Chapter Twenty-One

June 20, 1944

Another pre-dawn wake up call. This time the mission was deep into Germany, and the crew he was flying with had only flown three missions. Their first two were flown with other crews to give them some experience and confidence. The third a short flight over the coast of France. Today would be their first long mission on their own.

For Ted it would be number twenty-three. Seven more and he could go home, if he survived.

The young pilot, Bill Webber, was cocky to the point of being arrogant. He listened to no one. At the briefing he acted like the flight deep into enemy territory would be a cake walk, like the flights along the French coast. He’d obviously never flown to Berlin or any other heavily defended German city.

Ted sat back and listened to the younger man’s show of bravado. A pity all the experienced crewmen knew the new pilot was scared to death. They’d all seen the act before. All the bragging to hide the fear. In a way it was pathetic. The bad part was that Ted had to fly with the little prick.

The co-pilot, Coppacci, was quieter, comfortable letting Webber be the show-off. His demeanor gave Ted a measure of comfort. He just hoped the guy knew how to fly.

The rest of Webber’s crew seemed okay. Green and scared just like they should be. They all had a long day ahead of them.

When the bomber stream crossed the Zuiderzee, heavy flack welcomed them to German-held Europe. Webber’s plane, the Blonde Bombshell, flew in the middle of the formation. A position thought to protect new crews until they got the hang of formation flying and fighter attacks. Ted hoped Webber could hold formation through the flack field. A midair collision was just as deadly as the German anti-aircraft fire. And it was a long flight to Germany with lots of flack ahead and almost guaranteed fighter attacks.

Once out of the flack, Ted watched the sky for fighters. When they came, the fighters would cut through the bomber stream like a hot knife through butter. And every gunner on every B-17 waited and watched.

To make matters worse, their promised escort hadn’t shown up. He’d flown with no fighter protection before. But Webber’s crew hadn’t. He could tell from their strained comments.

If the German fighters came, they’d attack the formation head on and scream through the gauntlet of heavily armed B-17s. With thirteen machine guns blasting away from every bomber, you’d think more of their attackers would get shot down. Some would, but most would circle and come at them again and again. Any plane that was hit, that trailed behind, became easy pickin’s for the German vultures.

Ted strained to see their position in the formation. He could see the plane ahead through the bombardier’s Plexiglas nose. His view to the right side was partially blocked. Webber’s inconsistent speed made it difficult to maintain visual contact with the ship on the left. He willed the little smart mouth at the controls to keep a tight formation. That and their machine guns were their only protection.

And then they came. From ahead and above.

The Blonde Bombshell sat low in the formation, so they were not the first to spot the swarm of specks descending out of the clouds. The warning came when other bombers opened fire. Within seconds the smaller, faster aircraft whizzed toward them, guns blasting.

Webber’s crew had never seen a fighter attack, had never experienced the terror, the adrenalin. Machine guns blasted from every position as the ME-109s zoomed by.

Ted fired into the unknown. His limited vision made his gun less effective than the others. Yet every stream of bullets protected them from the experienced fighters who didn’t want to get stung by the beast that spewed lead from every direction.

Mercifully the fighters disappeared as quickly as they arrived.

Ted knew why. Flack. So heavy, the sky ahead blackened as the formation approached. They flew straight into the deadly stuff. The fighters stayed out. They would pick up the survivors on the other side, knowing the bombers couldn’t avoid it, not if they made it to the target.

The excited comments from the crew during the fighter attack faded into terrified moans as the sense of helplessness settled over them. Just sit and wait to be hit, that’s all they could do.

Ted hated this part the most. The helpless feeling as the ship bounced and bumped its way to the target.

The bombardier dropped their load when he saw the planes ahead drop theirs. By the time they reached the target, explosions obscured the ground making identification of it impossible.

“Bombs away,” he called.

The plane lurched upward as the bombs fell below.

“Get us out of here,” the bombardier called to Webber.

“Jesus! Did you see that?”

“Oh, my God!”

A one-winged bomber slid by just below Ted’s window. “Watch for chutes,” he ordered.

The bomber turned on its side.

“Two, no, three,” someone called.

“There go two more.”

“Come on. Get out of there.”

Ted couldn’t see it. After a few minutes, he asked “How many got out?”

“Five,” replied the ball turret gunner. “That’s all I saw.”

As quickly as it started the flack disappeared. The crew sat in silence, recovering from the ordeal.

Ted thought of Webber. The cocky pilot had grown silent after experiencing both fighters and flack. Maybe he’d grown up some, too.

Just as Ted expected, the fighters returned. On their first pass bullets slammed through the Plexiglas nose barely missing the bombardier.

Ted couldn’t remember his name. Guilt constricted his chest. He adjusted his oxygen mask and promised himself he’d find out before they got back to England. Maybe it was silly. He didn’t know the rest of the crew either, but this guy sat right in front of him, and he almost got killed right before his eyes.

The fighters made another pass, and all guns fired at the moving targets.

“Ughhhh,” came over the intercom.

“Coppacci’s hit,” Webber screamed.

The ship wavered, back and forth.

Not good. It takes two to fly this thing.

“Axel, get up here.”

“On my way,” the flight engineer replied as he climbed into the cockpit.

“Jesus!”

“Is he dead?”

“No, not yet.”

Ted knew something needed to be done, and it needed to be done now.

“Webber, I had flight training. I can help you get us home.”

“Who’s that?” The pilot’s voice shook with a combination of fear and uncertainty.

“Kruger. The navigator.”

The plane lurched downward. Ted grabbed his desk to keep from hitting the deck.

“Get up here,” squawked Webber.

Ted disconnected his oxygen and grabbed a walk around bottle. He then made his way up to the cockpit just as the flight engineer pulled the co-pilot from his seat. He glanced up at Ted, desperation in his eyes.

Ted helped him get Coppacci’s blood covered body out of the way. If the man was alive, he wouldn’t be for long.

Focus, Ted told himself. Help get us out of here.

Sliding into the bloody seat, Ted checked the controls. It had been a long time since he sat in the cockpit, and the co-pilot’s position was even less familiar. He looked around to get his bearings and got a glimpse of daylight through a hole just below the side window. That must have been where the shot came through that hit Coppacci.

Webber barked orders. Ted obeyed. Together they stabilized the big bomber, but they’d lost speed. Through the blood-splattered windshield, he saw the bomber stream recede into the distance.

In addition to the wounded co-pilot, two of the four engines were damaged. They’d feathered one, and Ted’s gut told him if they didn’t shut down the other one it would spin out of control.

“Feathering number four,” Ted informed Webber.

“I didn’t order that.” The younger man still desperately wanted to be in control.

“It’s that, or we’ll get a prop slung into our side.”

“Uh, okay.” Webber looked across trying to see the wing on Ted’s side.

“Trust me, okay.”

Webber was shaking. “We’ll never catch up.”

“I know.” Ted drew a deep breath. “Give me the controls. Relax a minute. Catch your breath.”

Webber glanced over, and for a second their gazes met. Ted recognized the terror.

“You’ve done a hell of a job keeping us in the air,” he told the young pilot. “These damn things don’t fly themselves.” Ted tried to sound light, give the guy some confidence.

Webber didn’t reply. Instead he stared straight ahead.

“Check on the crew,” Ted suggested, hoping the pilot wouldn’t lose it now.

Quietly Webber contacted each crew member. Only one reported a slight injury. Axel reported that they’d lost Coppacci. Webber sighed. Then he looked to Ted as if to ask what to do.

Ted spoke into the intercom, “Wrap him in a blanket or whatever you have. We’ll take him back with us.”

“Okay,” responded Axel.

Ted didn’t have to tell the men to watch for fighters. Flying alone at low altitude made them sitting ducks. They could only hope the Germans were busy elsewhere.

Webber resumed the pilot’s duties and followed Ted’s direction. At least the remaining two engines were on opposite sides, but with reduced power they had lost air speed and altitude. At ten thousand feet they took off their oxygen masks.

He’d have to look at the charts to get them back to base.

“Can you hold it…while I check the charts?”

Webber nodded. He’d gotten himself together.

The bombardier brought Ted the maps he needed. It was awkward working in the co-pilot’s seat, but Ted managed to calculate a heading for England that would avoid the heavy flack zones.

He rolled up the maps and stowed them behind his seat. He and Webber changed to the new heading.

“We’ll be over water most of the way.”

Webber nodded.

“If we have to ditch, that water’s cold, even this time of year.”

“Okay. Then we won’t ditch.” The boy forced a grim smile. His cockiness had been replaced with sheer determination. At that moment Ted knew they’d be okay, all of them. Webber had survived the test of fire and come through it intact. He’d grown up and would make a good pilot.

Ted tried to relax. A vision of Kitty emerged from his subconscious. Hovering over him, assuring him he was okay. He still couldn’t believe she wasn’t an angel watching over him. She was real, flesh and blood, and he wanted to see her, wanted to hold her, wanted to feel that safety in her arms.

The memory of that one perfect kiss kept him going. She may have run away, but she had wanted him as much as he wanted her. As soon as he got leave, he’d see her again. That’s why he had to get back. To see her one more time. To tell he how he felt about her. What she meant to him. Even if nothing came of it.

****

A mixed group of airmen gathered at a make-shift basketball court to pass the time and get some exercise. Ted played forward and prided himself in his abilities. He’d been offered a college scholarship, and looking back, he wished he’d taken it instead of heading off to find himself.

“Great job!” one of the guys slapped him on the back at the end of the game.

“What was the final score?” Ted asked, knowing his team had won.

“Forty-seven to twenty-eight,” his teammate answered. “And you were the top scorer.”

Ted beamed. He was back. “Swell,” he commented, not wanting to gloat too much.

“How ’bout a cold beer?” another guy asked.

“Sounds great.”

“Not me,” Ted responded. “I’m gonna take a shower.” He waved to the others and struck out on his own. He’d had enough for one day. Downtime sounded good to him.

After his shower he sat in the hut that served as their barracks with a good hour to kill before supper. He noticed another airman sprawling on his bed writing a letter. It occurred to Ted that he should write to Kitty. She kept popping into his mind. And he had told her he’d write, but unused to letter writing, he’d forgotten all about it. Maybe he should write her now, just a note to let her know how he was doing, that he was thinking about her.

He got up and asked the fellow if he had any extra paper. The man eyed him suspiciously.

“Don’t worry. I’ll get some and pay you back.”

“Okay.” The man handed him one sheet of paper.

“Thanks.” Ted grabbed a pencil and sat down to write.

The one sheet was plenty since he had no idea what to say. Just that he was thinking of her and that he had adjusted to flying again. It was hard to start because he never wrote letters. Occasionally, he wrote a few lines to his grandparents, just to let them know he was still alive. He couldn’t remember when he’d written his mother. Not that she would care. She never bothered to write him.

Guilt crept over him. What little family he had would probably be thrilled to hear from him. Even his mother. She couldn’t help being the way she was. Selfish, inconsiderate. Always looking for a good time.

And his grandparents, they’d tried to straighten out a rebellious, angry kid. They’d made him go to school and church. But like his father, he’d disliked their foreign accent, their foreign ways. His friends had looked down at them, and truth be told, so had he. But now, after all he’d seen, he missed them.

He began a letter, not to Kitty, but to his grandparents. He might actually get some mail if he wrote more often. Maybe if he asked, his grandmother would send him some cookies or some of her strudel.

He jotted a few lines, folded the short letter, and returned to the airman to beg for an envelope, again promising to buy some and pay him back. In the morning, he promised himself to stock up on supplies.

And he’d write to Kitty, every day. She’d somehow become a part of his life, not just an imaginary guardian angel. A real girl—fascinating, different, beautiful in her own way, unlike anyone he’d known.

If he survived, he would see her again. He was bound to get leave, if only a few days. Ellingham wasn’t that far. He’d call her, arrange to meet her somewhere. It didn’t matter where, as long as he saw her again. As long as he could hold her, taste those sweet lips, just once more.