THEY SAY ON A CLEAR day you can see forever. At their height, above the winter weather, this was certainly true. Looking out of his navigator’s window, Chuck could see water droplets coalescing into ice, forming contrails from the wings of the Superfortresses around him. It was too good a day to go to war.
The 1945-46 winter had been a severe one, restricting bombing operations drastically. In fact, today’s operation was the first one in nearly a fortnight, such were the adverse weather conditions in late January and early February of ‘46.
Below, the North Sea retreated from the Dutch mainland, which was covered by snow. At 25,000 feet the white dusting was clearly visible between the clouds, but now was not the time to sightsee. He looked back at his maps and calculations proud they had been visually confirmed. They were on track. Today’s target was the ferociously defended Peenemunde, home of German jet and rocket testing and manufacturers. His crew of Superfortress ‘Homeward Bound’ had drawn the short straw. There were 71 painted bombs behind the aircraft’s name, one for each mission, a testament to its survivability. It had taken one crew through a tour and now was about to have a second.
Looking up at the photo he’d pinned on the board at the end of his desk, his shaking, gloved finger caressed his fiancée’s face. He had wanted to propose last year but there were too many missions to go before his tour was up. Three weeks ago there was only this mission and one more. He couldn’t wait any longer. Sally said yes without hesitation.
“Our little buddies have turned up,” remarked Mac, the Central Fire Controller for the machine-gun barbettes.
“A wonderful sight,” remarked one of the gunners.
“Can I have a look Mac?” requested Chuck.
“Sure.”
Unbuckling his harness, Chuck made his way to the perspex dome that was the controller’s position. Climbing in, he looked up at the multitude of small contrails. It was comforting.
“See ‘em?”
“Sure do,” replied Chuck, “millions of our Shooting Star and Pommy Vampire jet fighters.”
“Yep. A glorious sight.”
Back at his desk Chuck re-checked his calculations, then keyed up. “Skipper, 20 minutes until we make our departure.”
“Roger that.”
To the waiting Germans, the 1,000 bombers looked to be targeting Berlin. However, only half of that number would hit the city, the other half would turn roughly north before Berlin and bomb Peenemunde.
“Over Krautland, Skipper,” added Chuck.
The Allies still hadn’t made it over the Rhine by this time, but a breakthrough was expected any day now. Also, the Russians had been held up in the east and the harsh winter had given the Germans time to take stock and build up for the onslaught. It would be a bitter fight.
“Right. Everyone keep your eyes peeled and connect up to oxygen.” Although the aircraft was pressurised a cannon shell or rocket would put paid to that very quickly.
All gunners checked their ammunition and gave a short burst on their machine guns. Chuck fidgeted in his seat and looked at the photo again. All he had to do was get through this mission and the next.
“Five minutes to turn Skipper.”
“Rog—Shit!” The pilot and co-pilot instinctively ducked.
The Superfortress in front of them exploded, spitting shrapnel in all directions as its tail dropped away. The front fuselage of the wrecked aircraft, with the wings still attached, flew on momentarily, then gravity took over.
“Right outer engine hit Skipper,” added flight engineer Stu, as some shrapnel thudded into that engine from the exploding aircraft. Chuck listened in silence.
Their aircraft lurched, shuddered, then dropped its nose. Disaster! They were leaving the formation.
“Front-upper get that shit head,” yelled the controller. “Rear-lower what’s coming up at us?”
“Someone go back and investigate! Control is a bitch.”
“Rear-upper five o’clock high.”
“I’ve lost connection to my turret!”
“I’ll go, Skipper,” called Chuck, grabbing his oxygen cylinder.
“Rear-upper in your six o’clock—” Chuck disconnected his audio cable. Stepping onto the steel catwalk he made his way to the pressurised bulkhead. Steadying himself with his free hand and cradling the oxygen bottle in one arm he opened the circular door and was almost knocked back. In that split second he’d seen enough.
His oxygen cylinder clanged on the floor. Close, close, he willed the door as he fought with all his might inch by inch to close it. With a hiss, it sealed and Chuck fell to the floor. Thud! Thud! Ping! Some dints appeared in the inner wall of the pressurised fuselage. Cannon rounds had pierced the outer fuselage skin. One made it through, falling on his leg, burning him before he frantically flicked it away.
Getting to a comms board, he plugged in.
“Where’s our little bastards?” cursed someone.
“What the shit is happening back there?”
“Fighter at seven o’clock.”
“I think it is one of ours.”
“Skipper,” screeched Chuck, “gaping holes in the rear—”
“It’s one of ours.”
“Watch out, five o’clock high.”
“Shut the fuck up, Navigator!” yelled the pilot.
“Three huge holes. Three gun positions all out. Don’t know how the tail plane is still attached.”
“Hammer that bastard at five o’clock.”
“Get back to your desk. Need to know where we are. Have to get rid of this bomb load,” yelled the pilot.
“I got him! I got him!”
“Shut up and get the next one.”
“Ok, Skipper,” screamed Chuck. Then, disconnecting the audio cable, he stood and took a step or two. The aircraft banked to the left, continuing its descent. Chuck fell against the fuselage, righted himself, then crawled along the metal catwalk.
Flopping back in his seat he looked at the photo of Sally, then out his window. The snow looked like icing sugar scattered over a cake below. He had no idea where they were. He knew they had banked left. He knew they had lost some height. They were no longer with the bomber stream and that was the sum total of what he knew. He plugged in.
“Feathering inner right engine,” screamed Stu.
“Fuck it. Ditch the bomb load, now!” screeched the pilot.
“Here comes another. Three o’clock high!”
“Look out a frontal attac—” There were screams, then nothing but silence for a whole second.
“Above us. Hammer the bastard, hammer him.”
“Chuck get up here,” ordered Stu.
He gave a frantic look at his photo, grabbed the oxygen bottle and staggered forward to the cockpit.
Opening the pressurised door, Chuck pushed with all his might and squeezed into the cockpit. There were gaping holes in the forward glassed area. Stu was removing the limp body of the co-pilot from his seat. On the floor was the lifeless body of the bombardier, flying suit fluttering in the air stream. The pilot still had his hands on the control wheel, but his head moved back and forth as if nodding asleep.
Hanging onto anything he could, Chuck forced his way forward to the empty seat. The engineer indicated for Chuck to sit. He buckled himself in. Looking to his left, the pilot was still hanging onto the wheel, behind him there was blood smeared across the window. With head flopping around the pilot turned towards Chuck. There was a piece of shrapnel projecting from his left eye and part of his skin was peeled back exposing the skull. Chuck grabbed his control wheel.
“You learnt how to fly, didn’t you?” pleaded Stu, regaining his seat.
“I started, but was taken off and sent to navigator’s course.”
“Shit.”
Looking to each of the engines Chuck asked, “Engine status?”
“Outer right reduced revs, inner closed down and feathered. Outer left losing revs, fire is out, inner working ok.”
The control wheel was ripped out of Chuck’s hands. Grabbing it again, he pulled back with all his might, then looked to his left. “Get the Skipper off the wheel.”
With that under control, Chuck ordered, “Get rid of any extraneous weight, including ammunition.”
“What if we get attacked?”
“Either way, we won’t stay airborne.” Their aircraft continued to lose height.
“I can see the North Sea,” added Chuck, trying to reassure the rest of the crew.
Without a sound ‘Homeward Bound’ vibrated violently. Chuck fought with the controls.
“Shit, flak!”
“Evade it.”
“I can’t. A violent manoeuvre now could rip her apart.”
“Like what the flak is doin’ to us?”
Chuck guided the bomber through a gentle turn to the left, as they continued to lose height. A shell exploded under the right wing tip, putting the aircraft into a steep left turn. Wrestling with the controls he righted the beast only to find the right aileron flapping in the slipstream.
Another shell exploded close by, spraying shrapnel into the fuselage. The rest of the crew huddled low in the centre of the fuselage and prayed no shell exploded below them.
A loud bang from the outer left engine caught Chuck’s attention. He witnessed parts flying off, deciding it was better to be out of the engine, than in it.
“Feather right outer,” he ordered, fighting with the controls. “We need to lose more weight.”
“We’ve chucked everything out!”
“Well, rip stuff off the walls, chuck out seats, anything.” There was a pregnant pause. “Even our dead.”
“You’re kidding me!”
“No. Delay parachute deployment. Whichever side they land on, they’ll be buried.”
“The skipper stays!”
“Of course. He’s still alive.”
They continued to lose altitude, though slower now.
“Someone get up here and give me a hand with this control whe—”
“What?!” exclaimed Stu.
“There’s an aircraft climbing up towards us,” added Chuck, as Stu strained to look forward.
“Is it one of ours?”
“I don’t think so,” replied Chuck. “It’s in an aggressive frontal climb.”
“Oh shit, we have nothing to defend ourselves with. What the f—”
“When he gets close, I’ll lower the landing gear and flaps as a sign of surrender.”
The approaching fighter made a steep turn and came at them.
“Get the gear down!” yelled the engineer.
“I’m trying, the hydraulics must be shot away,” screamed Chuck, the flaps lowered a little, then jammed.
At the last minute, the German fighter altered course and flew in front of the dilapidated bomber, then down the left side, disappearing from the flight crew’s vision.
“Where is he?”
“Don’t know!”
“Well get in the controller’s dome and tell me!” yelled Chuck. “Is he going to screw us from behind?”
The piston engine fighter next appeared on their right, went around the front of ‘Homeward Bound’, and at a slower speed turned under them and disappeared from view again. It reappeared within seconds at the right wing tip.
“He’s toying with us,” remarked Mac from his lookout.
Climbing slightly, the German fighter side slipped towards and above the bomber, then he lowered his flaps and reduced power to both engines, positioning himself just off the right-wing tip. Chuck saw him gesturing with his hand, pointing across their Superfortress to the left. Chuck mimicked him, receiving a nod of approval.
“His airfield must be down that way,” remarked Chuck.
As gently as he could, Chuck made a shallow left turn, watching the German pilot all the time. Soon he received a signal to stop. He straightened out of the turn, getting a nod of approval. Now the signal was to fly straight ahead. Together they flew in formation for many minutes, then out over the North Sea.
Side-slipping the fighter away from the bomber, he fired all his guns into vacant air, came back closer and waved. Chuck saluted him. The German fighter peeled off and headed back towards the coast.
“He’s pointed us home,” whispered Chuck, tears forming in his eyes. He would see Sally today after all.
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ABOUT THE AUTHOR: GORDON Clarke has had articles published in several magazines over the decades, that have included ‘Flightpath’ and the now defunct ‘Quasar’. The latter magazine included an article over 30 years ago, about a then unknown astronomer, Caroline Herschel, that lamented the fact that women in science were just left out of history. He has published an historical non-fiction book “This Smuttee Squadron” and is currently working on another non-fiction and an historical fiction book.
He tries to read as widely as possible, but the favourite genres are non-fiction, historical and science fiction. With a short story in that last genre looking for a home. His limited vices are his wife, chocolate, ice cream and rhum and of course in that order.