by Ward Wagher
“Fine. I will submit your son’s name to the president as my recommendation as ambassador to Germany. He will make the final decision. I expect someone will contact you to coordinate support in the Senate. The president does not need the embarrassment of having one of his nominations rejected.”
“That is all I can ask.”
“Yes, it is. Now, if you will excuse me, Mr. Ambassador, I must attend an Independence Day prayer service.”
“Thank you for your time.”
Hull watched as the former ambassador to Great Britain walked out of the room. He knew he had made an enemy. He chuckled to himself. Franklin Roosevelt said that you measured a man by the quality of his enemies. Wherever he is, I would hope he approves.
§ § §
July 4, 1942; 10 AM
Eastern Pacific
United States Army Air Corps Captain Lane Johnson glanced around the cockpit of the Boeing B-17E he had flown out of Boeing Field an hour previously. He was part of the Army acceptance team that tested the bombers coming out of the factory in Seattle. At a quarter million dollars per plane, the Army was serious about inspecting the new equipment before they accepted it into inventory.
His team consisted of himself, a copilot, flight engineer and an Army aeronautical engineer riding in the jump seat. Normally Johnson was office-bound, managing the Army group at Boeing Field, however, he had given most of his other pilots the day off because it was July fourth. The factory was working, however, because there was a war on, so Johnson was using the day as an opportunity to get his flying hours in for the month. And now they were at twenty-thousand feet over the Pacific working through the checklist.
“Okay,” Johnson said, “Let’s take it up to thirty-thousand. Copilot, call it in.”
The co-pilot contacted Boeing Field to give status. After several accidents early in the program, the Army had gotten very strict about reporting requirements. Moreover, Lane Johnson was a careful pilot. He eased the plane into a gentle climb and carefully monitored the instruments. The copilot scanned the air outside the windscreen as a matter of routine.
“Traffic below us, Sir,” the copilot said over the intercom. “Looks like a Liberator.”
Johnson glanced out the window and saw the aircraft scoot past them, several thousand feet below, and heading west.
“That’s a PB4Y-1, copilot. Navy patrol plane. Probably out of Bremerton. Call it in.”
“Roger, pilot.”
The co-pilot contacted Boeing Field to report the traffic heading west at angels twenty, or twenty-thousand feet. The engineer riding with them craned his neck to look out the window.
“He’s got a long day ahead of him,” the engineer commented.
“Don’t think I would like to head out that far with nothing but water underneath me,” Johnson said.
“Amen,” the copilot said fervently. “I’m just as happy to stay near land.”
Aboard the Consolidated PB4Y-1 Liberator, the aircraft commander, Lieutenant Joseph P. Kennedy, Junior glanced again at the instruments.
“Copilot’s plane,” he called over the intercom.
“Copilot’s plane,” the copilot repeated as he placed his hands on the wheel.
After making sure the copilot did indeed have the plane, Kennedy pulled a cloth rag from next to his seat and used it to wipe his face. The oxygen mask was uncomfortable, and his skin chafed under it. He had discovered that by regularly wiping the collected condensation from the mask, he was able to avoid looking like an escapee from a leper colony.
Completing that task, he pulled out his binoculars and scanned the air around the plane. The day was slightly hazy but otherwise clear. The airplane, although nearly new, was performing well. Kennedy had transitioned from the Catalina flying boats to the Liberator. The big four-engine bomber had only recently become available to the Navy. The speed and altitude capabilities of the bomber were very comforting compared to the lumbering Catalina.
There had been little to see on this day. The only traffic had been a Flying Fortress that had passed several thousand feet overhead, heading north. A quiet day, he thought.
He clicked on the intercom switch to include everyone aboard. “Okay, crew, look alive. It’s a quiet day, so let’s not get careless. We need to be back in Bremerton in one piece tonight for our Fourth of July hot dogs.”
“And the lieutenant’s date,” came an anonymous voice back.
After the requisite laughter and jokes over the intercom, the crew settled down to their jobs. Although they had only flown five missions, Kennedy thought the men were settling down into a good crew. It was hard to pay attention throughout the monotonous day of watching the sea. Of course, everyone hoped they would never see the Japanese fleet. Kennedy was not confident that would last.
“Contact!” called the naval rating in the nose of the Liberator.
“Talk to me Conner,” Kennedy replied back.
“I’ve got a ten plane V at angels twelve, Sir. Wait. No, I’ve got three Vs, now. Bearing is twelve o’clock low.”
“Okay, everyone look alive,” Kennedy called back. “Don’t fixate on what’s in front of us.”
“I still don’t see anything,” the copilot said.
“I don’t either,” Kennedy said. “But, if Conner says they’re out there, I’m prepared to believe him.”
“Oh, no joke, Lieutenant.”
Kennedy pulled out the cotton rag again and mopped his face. He was thinking hard.
“Okay, let’s go to thirty thousand. There aren’t any clouds around, so if they see us, we might be in trouble. Military power.”
“Roger,” the copilot said. He reached over and advanced the throttle as he pulled the wheel back.
“Conner, do we have a count?” Kennedy called.
“Still just three flights. No ID yet.”
“Radio, do you have that? Go ahead and call it in.”
“Roger, Lieutenant,” the radioman called back.
“Anyone willing to bet those aren’t Japs?” Kennedy spoke over the intercom.
No one seemed willing to take the bet. They continued flying to the west as they climbed.
Aboard the B-17E, the Army technician who was monitoring the flight tests had been gazing out the left window during a lull in the work. He suddenly reached down and pulled out a pair of binoculars and scanned the western sky.
He punched the button for the intercom. “Captain, we got big trouble!”
Lane Johnson jumped, and quickly looked at the instruments, wondering what was going wrong.
“Lots of bogies coming in from the west,” the technician continued.
Johnson pulled out his binoculars and looked to his left.
“Copilot, inform Boeing Field we have incoming Japs. Numbers are one-hundred plus.”
“Roger, Pilot,” the copilot responded. He then switched to the radio and began speaking.
“Some of them are climbing towards that Liberator,” the technician called.
Johnson shook his head. There was nothing he could do for the other plane. The Navy was on its own. He was on a test flight in an unarmed bomber. He eased the wheel back and advanced the throttles.
“What are we doing, Captain?” the technician called.
“We’re a sitting duck. I’m going to find out just high we can fly a B17.”
“How high can we go?” asked the copilot.
“Service ceiling is about thirty-six thousand feet. We don’t have ammo or weapons aboard, and we’re flying light. I’m wondering if we can hit angels forty.”
“She will be a handful at forty,” the technician said.
“Ted,” Johnson called to the technician. “Grab the carry-around oxy bottle and go back to the tail position. Get yourself plugged in there, and let me know if we have any trailers.”
“Right, Captain,” the technician replied.
“Can they get to us?” the copilot asked.
“I don’t think so,” Johnson said.
“They
probably can’t even see us up here,” the flight engineer said.
The technician got plugged into the tail gunner’s position and called the pilot.
“I’m in place. Our six is clear.”
I wonder, Johnson thought. “Tail, check smoke.”
“Right, Captain. Definitely contrails.”
The B-17 was at the right altitude for the water vapor in the engine exhaust to condense, forming the Condensation Trails, or contrails. It made their position highly visible.
Johnson looked over at the copilot. “That’s that. Let’s hope we’re too far away from them to bother with us.”
“Captain,” the technician called, “that Navy Liberator is under attack.”
Johnson grabbed his binoculars again and focused on the other plane in time to see one of the wings come off. It then began tumbling in a ball of flame. He shook his head as he studied the instruments.
“Let’s begin easing back to the east,” he said to the copilot. “We’ll come to about sixty degrees magnetic. Pilot’s airplane.”
“Pilot’s airplane,” the copilot repeated.
The aircraft had fought its way to 39,300 feet and refused to go higher. Johnson managed a feather-light touch on the controls, but still, the big Boeing wanted to skid around in the sky.
“Please don’t lose it, Sir,” the copilot said.
“Believe me, that is the last thing I want to do. We would probably recover the airplane smack in the middle of the Jap formation. Tail position, can you get a raid count?”
“I make it one-twenty,” the technician said. “I can’t resolve them enough to specify types.”
“Call it in,” Johnson told the copilot. “And give Boeing Field our course and altitude. The army and the navy both are going to put everything they have into the air. I don’t want to be a target for them.”
“Roger,” the copilot said fervently.
“Now,” Lane Johnson continued, “we wait and watch.”
CHAPTER FIVE
July 4, 1942; 10:30 AM
Boeing Field
Seattle, Washington
It was a quiet morning in Seattle. Sixty-year-old Adam Carmacoli looked out of the control tower across Boeing Field. A few Army pilots had used the day to catch up on the backlog of completed B-17 bombers fresh from the factory. It was one of those rare, clear days in Seattle; no clouds or haze. Mount Ranier was clearly visible and reigned over the surrounding territory in unimpaired majesty. Carmacoli’s hope was for a relaxing day – or as relaxing as a control tower operator could have. When he finished at six, he planned on a quick trip home, and a relaxing dinner with his wife. There would be no fireworks this year. After the Japs had rampaged up and down the coast, nobody was interested in being reminded of the rockets red glare they had recently experienced.
Carmacoli was a Boeing employee and had worked for the company since Bill Boeing had purchased the site on the Duwamish River in 1910. While he had not grown wealthy working for the company, he was looking forward to age 65 when he would be eligible for Roosevelt’s Social Security program. He and his wife were both in good health, and he planned to do a lot of fishing.
One of the radio operators in the tower raised a hand to get his attention. He walked over to see what the problem was.
“Captain Johnson just called in. He said we have over a hundred Jap planes inbound.”
Carmacoli sucked in a deep breath. There was no doubt in his mind that the Boeing aircraft factory adjacent to the airfield was the A-number-one prime target. He then heard his phone ring. He quickly walked over and picked up the receiver.
“Adam,” the Army liaison said, “this is a raid warning. Navy reports one-hundred-twenty inbound.”
“Gotcha. Thanks.” And he dropped the phone back in its cradle.
When he turned around, the air raid sirens began spooling up.
“Listen up, everybody, we got Japs inbound. We gotta clear the field.” He walked over and picked up the microphone.
“Army 7Z, Boeing Field.”
“Boeing Field, 7Z,” came the response.
“Army 7Z abort your approach. Divert to alternate. We got incoming Japs.”
The B17 on approach immediately pulled up and banked hard to the right as the landing gear retracted. He looked at the field. There was another B17 holding for takeoff.
“Army 921 you are cleared for immediate takeoff. Get your tail out of here.”
“921 roger,” was the response from the plane at the end of the runway.
The aircraft rolled onto the runway and began its takeoff roll. The pilot had firewalled his throttles coming around the turn to the runaway, and the big bomber swayed back and forth as the pilots fought the rudder. On the other side of the field, the Army pilots were running to their P-40 pursuit planes. In addition to the Army Air Force fighters, Carmacoli knew that Navy F4-F Wildcats would be swarming out of the newly constructed air base in Bremerton.
The B-17 on the runway lifted off, and then banked to the east and safety. Carmacoli looked around the field.
“Anything else in the pipeline?” he called to the room.
“Field’s clear, Adam.”
He keyed his microphone. “All Army pursuit units, this is Boeing Field Control. You are cleared for departure at your leisure.”
The laughter in the control tower broke the tension, for the moment, although nobody was under any illusions about what they faced. The P-40’s began rolling out of the revetments, one by one, and swinging on to the runway. Once on the runway, they immediately went to take-off power and accelerated rapidly. Various anti-aircraft bunkers around the field were manned, and Carmacoli could see the crews swinging the guns around, making sure they had a full range of movement. At this point, the only thing left was to wait.
Carmacoli turned to the crew in the control tower. “Okay, everybody out. Head to the shelters. There is nothing more to do here.”
The five men in the tower left their seats and flowed to the door. One of them turned back to look at the supervisor.
“Adam, aren’t you coming?”
“Naah. Somebody’s got to answer the telephone.”
After the fighters left the field, Carmacoli watched the factory workers stream out of the buildings and trot to the shelters. There were a lot of people building the aircraft, and they flowed from most of the doors. This was something they had practiced, so everyone knew where to go.
He began to hear a low-pitched growl in the distance and stepped out onto the walkway around the tower. As the sound of the approaching aircraft increased, he could also hear the sounds of machine guns. The louder sounds of the anti-aircraft gun began in the west, so he assumed the attacking force was over Bremerton. Whatever happened, it would be very soon, now.
The raid streamed overhead, much higher than he expected. A group of the airplanes tipped over into dives, and it seemed like they were all aimed at him. The anti-aircraft guns around the field opened up. They were very loud. Shrapnel from the exploding shells began dropping around him. He scurried back into the tower.
The screaming engines of the Japanese airplanes came closer. Hearing the whistling of the released bombs, he dove to the floor of the tower. A long string of explosions began, and suddenly the glass windows blew out of the tower. Carmacoli put his hands over his head as shards of glass fell around him.
The raid seemed to go on forever. Carmacoli wondered why his brain was still functioning, or that he was even alive. The sound of the engines in the Japanese planes had a slightly stuttering sound that was different than he had heard before. One of the P40’s swung low over the field, chasing a Japanese plane. The smooth moan of the Allison engine was a comforting counterpoint to the alien sounds. There were more guns firing, and then he heard a prolonged crash as an airplane tumbled across the field.
He heard more screaming engines as another flight of attackers dove on the factory. The anti-aircraft batteries were firing again. The ground shook as one of the attackers failed
to pull out of its dive and flew into the ground.
The noise of the battle gradually faded, and Carmacoli pulled himself to his feet. The formerly tidy airfield now looked like chaos. Smoke and flames poured from the factory buildings, and the runways were clogged with rubble. Preceded by another siren sound, a pair of firetrucks rolled quickly across the airfield and stopped outside one of the flaming factory buildings. The firemen quickly unrolled hoses and trained streams of water on the factory.
On the other side of the airfield, the neat row of completed Flying Fortresses now looked like a junkyard. He wondered if anything there was salvageable. One of the control tower operators stepped into the tower, glass crunching under his feet.
“You okay Adam?”
He turned to the other man. “You know, staying up here during the air raid was possibly not the smartest thing I have ever done.”
§ § §
July 5, 1942; 2 AM
Near Schaberg, Germany
Otto Kuttner and Colin Axelrod gazed at the Müngsten Bridge, looming over them in the shadows of the summer night. The weather was clear and pleasant with a soft breeze flowing up the river gorge. The two had waited in the underbrush for the denizens of the area to go home after their evening strolls.
“Peaceful place,” Axelrod muttered quietly.
“Hmmph. For the moment,” his partner said. “We’re about to make a bloody big bang.”
“One hopes.”
The two men belonged to the Baker Street department of MI6. This group was also known irreverently as Churchill’s Ministry of Ungentlemanly Warfare. They were saboteurs who specialized in putting grit into the German industrial machine. Tonight’s action, however, was more to demonstrate political points.
The two had placed explosives around four legs of one of the bridge towers as well as the two lower angled supports. They had carefully tied everything together with detonator cord and now stepped back to survey their work.
“Look it over carefully, Lad,” Axelrod said. “Once we light the thing, we won’t have time to stand around and watch the entertainment.”
