When Heroes Flew

by H W Buzz Bernard

  Inge leaned toward him and placed her hand on the back of his neck. He turned to acknowledge her.

  “A pleasant reverie, I hope, Hauptmann.” The voice belonged not to Inge, but to Oberstleutnant Rödel, who stood over him, a hand resting lightly on Egon’s shoulder.

  Egon leaped to attention, almost too quickly. Dizziness lanced through his head and he involuntarily tilted toward his commander, who steadied him.

  “It’s okay, Egon. Your boredom is about to end.”

  “Sorry, sir. The heat—”

  “Don’t worry about it. It gets to me, too. Come.” He motioned Egon and the other pilots to the folding table. He opened an aeronautical chart of Greece and the Ionian Sea and spread it across the table.

  “The American bombers did indeed hit Ploesti. They’re heading home now, although not all are following the same route they came in on. They seem to be in scattered, disorganized formations. They got shot up badly by General Gerstenberg’s defenses.”

  “Was the raid a success, sir?” Egon asked.

  “Several refineries were heavily damaged. A couple went untouched. But the Americans lost many planes. Gerstenberg estimates over three dozen Liberators went down, and many others were so badly crippled they won’t make it back to Benghazi. In fact, we’ve had reports that a number of them are heading south toward Turkey. But I’d guess they’re probably trying to make it to Cyprus rather than be interned in Turkey.”

  “Why would they be interned?” a young pilot asked.

  “Turkey is neutral. Any belligerents—men, ships, aircraft—that end up there are out of the war and have to remain a ‘guest’ of the country until the fighting is over. The majority of combatants don’t care for that. So it looks like most of the bombers are trying to exit on the same route they entered on, tracking over extreme northern Bulgaria, Yugoslavia, and then Albania. After leaving Albania, they should turn south just off the west coast of Greece over the Ionian Sea.”

  “And then it’s our turn?” another aviator asked.

  “Yes, but don’t underestimate our foe, even wounded. Gerstenberg reports the raid was a marvel of skill and bravery. The Americans split their forces, feinting at Bucharest before attacking Ploesti almost simultaneously from three different directions. And the assault was carried out at low-level, the Liberators hugging the ground, believe it or not.”

  “That’s something different,” Egon said.

  “It is. These are bombers designed to attack from high altitude. Still, the general said the pilots displayed amazing airmanship. Their planes often missed each other—sometimes on virtual head-on collision courses—by mere feet as they went for their targets. They drove through almost solid curtains of flak, flames boiling from burning refineries, and smoke so thick and black it blotted out the sun. Some of the aircraft, Gerstenberg said, pressed their attacks even after they’d lost engines or were on fire.” Rödel pinched his lips together and shook his head in grudging respect.

  “So my point is this: These American flyers are warriors. Don’t think you’re going to have an easy time bringing them down even if their aircraft are shattered and crippled. They will fight to the end . . . as we would.”

  “We’re prepared, sir,” Egon responded, although he knew some of the youngsters in his squadron might not be, despite their expressions of enthusiasm over finally meeting the enemy. “What’s the plan?”

  “We’ll position you off the west coast of Greece just west of the island of Kefalonia. You’ll be in a good spot there to intercept any of the enemy trying to make it back to Benghazi.”

  Rödel checked his wristwatch. “You’ll be wheels-up in two hours. With the auxiliary fuel tanks on your new planes, you should have enough gas to orbit, fight for half an hour, and get back here before sundown.”

  Egon examined the faces of his rookie aviators. They reflected a mix of eagerness and apprehension. He knew the feeling. He’d been there himself, hardly able to contain the fervor of entering combat, but at the same time harboring gnawing doubts about his skills and bravery.

  Rödel reached out and rested his hand on Egon’s shoulder. “Good hunting, my friend. I know you’ll do well.” He paused, then nodded at the other pilots. “Gentlemen.”

  They responded by snapping to attention and popping off crisp salutes.

  Rödel returned their salutes. “Oh,” he said, “I almost forgot.”

  He signaled an Obergefreiter who sat in an idling Kübelwagen outside the hangar. The enlisted man retrieved a large cardboard box from the rear of the vehicle and trotted toward Rödel.

  Rödel took the box and handed it to Egon.

  “Your landlords, I forget their names—”

  “George and Vasiliki Kostopoulos.”

  “Yes, yes. They came by headquarters a short while ago and brought this. ‘For their boys,’ they said.”

  Egon opened the box. “Ah, wunderbar.”

  The interior contained perhaps a dozen gyros and two jugs of iced tea.

  “Greek iced tea,” Rödel pointed out, “sweetened with honey.”

  “Danke. On a hot day like this, much appreciated.”

  “I suppose they guessed something big must be up with ‘their boys’ standing alert all day. And by the way, Egon, thank you for allowing them to think of you that way, ‘their boys,’ instead of as their wardens or something worse. It reflects well upon the Luftwaffe.”

  “Sir, I hope my squadron will live up to your approval over the next few hours.”

  “I have no doubt of that.” He stepped close to Egon and spoke in quiet tones. “But allow me to remind you, there will be losses. I have complete trust in your abilities and leadership, but I know your pilots are inexperienced and undertrained. That’s what this war has come to. The Liberator pilots you’re going up against are battle-hardened and hurting now.” Rödel lowered his voice to almost a whisper. “You’re going into combat against a dangerous, wounded animal. Godspeed, Egon.”

  20

  Over Romania

  August 1, 1943

  Al spotted the “bandits,” enemy aircraft, about five miles out on his right, a pair of Romanian fighters. They looked like something called IAR-80s, not as formidable as Messerschmitts, but certainly capable of bringing down a B-24. Especially one on crutches, like Oregon Grinder.

  “We’re gonna keep hugging the ground,” Al announced over the interphone. “That’ll limit the gypsies to attacks from above.”

  The first of the Romanian aircraft dove at them from the rear, but fired from a long way out. Tracers from its in-wing machine guns followed a downward arc that petered out well short of the bomber.

  “Not even close,” Rhett, the tail gunner, yelled. Oregon Grinder’s gunners didn’t bother returning fire.

  The second IAR-80 dove. Taking a lesson from the initial ineffective attack, this fighter screamed in much closer, loosing a stream of machine gun fire that ripped into the rear portion of the Liberator’s fuselage. This time Oregon Grinder’s aircrew blasted back. The clatter of heavy machine guns from three positions—right waist, tail, and top turret—joined the din of the plane’s three overworked Pratt & Whitneys.

  “Fucking gypsies,” one of the gunners bellowed.

  The Romanian fighter broke off its attack and climbed away from the bomber.

  An odd whistling sound, undoubtedly from the shot-up fuselage, added to the discordant racket permeating Oregon Grinder’s interior.

  Al and Vivian held the vibrating plane on course, keeping it near the ground, hurdling haystacks and windrows. Al pushed the throttles as far forward as he dared. They flew underneath the bases of fleecy white clouds that speckled the summer sky. Below them, the B-24’s shadow raced over the quilted farmland like a great, avenging angel.

  “What’s happening?” Al called into the intercom. He knew the bandits still had to be trailing them. They wouldn’t make just one pass and break off.

  “Getting their courage up for a second run,” someone responded.


  Another voice: “Looks like they may try to hit us from both sides at the same time.”

  “Roger that,” Al said. “If they do, tail, take the plane on your right. Top turret, the one on your left. Waist gunners, make sure of your fields of fire before opening up.” With one vertical stabilizer already half destroyed, he didn’t need the waist positions doing any additional damage.

  He turned to Vivian. “Ready?”

  She nodded. Her knuckles had turned white from her fierce grip on the control wheel.

  It happened fast—the rattle of six fifty-calibers reverberating through the plane as if it were an echo chamber—then a ripping, tearing, shredding sound as the fighters’ gunfire ripped into Oregon Grinder, shaking it violently. An enemy fighter flashed by on the left, trying to climb but trailing smoke. The second fighter screamed by just beneath the bomber’s nose.

  The second fighter, too, attempted to climb, but had attacked at too steep an angle. Its flight attitude flattened, but too late. It pancaked into a corn field and erupted in a roiling ball of orange flame and black smoke.

  “Got ’em both,” Al hollered. He twisted to look back into the fuselage. He saw nothing but daylight. The IAR-80s’ gunfire had minced the B-24’s thin aluminum skin. “Jesus, we’re a flying colander.”

  “But still flying,” Vivian pointed out.

  “Yes, yes. Everyone okay?” Al waited for the responses.

  “Tail, okay.”

  “Top turret, okay.”

  “Left waist—oh, shit. Oh, no. Oh, no.”

  “What, what is it?” Al’s throat constricted with fear.

  “Chippy’s hit. Oh, man, lotta blood.” Chippy, Sergeant Hamilton, the right waist gunner. The puffy-cheeked kid from Davenport, Iowa, who worked on Mississippi riverboats.

  “Stop the bleeding. Where’s he hit?”

  “Dunno. Stumpy’s with him.” Stumpy—Tech Sergeant Witkowski—the bottom turret gunner who hadn’t seen action yet since the ball turret had remained in a retracted position during the low-level action.

  “Stumpy,” Al said, “what’s Chippy’s status?”

  A long silence ensued.

  Then, “He took a couple of rounds in his right shoulder, Pops. I got the bleeding stopped, jabbed him with morphine. Looks bad though. His arm’s just kinda hangin’ there. He needs a doc. Bad.”

  “Thanks, Stumpy. Keep him as quiet as you can. Elevate his legs a bit. Throw some blankets over him. More morphine as needed.”

  “Roger that. I’ll take over the waist position, but I’ll keep an eye on Chippy, too.”

  Oregon Grinder continued to shimmy her way southwestward, skimming over treetops and rooftops.

  “She’s holding together,” Al told everyone, “and I’ll do my best to keep her up. But make sure you’re ready to bail if it comes to that. Stumpy, if we have to jump, make sure Chippy’s ’chute is secure, then shove him out first.”

  “Will do, Pops.”

  Once again they sped over the sprawling Wallachian Plain, a brown and green mélange of farms and villages. At one point a grizzled farmer flanked by two youths sprang from behind an outbuilding, threw shotguns to their shoulders, and emptied all barrels at Oregon Grinder. The wake turbulence of the thundering bomber blew them into a pile of manure.

  “If you ever wondered where the Three Stooges lived, now you know,” Al said.

  “Poetic justice,” someone else commented.

  Vivian grinned.

  “Let’s take her up a bit,” Al said. “We should be out of range of the Messerschmitts from Ploesti and the gypsies from Bucharest. Maybe we can catch a bit of that tail wind the weather guy was yammering about.”

  “Don’t forget about the Bulgarians,” George reminded Al. “They got a few Messerschmitts. We’ll be back over northern Bulgaria in about ten minutes.”

  Oregon Grinder struggled upward a few thousand feet and gained a little push from northerly winds. Still, the main group of fleeing Circus aircraft had outdistanced them, and no other Liberators hove into view.

  As they pressed on alone, Al occasionally caught snippets of plane-to-plane radio transmissions between other Liberators. One in particular caught his attention, though he didn’t know if the aircraft were ahead of or behind him, or who they were.

  “Wonder if we might sit on your wing for a while? Got a bit of a problem here.”

  “Sure. Tuck in as close as you feel comfortable. What’s going on?”

  “I’m the engineer—in the copilot’s seat. The copilot is flying the plane. We lost our command pilot.”

  “Killed? Wounded?”

  “Not exactly.”

  Pause.

  “Well, what happened to him?”

  “Ever since we departed Ploesti, he’s been curled up in a fetal position in the bomb bay. Won’t talk or move.”

  “Jesus.”

  “So we got a butterbar flying the plane now. First mission.”

  “Jesus, Mary, and Joseph. Yeah, you can hang on our coattails all the way to Benghazi if you want. We’ll try to assist you as much as we can.”

  A flight of three Liberators—Thundermug, Let ’er Rip, Exterminator—closed in on Oregon Grinder from above and behind. Al watched as they soared by on his left in an ad hoc diamond formation, punching in and out of billowing white clouds. They gave their wings a little waggle to acknowledge Al’s slowpoke bomber and cruised on by.

  He watched as the trio of Liberators drilled into the top of the next towering cumulus. Thundermug, probably with the least experienced pilot, veered slightly away from the other two bombers as they disappeared into the fair-weather stack of clouds.

  “Oh my God,” Al yelled.

  Thundermug reappeared seconds later on the far side of the cloud, but the other two didn’t. Exterminator exited the cumulus in a steep dive and plunged into the Bulgarian countryside in an explosive crash. Let ’er Rip came out minus her tail turret, which tumbled toward earth on a separate trajectory. The aircraft itself grazed a ridge line then went into a flat glide toward the ground. Four figures came out a waist gunner’s window, but one wore a ’chute that collapsed as quickly as it had opened. The plane smacked into the ground, bounced, then bounced again and came apart as it erupted in flames.

  Al leaned his forehead against the control wheel and closed his eyes. Goddamn. How in the hell can men fly through walls of flak, hordes of fighters, make crisscrossing bomb runs at treetop level, then ram into each other in a puffy cloud? Does God care about this crap, or does He even give a shit? Probably not.

  Al opened his eyes, but allowed his cynical thoughts to continue their free rein.

  No, of course He doesn’t care. War is our folly, man’s folly. Not His. It’s our lunacy that leads to the whims of life and death that get played out on a fucking cosmic roulette wheel.

  “We’re just along for the ride,” he said softly.

  Vivian looked over at him. “What?”

  He shook his head, not wishing to give voice to his black musings.

  The terrain below became mountainous as Oregon Grinder exited the northwestern bulge of Bulgaria and entered Yugoslavia.

  “Let’s gain a little more altitude,” Al said to Vivian. “We’ll have to climb back over the Pindus Mountains shortly.”

  “Are we out of range of the Bulgarians yet?”

  “I can’t honestly say. But we’re over Yugoslavia, so I don’t think the Bulgarians will come after us here. And the Germans in Yugoslavia are probably a lot more worried about the partisans they’re fighting than they are B-24s with no bombs.”

  Despite limping along on three engines and missing part of its vertical stabilizer, Oregon Grinder continued to fly steadily albeit slightly wobbly. The thrumming roar of the engines told Al they remained dependable, but he also knew the plane continued to spray fuel into the air from its shrapnel-ripped wing tank.

  “Take the controls, Viv,” he said. “I’m going back to check on Chippy.”

  He made his way along the catwa
lk through the bomb bay, then up to the waist positions, stunned by the amount of damage the Romanian fighters had inflicted on the fuselage. There seemed to be more daylight than metal visible. An icy wind swirled and whistled through the interior of the wounded aircraft, giving Al the sense of being as much outside the bomber as cocooned in its aluminum shell. He wondered if he might be experiencing something akin to Vivian’s wing walking exploits.

  He reached Chippy. Stumpy attended to him. The injured waist gunner lay on the floor, his virtually severed shoulder swathed in cloth and gauze bandages but still seeping blood. Blankets and a flight jacket covered his body. His breathing had become rapid and shallow. He appeared unconscious.

  “Don’t know if he’s gonna make it, sir,” Stumpy said, his voice strangled by concern.

  Al studied Chippy, then turned to Stumpy. “Maybe we should try for Turkey, get him medical attention as soon as possible.”

  “We’d be outta the war then, Pops. Interned. If we made it.”

  Al considered where they were now, cruising over Yugoslavia. “Yeah, given our current position, to get to Turkey we’d have to backtrack over Bulgaria and Greece. Probably not a grand idea when we’re already shot to shit. Enemy fighters would be on us like sharks on chum.”

  He knelt next to Chippy, laid his hand on the young man’s forehead, and spoke, though he knew the sergeant couldn’t hear him. “Sorry, Chippy. This isn’t good. We’d probably get shot down trying to make it to Turkey, and we don’t have enough fuel to get back to Benghazi. So I’m thinking maybe Crete or Sicily. But we still may have to dodge Messerschmitts out of Greece. We’ll do our best, partner. Promise. Hang in there.”

  Al stood. “Keep him as warm and quiet as you can, Stumpy. We still got a chance.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  But Al read in Stumpy’s expression that he didn’t believe that chance amounted to anything greater than a moth flying toward an open flame.

  Back in the cockpit, Al could see exhaustion had overtaken Vivian. She’d worked hard using both the control wheel and rudder pedals to keep Oregon Grinder flying steadily. She’d used the rudder pedals to help steer the plane now that it had more pull on one side than the other with an engine missing.