Frank Shirer became a household word, his name splashed all over the British, European, and American press, including La Roche’s tabloids, as ace extraordinaire. It wasn’t that Harriers hadn’t already proved themselves — they’d shot down much faster planes, Mirages, than themselves during the Falklands War — but this was the first time a Harrier had downed a Fulcrum. After the terrible losses of all nine B-52s on the successful raid over Turpan, the Harriers’ victory was welcome news.
Even so, Lana was more interested in talking to Frank in her long distance call to Peshawar about when they should have the wedding. She would have preferred it to be in June, but the feeling of so many young couples was that America was locked into a war with China whether she liked it or not. It was more common than not to hear the cease-fire General Cheng had successfully gained from Washington being described cynically as another “Yugoslavian” agreement that Chairman Nie and General Cheng had cooked up merely to buy time. Support for this view was fueled by rumors that thousands of troops were being rushed from the southern provinces across the Yangtze, on anything that would float, to Beijing military district. And there was a powerful feeling within the United States itself, with its Emergency Powers Act still on the books, that Freeman, whether Washington agreed or not, would soon be in the biggest battle so far.
If Shirer got publicity for his victory over the Fulcrum, it was nothing compared to the lavish praise of Freeman and his Second Army and, in particular, the SAS/D commandos, whose praises were sung by the once-terrified CBN newsman. The press, particularly those reporters who were camp followers and too lazy to go find their own stories, were only too happy to feed off the CBN reporter’s eyewitness account of the great tank battle. One of the camp followers from the press asked Aussie Lewis how the CBN reporter had fared under fire.
“He was great!” Aussie said. “He just — hung on in there.”
The La Roche tabloids ran four-inch headlines — FREEMAN ROUTS REDS — and now the CBN reporter, name Frederick F. Nelson II, was booked for months ahead on every TV talk show from Larry King to Rush Limbaugh, and now, during any presidential press conferences, was sure to get his question attended to.
But of all the reports of the war — or at least the war so far — one of the most intriguing was CNN’s report on the sudden appearance in Istanbul, Turkey, of what the CNN reporter called “a gunner Murphy,” apparently the only survivor of the B-52 raid on Turpan. He had a lot to say about the raid, and created the distinct impression that he’d shot down half the Chinese air force before he was so unobligingly shot down himself. But what people were more interested in was his vouched-for rescue by fierce, though sympathetic, Kurdish rebels who as well as getting the American to Turkey had performed an operation on his shot-up nose that was an old procedure and well known in the region but, like acupuncture, was as yet unknown in the West.
The rebels, in an ancient surgical practice, had drugged the American, then, using a tree leaf known for its resiliency, had placed the leaf over the bridge of me remaining part of the nose, using this as a support over which skin from the man’s leg had been placed and stitched down into the skin on either side of the nose. By the time the leaf had decayed, the skin had grafted — two small openings being made to serve as nostrils. It wasn’t something that would enthrall the New England Journal of Medicine, but as Gunner Murphy had said, “It’ll do till I get back to the States.”
It was a story that was told again and again among the families of the lost B-52 crewmen, for it was their only tangible link, an act of mercy, that had been shown to one of their own, and from this they took what comfort they could.
When Alexsandra Malof invited Aussie Lewis to her home in the old Jewish autonomous region near Khabarovsk, she introduced him as an Australian soldier who, as Australians often did, fought next to his American friends.
“You’ll be here long?” her father asked him.
“Depends, mate,” Aussie said.
When he got back to camp, Choir asked him about wedding bells.
“Never know, do you?” he said, shocking them.
“Little beaver for the winter eh, Aus?” Sal joshed.
“Hey, hey!” Aussie said. “Enough of that talk, sport.”
“You’re not serious,” Sal said. “Jeez, you couldn’t go a week without cussing.”
“That a bet?” Aussie said, sitting down on his bunk.
“What — yeah. Yeah,” Sal said. “That’s a bet.”
“I’m in,” Choir said.
Aussie lowered himself down gingerly on the bunk, the shoulder still hurting. “David, how about you? Ah, sorry, forgot your cheek’s so puffed up you can’t talk. Thumb up for ten bucks.”
David put up two thumbs.
“Oh, all right,” Aussie said. “Ten bucks for Bullfrog Face.” He looked over at Choir and Sal. “You guys wouldn’t be in on a setup here would you?”
“No,” Choir said indignantly.
“Fair dinkum,” Sal said. It was an Australian term Aussie had taught them and it meant “fair drinking” in the gold fields where everyone had to get drunk before playing cards-then everyone was equal.
“All right,” Aussie said. “You’re on.”
Frank and Lana agreed on a wedding date in late May, and while they were discussing the wedding plans, Douglas Freeman was studying the street plan of Beijing.