Free Whip by Martin Caidin

you may find life, keep this in mind. No pilot ever has more than one first solo. You've had yours. You're now a part of that fraternity most pilots seem to talk about but can never really identify when someone calls them down for an explanation of what they mean." Goodman smiled. "That's because it's tough to talk with your heart."
    He had said no more, and they had drifted apart. And then there had been that grim and bloody disaster on the morning of December 7, and the world turned savagely upside-down, and Lou Goodman had lost him.
    It was "down there," in the dust-choked outback of northern Australia, that he heard again of Whip Russel.
    There were stories of a lunatic who flew his B-25 as if it were a bullwhip. Just the one word, that sound of bullwhip, when first he heard the stories, brought Lou Goodman to the realization that this might, it could, it must be that same kid who had first tasted the sky by Goodman's side. The crew of an A-20 Havoc had flown into Garbutt Field in an airplane holed and sieved and badly in need of work, an airplane that was as close to unflyable as it was for a machine to be and still stay in the air. Lou was in the shack they called a clubhouse when the A-20 crew made sounds of relief as they drained nearly forgotten beer.
    Goodman caught snatches of conversation and found himself leaning to these men who were strangers but so closely of the same breed he feared no breach of crossing lines. He rose slowly and went to their table, excusing his intrusion, which was all the more remarkable because he was a colonel and they were all far down the ladder of rank.
    They also knew, in that certain instinct of the veteran, that this colonel gave not a damn for his own rank, or, theirs.
    "This, ah, fellow you've been talking about," Lou Goodman said quietly. "Have you flown with him?"
    "Not exactly, Colonel. I mean, we joined up with his outfit for a strike against some shipping at Finschhafen, off the Huon Gulf. You know, just — "
    "I know where it is, Captain."
    "Right. Anyway, we had three A-20s, and this outfit, which was led by some lunatic in an all-black B-25 with some sort of death's head insignia, he led the strike with five ships from his squadron. The eight of us amounted to everything we could put into the air."
    The captain shook his head and grinned. "I'd thought I'd seen it all, Colonel. Until I saw this guy fly that day, and then I knew maybe I was all wrong and I really didn't know that much about this business of driving iron birds through the air."
    "What was so… unusual?"
    "Well, the target was a bitch. The Nips had moved in some barges just loaded with flak.
    A real shitty mission, because we had to get in close and it was like getting right in the middle of a whole nest of wasps. They had fighters in the area, also, and the odds were
    — well, frankly, Intelligence estimated we'd take about one-third losses. That don't make the odds so good."
    Lou Goodman nodded. "No, Captain, that don't."
    They saw he was as serious as they, and the captain went on. "We should have taken those losses, and we would have, except for this guy who led the show. The moment we got within range of the Japanese he called for everybody to firewall their throttles, give out all the power they could make and stay close to him. You ever see this man fly, Colonel, and you'll know what a joke that is."
    Goodman thought of a youth caressing the first control yoke he'd ever seen, and — he forced the past away and concentrated on the man before him.
    "I've never seen or even known of a bombing run like that one. Jesus, we were in a long shallow dive all the way into the target, getting all the speed we could, and this black B-25 seems to go crazy. Follow him? Oh, man, it was like watching a snake with wings up there. The damn airplane was undulating. That's the only way to describe it. He's making subtle changes all the time in his approach, and the flak is all around him but he's just not taking any