old for combat. His physics work at MIT would be considered valuable to the war effort and probably keep him at home in any case. The fact that he was married and had a child on the way would also provide a deferment. His brownish hair had thinned lately and he had a habit of hunching his shoulders when he drifted away in thought.

Roland, twenty-five, already served in the Army. Although Storm never considered Rolly’s OCI posting as particularly dangerous, it could get that way in wartime. Army boot camp had toughened him physically and even though his non-combat job kept him behind a desk most of the time, he remained quite fit.

With dark brown hair and eyes, a high forehead and bushy eyebrows, he reminded Storm of his own father, dead now for twenty years.

Storm’s major concern was Ross. At twenty-one and about to graduate from engineering college, he was a prime candidate for the Army Air Corps. The kid’s love of flying is what sent him to aeronautical school in the first place.

He’d passed his pilot training at sixteen, without his parent’s knowledge. At seventeen, he somehow wrangled a beat-up old bi-plane for sixty dollars, also without their knowing. He’d earned the money delivering groceries and mowing lawns and any other odd job he could get. It took six months and a ton of sweat, but he’d put the old girl in the air. Though Storm acted fiercely angry over it all, he was inwardly very proud of the boy.

Of course there were other reasons for pride in Ross. He excelled in football and track in high school and his grades were always above average. He had the looks of a Hollywood star. At six-foot four he could be quite imposing when he wanted to be. His hair was blonde, like his mother’s. And he shared her quick infectious smile.

Raymond, Roland and Ross were three of the best sons any father could ask for. And here he was, Senator Clayton Storm of the Senate Sub-committee on Military Affairs, recommending that his government send them all to war.

His single consolation was that all his children weren’t boys. Barbara and Sue were fraternal twins with absolutely nothing in common but their birthday.

Barb grew more serious every year while Susan never had a care in the world. Barbara loved politics; Susan couldn’t care less. Barbara finished prep school on the dean’s list while Susan barely passed. Barbara had never had a date while Susan had been chasing boys since she was thirteen. Lately she slipped out the upstairs window at least twice a week to see a half-Mexican auto mechanic five years her senior. Storm knew of the affair but after talking to the young man, and a discreet background check, decided not to interfere.

Susan glowed with life, her reddish hair always hanging loosely about her shoulders. Voluptuous, though far from fat, she filled out her clothes with soft round curves that made the young men around her sweat with longing.

Barbara was thinner than her sister and her dark brown hair never just hung loose. She buried herself in books and never giggled or twittered like her sister sometimes did. Seriousness had become a way of life to her. Since her ninth birthday it had been Mother and Father and never Mom and Dad. Storm didn’t think he could remember the last time she’d called him Daddy.

He didn’t know exactly how a major war would affect the girls, but he was certain it would. But despite the back stabbing, the horse trading, the ass kissing and the blatant hypocrisy of pork-barrel politics; he was still a very decent man deep down inside, who felt that the horrors of what was going on in the world had to be dealt with.

So he returned to his speech. Monday morning he’d read it before an undoubtedly thin audience in the Senate chamber and pray someone remained awake long enough to hear what he had to say.

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CHAPTER 2

December ’41

Long red hair billowed into Ross’ face as he tried to bank the old Jenny into the wind and slip it onto the runway. He banged on the canvas fuselage to get the girl’s attention and the green faced co-ed turned shakily around to face him. Don’t puke in the plane! He yelled. Lean over the side!

She merely glared at him and screamed, Get me down! He reluctantly nodded and used his hands to tell her to hold her hair down so he could see. He rolled the creaking plane into his down-wind leg and cut the power. Turning base, then final, he set the old plane down with only a hint of a bump.

The wheels had barely stopped turning when his girlfriend of the past three hours leaped out onto her hands and knees and vomited into the grass. Thank God, he thought. He hated cleaning puke out of the front cockpit. He watched with some sympathy as the girl staggered to her feet.

Turning to glare wet-eyed at Ross; she wrathfully threw her goggles at him and yelled over the idling motor. Don’t ever… speak to me again! She spun on her heel and groggily stormed across the grass toward her car. Halfway there, she doubled over and retched heavily onto her expensive leather shoes.

Well, scratch another one, Ross muttered as he watched her retreating bottom swinging toward the parking lot. If a girl doesn’t love flying, he couldn’t love her. He shrugged his shoulders and jammed the throttle in again. The old motor roared and the yellow biplane began to rumble down the grassy runway. At fifty-eight knots, he eased back on the stick and the Jenny lifted into the sky.

Boppin’ Betty arched across the cowling of the old plane in fat red letters. He’d painted it there himself. He didn’t really know any Betty, let alone a Bopping one. He just thought the name was catchy.

The plane had been in poor condition when he bought her. He’d repaired the torn canvas, rebuilt the aging engine, and rewired the entire wing structure all by himself. Several old ‘Aces’ had helped him along the way of course, with advice, a third hand or a scrounged part or two; but he did all of the work he could himself.

Unlike anywhere else, Ross felt free in the air. He imagined more than one dogfight with the Red Baron as he practiced his stalls and rolls and loops. But daydreaming in a biplane can get chancy as he’d learned two weeks before. In a lapse of concentration, he banged the plane down too hard and cracked a landing strut. He never told anyone about it, except Sue. It seemed his sister was the only one who understood how he felt about flying.

He and Sue were close in age and often conspiratorial. She covered for him when he flew and he covered for her when she screwed Carlo. At least he thought she was screwing Carlo. Truth be known; Carlo was a shy and honorable young man who loved Susan very much. He demanded they wait until marriage for sex, though Sue, deflowered three years before at summer camp, was ready now.

But Ross didn’t know this and at the moment didn’t much give a shit as he rolled Betty onto her back and grinned as the ground slid by above his head. Edging slowly toward the dusty airport road, he saw the girl again, zooming down the road in her father’s convertible. He flipped her a wave as he roared three feet above her head, nearly causing her to sideswipe a truck.

He climbed back to five hundred feet and leveled the plane out. Rolling back to right side up, he checked his altimeter and was pleased to see he’d only lost about twenty feet doing the maneuver. He figured he improved with every flight, which was just what a good pilot is supposed to do.

Glancing at his fuel gauge, he decided to swing back to the hanger for a Coke with Bert and Clyde before heading home to supper.

His turns were smooth and effortless as he banked back toward the airfield. He lined the plane up for a textbook approach and landing pattern, then eased the wheels onto the dusty grass runway.

Ross tied the Jenny down to an old concrete-filled tire, and jogged into the tin hanger. There, Clyde crouched over the scattered innards of a Wright radial engine. Wire-rimmed glasses sat perched on Clyde’s forehead; they were rarely used but necessary at times. To the uneducated eye, the thousands of parts seemed to be tossed randomly over the workbench. But Clyde knew exactly where each tiny piece sat and where it went at re-assembly.

Bert, on the other hand, arranged engine parts in tidy rows according to the order in which they were removed. Bert tended to be precise and organized where Clyde was more intuitive where engine work was concerned.

Even their coveralls betrayed their personalities. Bert’s were always clean and neatly pressed. Sharpened pencils and a small metal rule nestled snuggly in the deep breast pocket. A red shop rag was always neatly folded in his left hip pocket. He’d whip it out and diligently rub some tiny speck of grit from a wing or a cowling, then slowly fold it again and replace it.

Clyde’s coveralls on the other hand, could probably walk to work of their own accord. Grease and grime stained nearly every square inch of the gray fabric. The sleeves were rolled up tightly over his elbows, though never evenly, and one leg cuff always seemed to get caught on the top of his boot. And as for a pencil, his was merely a three-inch nub perpetually jammed over his right ear. Ross had even seen him digging in his ears with it.

How ‘bout a Coke Clyde? Ross yelled.

Sure kid, sure, the old man responded absently. Ross snapped the caps off two bottles and handed one to Clyde. Clyde’s wrinkled face puckered as he looked over the engine parts on the bench. At a glance he could tell which needed cleaning and which would require replacement. He lifted a knee to squeak out a dry bubble of gas and muttered gruffly, Aw boy. He performed this ritual passing of the gas every time he was about to start any important project. He called it Clearing his head. Ross had grown used to this comic rudeness and ignored it.

They stood silently side-by-side until Clyde cracked his knuckles like a pianist and sat on his gray metal stool. Did I ever tell you about my old buddy Cap’n Eddie? He asked.

Of course he had, close to a hundred times Ross figured. But Clyde liked to tell it and Ross loved to hear it, even if it were only partly true. Clyde and Rickenbacher had both served in World War One. And one good thing about a good old stretch-the-truth yarn was that it was a little different every time Clyde told it.

Well Cap’n Eddie and I arrived at the Porta Cherbourgh together in 1918. He was a green recruit and scared as hell of airplanes, but I helped him get over that. Ross nodded politely and sipped at his Coke. After we got assigned to… Clyde droned on, with Ross soaking up every exaggerated sentence yet one more time.

Clyde dipped the greasy engine parts in a coffee can of gasoline as he talked. He scrubbed the stubborn gunk off with an old toothbrush that Ross firmly believed Clyde also used on his teeth at night. . . . then we formed the Hat in the Ring squadron in July o’ . . .

Bert shuffled around in the back of the hanger tuning out Clyde’s worn out war story and straightening the shop before closing time. Ross’ Coke grew warm in his hand as he listened to the old man go on and on, laughing where appropriate to do so and acting amazed at Clyde’s lecherous exploits in a Paris brothel.

Finally getting enough, Bert flicked the lights and hollered over his shoulder, Let’s go home ya old coot! It’s after eight!

Aw shit! Ross exclaimed as he checked his watch. I gotta run guys, Mom’ll be waiting a plate for me. He ran toward the door, slipping the empty bottle into a wooden case on his way. He heard them chuckle their good-byes to his back like they had for the last five years as he hurried to his Ford convertible and jumped in over the door.

Even though it was winter, Ross drove with the top down. It was no colder than flying the Jenny with its thin canvas hide and open cockpit. The fleece-lined flying jacket his father had given him warded off the chill.

Ross entered Arlington just under the speed limit and swung the car into the long driveway at the stroke of eight-thirty. He raised the car’s top and quietly slipped into the house. Everyone had eaten and had settled in for an evening by the radio. Dad, as usual, had locked himself into his study, while Mom sat in her favorite chair to knit a sweater or something for Ray’s expected baby.

The plate was in the oven staying warm so Ross slid it out and gently set it on the table. After a deep breath, he poured a glass of milk and sat down to eat. He shoved the lamb into his mouth hurriedly and sloshed down the milk. On his fourth or fifth drink, the lowering glass revealed his mother leaning against the doorframe with her arms folded across her chest, an angry look on her face.

Hi Mom! Ross squeaked sheepishly. Great pork chops!

It’s lamb son, she told him. Where’ve you been?

I… uh had some studying to do at the library after class, he lied. Gotta test comin’ up. That part at least was the truth.

She nodded that ‘Sure you were’ kind of nod that let him know she didn’t believe him, but she wasn’t going to push it either. She returned to her chair and left him to finish eating.

Susan entered and went to the Frigidaire for a Coke. Flying again huh? She murmured.

Ross looked up at the door before answering. Yeah, he told her. Just a little stall practice.

With Janine this time? Or was it Caroline? Or maybe Mary Kate?

Ross grinned while he chewed. Anna Beth Wilkerson, he told her flatly.

Sue’s mouth dropped open in astonishment. Ann Wilkerson? Are you kidding? Ross shook his head. Sue asked giggling, Did she puke?

Ross looked up at his sister seriously, All over the airfield. They both broke up laughing. Susan didn’t care much for the snobbish Miss Wilkerson, and now, neither did Ross.

You gonna see Pancho tonight? Ross asked her.

His name is Carlo, she corrected. And no. He’s working late. I thought I’d sack out early and get my beauty sleep.

Well, you could always use more of that, he kidded. He rose and rinsed his plate, then laid it in the sink for the maid to wash in the morning. The two of them left for the den and tonight’s episode of Mystery Theatre.

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CHAPTER 3

December ’41

Ray Storm drove through the dark Virginia night with his wife Clare sulking beside him. The baby, wedged between her spleen and her left kidney, never seemed to give her a break. For the last five months Clare had yet to have a day without morning sickness or an aching back or a splitting headache.

She complained incessantly, or bitched, as Ray would put it, about every discomfort, no matter how minor or trivial. Ray didn’t expect the baby to be such a bother until the last month of the pregnancy. But Clare, who never wanted a baby in the first place, made sure he would suffer right along with her, for the entire nine months.

Ray squinted into oncoming headlights as sprinkles began to pepper the windshield. He turned on the wipers without saying a word and just kept on driving. He sat in the green glow of the dashboard lights, one hand draped over the steering wheel, the other resting on the door’s armrest thinking of ways he could wring his dear wife’s neck and get away with it.

Finally, Clare stirred across the car and broke the icy silence. Does your mom know we’re coming? She asked.

No, was all he said.

Is everyone else going to be there?

Yes, he told her, for the fourth time.

Good, she said. At least I’ll have someone intelligent to talk to.

He ignored her remark as he downshifted to make a right turn.

They only had a few miles to go and he’d gladly let someone else focus their attention on Clare.

He tried to remember back to happier times, back to when they’d first met. He and Clare were so much in love then. Through the speckled windshield, and the oncoming headlights, his mind’s eye could see the very first night.

He’d just received his Masters degree and decided to celebrate with several of his friends from the university. The beer flowed like Niagara Falls and laughter filled the little Irish tavern just south of the campus.

O’Toole’s was a tiny place in the middle of the block, nestled between a hardware store and a woman’s clothiers. Often, after a night of heavy beer swilling, Ray would stagger out of the bar and press his face against the window to stare longingly at the beautiful face of the mannequin standing stiffly mute just beyond his reach.

He loved that dummy. She never ran away from him or rejected his loving gaze. Of course she never knew just how shit-faced drunk he was either.

Then, on the night of his celebration, he again tripped over his feet on the way out of the bar. He leaned against the window and pined away for the woman he could not have.

Resigned to a life of loneliness, he climbed into his ragged car and promptly backed into a long, black, shiny-new Cadillac. The damage was slight, but Roland knew the owner wouldn’t care if he’d only knocked the dust off the fender, the guy would have his ass.

Roland tried to steady his intoxicated hand long enough to write a note to the owner. After fumbling around for a slip of paper and dropping his pen three times, he gave up. He turned to re-enter his own car when a vision of beauty opened the dress shop door and stepped out onto the sidewalk.

Is this your car? he slurred.

It’s my father’s, the beauty said. What happened?

I seemed to have scratched the fender a little.

What! Why you drunken lout, I’ll have you thrown in jail!

And that’s how their love began. After he sobered up, Ray began courting the young Clare in earnest. After she learned that he wasn’t a drunk all the time and especially that his father was a senator, she agreed to see him once in a while.

He came around more and more often until he was the only guy Clare dated. Then late one August night, he asked her to marry him.

She said yes, with a few conditions, but he eagerly agreed to anything she wanted so long as she would be his wife.

The wedding was a gaudy affair with rich and powerful people crowded into a huge church in Arlington. The reception was fun; though drinking was restricted somewhat by Clare’s straight-laced mother.

The wedding night was everything Raymond had hoped it would be. Clare loved him passionately all through the night and into the next morning. She seemed happy and content and eager to build a life with Raymond. But after a few months, he realized it was all a sham.

Within the first year the marriage began to falter. They slipped to one-syllable conversations and hateful slurs at one another. Clare belittled Ray at every opportunity and her respect for him seeped away as she realized that he was more concerned about being an academic rather than a rich businessman or a powerful politician.

It grew worse and worse until one day, seemingly out of the blue, Clare changed. She was suddenly apologetic, sorry for treating him so badly. They slept together for the first time in months, her passion having returned. That lasted for two weeks, then she reverted to her old self and Ray found himself back in the spare room.

That was five months ago. They’d kept their problems a secret from the family, especially when Clare found out she was pregnant. She wouldn’t leave him, she told him, for the baby’s sake. But she couldn’t promise things would get better between them.

There were times when she actually treated him with kindness, or at least with less disdain, but their marriage hadn’t