When Heroes Flew

by H W Buzz Bernard

  Somehow, the fighter hadn’t sunk and now floated just feet from him. But its engine boiled in full flame. He feared an explosion and dog-paddled away from it in furious little strokes, at the same time trying to see if he could spot where the bomber had ditched. Perhaps they had life rafts and would pull him aboard. He feared drowning almost as much as burning.

  Disoriented, he didn’t know where to look, couldn’t see any sign of the B-24.

  Oregon Grinder’s tail gave one last violent shake as the bomber stalled, then thudded into the sea. A violent rending sound mingled with the crashing rush of water surging over the craft. Al sensed the nose of the Liberator tipping forward, preparing to plunge beneath the surface of the ocean. Blackness enveloped the cockpit. Then the plane seemed to level out, but with water filling it, it began to simultaneously sink.

  Al released his seat harness, made sure Vivian had done the same. Already waist-deep in water, he stood, pointed back between the seats and up, toward the top of the aircraft.

  “Escape hatch,” he yelled.

  With the sea thundering in through the already-shredded fuselage of the bomber, the rising water lifted them toward the hatch with little effort on their part. Al sprung it open, boosted Vivian out, then followed her. They inflated their life vests and swam away from the sinking Liberator.

  “Jesus,” Al said. “Where’s the rest of the plane?”

  The nose section had snapped off forward of the wings. Treading water, he spun in a circle, desperately trying to find the rest of Oregon Grinder. Pain wrapped his left arm in what felt like ground glass.

  “There,” Vivian yelled. “Over there.” She pointed fifty yards behind the submerging nose section.

  A large swell attacked Al from behind, knocking his face into the water. He held his breath, lifted his head from the sea, and looked in the direction Vivian had indicated.

  The rear two-thirds of Oregon Grinder, more or less intact but filling with water, rode the swells. The B-24’s crew spilled out the waist gunner’s window into the ocean. Several men struggled to pull two inert forms—presumably the unconscious tail gunner, Rhett, and the badly wounded waist gunner, Chippy—through the window to safety before the tail section went to the bottom. One life raft had been inflated, and a second appeared in the process.

  Al and Vivian, riding the swells as if aboard a slow-motion roller coaster, paddled toward the crew and rafts, or in military lingo, inflatable dinghies. Al used only his right arm to make intermittent strokes.

  Egon finally spotted the dark green vertical stabilizers of the B-24 several hundred yards from where he floated. He glanced back at his sinking fighter. Despite the nose being half underwater, flames and smoke billowed from the engine. It seemed unlikely it would explode, given there couldn’t be much fuel or oil left in the plane, but he couldn’t be sure. He wanted to get farther away from it.

  He set out with determined strokes toward the downed American bomber, wanting to put more distance between himself and the burning fighter, wanting to escape the swells that persisted in their relentless assault on him, driving surges of salty water into his nose and mouth. He sensed his life vest deflating. The Americans must have life rafts. He windmilled his arms and kicked harder, driving himself directly into the oncoming rollers and toward his enemy. Former enemy. Ironic—he now viewed them as rescuers.

  25

  In the Ionian Sea

  August 1, 1943

  Al and Vivian reached the remainder of Oregon Grinder’s crew just as its tail section sank below the swells with a loud gurgle and thunderous rush of sea water.

  “Did everybody get out?” Al yelled.

  George paddled over to Al. “Yes. Except for Stretch, of course. No way we could get his body out of that top turret. There was nothing left of it.”

  “I know, I know. Fuck it all. How about Chippy, how’s he doing?”

  George shook his head, looked away, treading water.

  “Oh, no,” Al said. “Oh, no.”

  George turned back to Al. “The crash in the water, then pulling him out through the waist—he just stopped breathing. Too damn much trauma, too much blood loss. We got his body into one of the dinghies.”

  “And Rhett?”

  “Got him in a dinghy, too. He’s semiconscious. Loopy as a loon, but he’s alive.”

  A big swell lifted Al, George, and Vivian several feet above the surrounding sea.

  “Hey, hey, hey,” George said. “What’s that coming our way?”

  About two or three miles distant to the west, a ship, heeled over and coming hard, smoke from its stacks flattened in the wind, bore down on them.

  Al wiped the salt water from his eyes and squinted, trying to identify the vessel. He and George and Vivian sank into the trough following the swell, then rose again as the next crest reached them.

  “Looks like a British corvette,” Al said.

  It didn’t appear to have the sleekness or speed of an American destroyer, but it plowed through the sea at a determined rate, close to twenty miles per hour Al guessed.

  “Lordy, I’m glad it’s one of ours,” Vivian said. Her left temple had turned the color of a plum, but she seemed to be functioning just fine.

  “Holy shit,” George exclaimed. He pointed to the left of the corvette and much closer to them at a small form stroking determinedly through the swells in their direction.

  “I’ll be damned,” Al said, “it’s the German pilot. Guess he made it down, too.”

  “What do we do,” George said, “take him prisoner?”

  “Hell no, he could have shot us down, but didn’t. I think I’ll give the SOB a big hug.”

  The German, now maybe a little over a hundred yards away, lifted a hand in greeting, or so it seemed, then continued his resolute course toward the Americans. He gagged and spit seawater as he battled his way directly into the teeth of the relentless swells, making only slow progress.

  Egon’s arms and legs felt like those of a rag doll. He didn’t know how much longer he could paddle and keep his head above water. His life vest had totally deflated. He’d never spent much time swimming in an ocean, and the effort he’d exerted over the past few minutes had taken an extreme toll. He stopped and rested, allowing the swells to carry him up and down.

  He spotted at least two life rafts among the downed American flyers, although several men remained in the water. There appeared to be at least one inert form—a deceased crew member?—the men in the raft had tugged in with them. Egon wondered if they would take revenge on him for that.

  It didn’t matter. That option had to be better than drowning. He gathered himself for a final, resolute drive toward the Americans. He drew a deep breath and plunged forward, like a man assaulting an enemy position. Do or die.

  Al and George remained in the water with Vivian, watching the British corvette and tracking the approaching German. The British vessel had drawn close enough Al could make out the sailors on deck, rushing about, making preparations to pull them from the water. Something else, too.

  “Oh, shit, no,” Al yelled. Twin fifty caliber machine guns on the ship’s bridge swung toward the German.

  Al snapped his head around to look at the Luftwaffe pilot. He plowed through the water with a renewed fierceness, swimming directly toward them, almost as if in an attack mode. Al realized that was probably all the Brits saw.

  He porpoised from the water, leaping, waving both arms over his head, ignoring the pain that lanced through his wounded arm. “No, no, no,” he screamed at the sailors manning the gun.

  The rattle of the fifty calibers reverberated across the sea surface as the Brits opened fire.

  “No, you bastards, goddamnit no,” Al bellowed. “Stop. Cease fire, cease fire.” But the gunfire and wash of the swells swallowed his words.

  A trail of watery stalagmites erupted from the ocean’s surface as the gunfire swept toward the German.

  Something with the force of a sledgehammer pounded into Egon’s chest and left arm
and sent a shock wave of pain surging through his body. He stopped swimming and allowed himself merely to float, riding the up-and-down motion of the swells. Sea water flowed into his mouth. The sunlight dimmed and he felt himself slipping away into a fathomless gray fog.

  He attempted to kick, to move his legs through the water, but couldn’t remember why, only that he’d been doing it and had a destination in mind. Now, however, he had no idea what the goal had been. The swirling grayness tightened around him, grasping at his shoulders, speaking a strange language.

  After a short, furious swim, Al and George reached the German with Vivian not far behind. Blood pooled around the Luftwaffe aviator and Al realized the man had taken a likely fatal hit. He and George grabbed the officer underneath his shoulders and lifted his head from the sea.

  The British ship drifted to a stop about a hundred yards from them. Al could see a life boat being lowered on a davit.

  The Luftwaffe pilot stared at his American rescuers with uncomprehending eyes as blood spread out in the water around him, an expanding dark stain.

  “Hang in there, partner, hang in there,” Al said. “We’ll get you help.”

  Vivian stripped off her Mae West, ripped off her blouse, and jammed it against the German’s chest wound. Not an easy task in the endless train of heaving rollers.

  The German seemed to be trying to focus on the figures around him.

  “Was ist passiert?” he said, his speech slurred.

  Al, George, and Vivian looked at one another.

  “Do you understand German?” Al asked George.

  “A little. My grandparents came from Germany. I think he asked what happened.”

  “Tell him he got shot, but it was an accident. We’ll take care of him. We’re his friends.”

  George seemed to struggle to find the correct German words. “Ein Unfall. Du wurdest erschossen. Wir werden uns um dich kümmern. Wir sind deine Freunde.”

  “Freunde?” the wounded pilot mumbled.

  “Jawohl. Deine Freunde.”

  Al stared into the half-closed eyes of the young German he held, realizing he seemed no different than any of the hundreds of men he’d dealt with in the American bomber force over the past few years.

  “Tell him thank you for not shooting us down. For being an honorable man. We offer our respect to him.”

  George nodded, and spoke to the Luftwaffe officer in a soft but stumbling voice.

  “Damn Limeys,” Al muttered. “Why in the hell did they have to shoot him?”

  “He was swimming our way pretty hard,” George said. “They probably thought he was going to attack us.”

  “Fucking morons,” Al snapped.

  The life boat from the corvette had reached the water and now bobbed in place as it waited for the British sailors to board it.

  Al and George continued to hold the German as they rode the never-ending swells. Vivian pushed her blouse, now blood-soaked, ever harder against the jagged wound that had been torn in the pilot’s chest.

  “We should find out his name,” Al said.

  George nodded and spoke. “Wie heißen Sie, mein Herr, dein Name und Rang?”

  The pilot stared without answering. Al didn’t know if he’d heard, or even understood the question.

  “Ask again. Tell him your name.”

  George did.

  This time the German answered, though he struggled to speak. Al and George persisted in their efforts to hold his head above the water, to prevent the sea from washing into his mouth.

  “Luftwaffe Hauptmann Egon Richter, Jagdgeschwader 27,” he gasped, then winced in pain.

  “Ask where he’s from,” Al said, “where he lived in Germany.”

  They waited for the fighter pilot to answer. It took a while. Then he spoke only two words in a wheezing, whistling breath. “Zell. Mosel.” His eyes rolled back in his head.

  “Come on, Captain Richter,” Al urged. “Don’t go. Don’t leave us. Hang in there. Help is coming.” He attempted to make his words soothing, but knew they probably sounded desperate.

  “Bleib bei uns, bleib bei uns, Egon,” George whispered to the German. Stay with us.

  The fighter pilot’s eyes repositioned themselves and seemed to focus on Vivian, who continued to squeeze her blouse against his chest. He attempted to lift his arms as if to embrace her.

  “Liebe Inge, Liebe Christa,” he whispered. “Ich liebe dich über alles.”

  Vivian, her face masked in despair, looked at George. “What’s he saying?”

  George shook his head. Despair. “I think he thinks you’re his wife, or mother, or daughter. I don’t know. He’s saying how much he loves you.”

  Vivian’s eyes welled with tears. She leaned forward and pressed her face against his. “Don’t die, please don’t die,” she said. “You saved us. You don’t deserve this.”

  The German’s breathing slowed, coming in long, shallow gasps. He seemed to smile.

  “Otto,” he said, “Otto. Ich komme, alter Freund.”

  The grayness, like a flannel mist, lifted and parted. In a shaft of brilliant light, Egon saw his old friend Otto waiting for him on a high, rolling meadow in the Hunsrück, a place where they’d hunted together so often as boys.

  “Otto,” Egon exclaimed, “Otto. I’m coming, old friend.”

  He strode toward his longtime companion, a man he’d looked up to and loved like a brother. Otto reached out to him. They embraced.

  A large swell lifted the German and three Americans upward much higher than the previous rollers had. The Luftwaffe pilot tipped his head skyward and drew one last, long breath. His eyes slid shut and his head fell forward, his chin coming to rest against his chest.

  “No, oh, no. Don’t let him go, God.” But Al knew God had let him go, and that his entreaty had come too late, or maybe just been ignored. War, after all, was the result of the idiocy of men, not the creation of God. Al understood, too, it could have been any one of them, himself, George, Vivian, that lay dead in the sea. Yet the vagaries, the unfairness, the cruelness of war had claimed an honorable man who, in the heat of battle, had spared his enemy.

  Al squeezed his eyes shut, feeling tears track down his cheeks, mingling with the splash of Ionian Sea water and the blood of a German fighter pilot.

  He opened his eyes to see George place a hand on the Luftwaffe officer’s head and say in a soft voice, “Sh'ma Yisra'eil Adonai Eloheinu Adonai echad.”

  “What was that?” Al asked, his voice raspy with emotion. “What did you say?”

  “It’s called the Shema.” George continued to tread water while he held the German. “It’s a sort of prayer we would say for a dying friend. ‘Hear O Israel, the Lord our God, the Lord is One.’”

  Al gazed at the dead pilot. “I wonder if he was a Nazi?” He paused, then said, “And I wonder if he knew he was being comforted in his dying moments by a Jew?”

  “Nazi or not, I don’t think it would have mattered to him if he’d known. All he knew was he was among people, fellow warriors, who cared for him.”

  Vivian, her eyes filled with tears, released the German and drifted away from him on her back. “Sorry, sorry, sorry,” she kept repeating.

  “Strange,” Al said, “here we are, mourning for an enemy as much or more as for our own.”

  “Maybe,” George responded. “But except for him—Egon was his name, remember—we probably wouldn’t be mourning at all.”

  The British launch reached them. Several sailors spilled into the sea to help the American airmen.

  A large swell, the final one in a parade of big rollers, lifted the trio of Americans and the German fighter pilot skyward into the bright, warming rays of the Mediterranean sun.

  26

  Benghazi, Libya

  August 10, 1943

  Al settled into a creaky wooden chair in the tent of the Circus’s new commander, Colonel Leland Fiegel, a spare but well-liked aviator from Minnesota. He had assumed command after the loss of Lieutenant Colonel Baker in Plo
esti. Fiegel sat across from Al behind a desk that looked as war weary as some of the B-24s. The usual heat and sand of the desert had invaded the interior of the tent, but after what the Benghazi bomb groups had been through, such discomforts seemed trivial.

  “I can’t tell you how good it is to have you and your crew back,” Fiegel said. “But I’m sorry about your casualties.”

  “Thank you, sir.”

  “Right after the raid, we thought we’d lost you. A couple of Libs that struggled back here said the last they saw of Oregon Grinder it was heading west, barely flying, and about to be pounced on by a couple of Messerschmitts. I gather you were trying to make it to Malta or Sicily.”

  “Sicily was our only hope. We were running on fumes, and quite frankly probably weren’t even going to make it that far.”

  “According to the report we got from UK naval forces, you and a 109 shot each other down over the Ionian Sea, then a British corvette showed up and came to your rescue. Good thing, too, because apparently”—Fiegel peered at some papers on his desk—“the German pilot wasn’t finished with you and was continuing his assault in the water.”

  Fiegel looked up from the papers.

  Al drew a deep breath before speaking.

  “That wasn’t quite the case, sir.”

  “Oh. What was the case?”

  Al told him, told him how the German fighter pilot had opted not to shoot Oregon Grinder out of the sky, how he’d been swimming toward them after ditching—but not in a threatening manner—how the Brits had opened up on him with their fifty calibers.

  “Just before the Limeys opened fire,” Al said, “the German raised his arm as if greeting us. I think all he wanted to do was get out of the water. He must have seen our life rafts. And the corvette. I doubt he ever thought they’d shoot him.”