Rush to Glory

by Robert L Hecker

  “Bullshit,” Luke said easily. “Anybody who sleeps through a mission to Cologne doesn’t need a pass. O’Reilly, I want you to meet my brother, Hal. Hal, this is Woody O’Reilly, the biggest goldbrick in the ETO.”

  As Hal shook O’Reilly’s hand, he was aware that the man’s blue eyes searched his face, measuring him with a glance. If he were comparing Hal to his brother, he had to be disappointed. Hal could equal his brother’s six-foot height, but Luke outweighed him by thirty pounds. And where Luke had inherited their father’s French/Irish darkness and rough strength, Hal leaned more to the delicate fairness of their English mother. But whatever O’Reilly’s impression, it was not mirrored in his voice as he drawled to Hal, “When I get to be as big a goof-off as he is, they’ll make me a major too.”

  Luke then introduced Hal to 2nd Lieutenant Ken Cossel, a slender navigator with deep-set, brooding eyes, 2nd Lieutenant Jim Fox, a broad-shouldered blond Viking wearing pilot’s wings; and 2nd Lieutenant Herman Schultz, a stocky Teutonic-looking blond with ruddy skin and bright blue eyes. Schultz was wearing a bombardier’s wings.

  “You scheduled to fly tomorrow?” Luke asked O’Reilly.

  “You tell me. You’re the one with the pipeline to God.”

  “You’ll stand down tomorrow. I’ve got a special job for you.”

  “If it’s a practice mission, you can forget it. I’d rather get my ass shot off than have it fall off.”

  “That’s for sure,” Fox added. “We’ve taken so many trips to that friggin’ rock we don’t even have to fly the friggin’ ship. When we take off, it automatically heads north.”

  “That’s what you’re being paid for,” Luke said. “You glory boys wanted a nice cushy job in the Air Corps. I want three volunteers to fly a practice mission tomorrow.” He pointed to O’Reilly, Fox, and Cossel. “You, you, and you.”

  “You are forgetting, Mon Capitaine. Tomorrow is Saturday. If we fly a grueling practice mission, we’ll be in no shape for the party.”

  “Bull. You’ve flown ten-hour missions and still made the parties.”

  “Not the same thing. On a mission, we just tag along. Schultz is the only one who has to be perfect. And everybody knows he’s a clean liver.”

  “Don’t try to snow me,” Luke said, his voice hard. “Bailey here has to be checked out. Tomorrow you’ll take him to the rock.”

  “What about me?” Schultz said to Luke. “Do I go along?”

  “No. You stand down. Marshall will check him out.”

  O’Reilly looked at him sharply. “Marshall?”

  “I want him to see how he operates, that’s all.”

  O’Reilly hesitated as though to protest, and Hal assumed that this man ‘Marshall’ had to be the squadron’s lead bombardier. He knew that it was part of the lead’s duties to check out those bombardiers who were slated to be leads. No wonder O’Reilly thought it was odd that a man who hadn’t even flown one mission should be checked out by Marshall. But this time, the one being checked wasn’t just anyone; he was Luke’s brother. So instead of continuing his protest, O’Reilly grinned and brought his palm up beside his forehead in a quivery imitation of a French salute. “Okay, mon capitaine. Whatever you say.”

  It was Fox who said to Schultz: “They don’t trust you, Heinie. They think you’ve been putting Red Cross packages in your bombs.”

  Schultz’s ruddy face turned scarlet. “I do my job just like everybody else.”

  O’Reilly winked at Hal as he added, “Sure, but no bombardier could be as lousy as you are, Schultzie. We figure you miss on purpose. You’d better start an immediate investigation, major.”

  Luke grinned, obviously glad to change the subject. “You can’t blame him, O’Reilly. From what I hear, half the kids in Germany are his brothers and sisters.”

  “Damn right,” Fox said. “They named it the Fatherland after his old man.”

  Schultz’s smile reflected his effort. “He only had eight, and we were all born in Dayton, Ohio.”

  “Lay off,” Cossel said quietly. “If any one of you bastards was half as good at your job as Schultz is at his, we’d have won the war months ago.”

  “That’s right,” Luke quickly agreed. “Schultzie, you’ll be lead before you know it.”

  Hal looked at his brother sharply. Why had Luke lied? Now Schultz would feel even worse when he found out that Hal was slated to replace him on O’Reilly’s crew. But that was just like Luke. Never tell the truth when a lie would do the job better. And if your luck held, you might not have to face the truth at all.

  After they finished eating, Hal and O’Reilly’s crew crowded into the Jeep, and Luke drove back to the 615th HQ.

  When they stopped in front, O’Reilly waited beside Luke while Fox, Schultz, and Cossel walked into the gathering darkness in the direction of low, wooden buildings that Hal assumed were barracks. Hal stood uncertainly in the road, not knowing what to do.

  Instead of following them, O’Reilly asked: “What time tomorrow?”

  “Make it oh-seven hundred,” Luke said. “That’ll give you plenty of time to sack in.”

  “Thanks,” O’Reilly said dryly. He didn’t bother to salute before he walked away.

  If Luke noticed the breach of military etiquette, he gave no indication. “I want you to do a heads-up job tomorrow,” he told Hal. “These guys have got to know I’m not just sticking my neck out because you’re my brother.”

  “I’ll do my best,” Hal said.

  “It damn well better be good. If Marshall doesn’t bring back a good report, my ass’ll be in a sling. And,” he added viciously, “that better not happen. You understand?”

  Without waiting for a reply, Luke turned and strode up the gravel path to the headquarters building. “Come on. Spellman can scrounge you a bed close to your crew.”

  Hal followed silently. He wanted to assure Luke that there was nothing to worry about, that he had been the best bombardier in his training school. But training was not combat. This was now the major league. What was the caliber of men in combat? How good was good? He hoped Luke didn’t expect him to be better than everyone else. Stupid thought. Luke had always expected more than Hal could give.

  When they entered Squadron HQ, Corporal Weems was sitting in Sergeant Spellman’s chair reading a comic book.

  “Where’s Spellman?” Luke snapped.

  Weems marked his place in the comic book with a finger and grinned at Luke. “Eatin’. I’m holdin’ down the fort.”

  Luke grunted in assent. “You know anything about our manpower logistics around here?”

  “Our which?”

  “Logistics, damn it. Have we got any empty sacks?”

  “After today?” Corporal grinned wryly. “Plenty of ’em.”

  “I don’t mean those. The quartermaster hasn’t had a chance yet to pick up their personal effects. I want somethin’ for Bailey here by O’Reilly’s crew.”

  “Sure. There’s a couple’a empties over there.”

  Luke turned to Hal. “He’ll drive you over. You sack up as close to O’Reilly as you can. He’s a screwy son-of-a-bitch, but he knows his stuff.”

  “What about Schultz?” Hal asked.

  “I’ll take care of him. You just get the rest of ’em on your side. Take it easy on the brown-nosin’. O’Reilly won’t buy it.”

  “Thanks,” Hal said flatly. “I’ll remember.” He hefted his B-4 bag and followed Weems to the door.

  “Oh, Weems,” Luke snapped, “Stop off on the way back and tell Captain Marshall he’s goin’ on a practice mission at Oh-seven-hundred.”

  “I won’t have time,” Weems told him. “I’m off duty in five minutes.”

  “That’s T.S.,” Luke replied. “Tell him anyway.” He turned and went into his office.

  Weems made a face. “
I didn’t think it’d work.” He pulled on his leather flying jacket and went out. Hal picked up his bag and followed. The VIP treatment seemed to have ended.

  As Hal settled into the jeep beside Weems, the Corporal started the engine and whirled away into the darkness, leaving a protesting squeal from the tires in their wake.

  They had only gone a few yards when Weems wrung another dramatic squeal from the Jeep as he stopped abruptly, almost throwing Hal into the windshield.

  On his right, Hal could just make out the silhouette of a single-story wooden barracks. A rectangular crack of light outlined a blacked-out doorway. When Weems pushed open the door, a dull yellow glare spilled out across the Jeep, and Hal hurried inside.

  The room was long, and the ceiling low. Light came from a row of bare bulbs in standard porcelain reflectors. A narrow aisle down the middle of the room divided rows of double-deck bunks. Footlockers, painted an ugly olive drab, rested on the wooden floor in front of each set of bunks. Others were shoved against the wall in the space between the bunks. At two places in the aisle, pot-bellied coal stoves had been placed on metal plates. It was uncomfortably warm in the room, and as Hal followed Weems, he saw that the stovetops were glowing a faint red.

  There were about thirty men in the barracks, all officers. They were sprawled in various stages of undress, reading, playing cards, talking. Except for a glance, they paid no attention to Hal as he passed. He was just another replacement, and replacements arrived almost every day looking just as clean and just as uncertain.

  Weems stopped near the far end of the barracks between two empty bunks. “Take your pick. And don’t worry about the former tenants. They won’t be back.” He turned and left.

  Hal dumped his bag on the lower bunk on the right.

  “Well, well,” a voice near him said. “Welcome to the Biltmore.”

  Hal looked up to see O’Reilly standing between the next two bunks, buttoning his Eisenhower jacket. “Thanks,” he said.

  Cossel, sitting on the edge of the next lower bunk, closed a book he had been reading and nodded to Hal. “I hope you realize you’re in the elite section.”

  “And act accordingly,” O’Reilly continued. “No drinking alone, no cheating at cards, and no women who don’t share the fun.”

  “Sounds homey,” Hal said. “Okay if I bring her sister?”

  “Too late,” Cossel said. “Fox has already had her sister.”

  Fox was stretched out on the upper bunk above O’Reilly’s, and he said without moving, “And O’Reilly’s had her mother, whoever she is. It’s the daughters he can’t get.”

  “And you’ve had her grandmother,” O’Reilly said easily. “You have even been casting a wicked eye on her granddaddy.” He brushed a speck of lint off his tailored jacket and breathed heavily upon the silver pilot’s wings pinned above his left breast pocket. Below the wings was a single row of mini-ribbons. Hal recognized those for American Defense Service, Good Conduct, the ETO Theater and the Air Medal with a single, tiny oak-leaf, which meant that O’Reilly had survived at least ten missions.

  “Lieutenant Fox and yours truly are about to honor ye old officer’s club with our presence,” O’Reilly said. “Would you care to join us in a long, tall one?”

  Hal didn’t want to go to the officer’s club. Mindless drinking did not appeal to him. Besides, it had been a long day. On the other hand, it would give him a chance to get better acquainted with O’Reilly and Fox. But it would also give them a chance to know him. It might be better to wait until after the practice mission. If he fouled up, they wouldn’t want to know him. If he didn’t, there would be plenty of time to become better acquainted.

  “Thanks,” he said, “but I’d better unpack before this stuff settles.”

  Later, lying in his bunk, he was unable to sleep. His body was dead tired, but his mind would not release its grip on worry. So much would be riding on his performance tomorrow. Not just for him, but Luke. He could live with failure, but Luke could not. It would mean another confrontation, and he would rather face all the guns in Germany than an irate Luke Bailey.

  CHAPTER 3

  It was still dark when Hal was jarred awake by a harsh voice, shouting, “Truck time. Truck time. Hit the deck, glory boys. Drop your cocks and grab your socks!”

  One by one, the bare bulbs of the overhead lights were switched on by waking crewmen. In their dim light, Hal saw Sgt. Spellman make his way down the narrow aisle between the double rows of bunk beds. Apparently, he took a sadistic pleasure in waking all the men, not just those scheduled to fly today’s combat mission.

  “Truck time! Truck time! Time to get your ass shot off. Rise and shine.”

  O’Reilly’s lazy voice cut through the muttered protests, “Someday, Spellman, I’m going to cut out that squeal of yours and give it back to the pigs.”

  “What are you bitchin’ about, O’Reilly?” Spellman said. “You got a practice mission. You don’t have to get up for hours yet.”

  “I’m gonna get up and beat the crap outta you,” Fox growled, “if you don’t get the hell outta here.”

  “You should go along on this one, Fox,” Spellman said, “A real milk run.”

  “How the hell would you know? You wouldn’t know a milk run from a baby’s nipple.”

  “I just came from the briefing room. An’ all I can say is you should be on this one.”

  Cossel propped himself up on an elbow and looked at Spellman. “A real milk run, huh?”

  “You’re damn right!”

  “In that case,” Cossel said with a smile, “this is your big chance.”

  “How do you mean?” Spellman looked puzzled.

  “For your first mission. A real milk run. Nobody gets hurt. Why don’t you volunteer?”

  “Sure,” Fox agreed. “This is the one you’ve been waiting for. A real, live, honest-to-God milk run.”

  Spellman cleared his throat, the sound loud in the suddenly quiet room. “I’m not on a crew,” he said. “They won’t let me fly.”

  He turned and walked rapidly toward the door.

  “Sure, they will,” somebody hollered. “I’ll let you ride with me.”

  Another voice answered, “We’ll give you every flak suit on the base. Nothing could hurt you.”

  “He doesn’t need a flak suit,” Schultz said. “Nothing could get through that thick skin.”

  “Why, Schultzie,” O’Reilly said to the bombardier. “That was very witty.”

  Spellman attempted a laugh. “What a touchy bunch of bastards.” He exited quickly, leaving the door open to a draft of icy air.

  “Someday somebody’s going to kill that jerk,” Fox muttered and rolled over in his bunk.

  Hal held up his hack watch to the feeble glow of a distant light. 0200. Thank God he was due to fly a practice mission with O’Reilly instead of the real one. He lay quietly, listening to the crewmen as they climbed from their bunks to the cold concrete floor and pulled on their flying clothes. A few groused in low voices, but most of the men were quiet, their thoughts dark with the knowledge that this could well be the last day of their lives. These were the men who soon would be putting their heads in the lion’s mouth. None of them knew whether they would come back. They had done this same thing yesterday and, if they survived today, would do it again tomorrow. Yet they were going. These shivering, fragile men were offering their lives because their country had asked them to. Heroes. And yet, in this cheerless room, on this cold morning, under these dim lights, they did not think of themselves as heroes. They were only men setting out to do a miserable job. There were no heroes. Not at this hour. Not with goose pimples on shivering flesh and eyes that longed for a few minutes more of sleep. The unwanted heroics would come later in the vast sweep of the wild blue yonder.

  One by one, the lights were turned out as the men went out the
door. From outside came the sound of truck motors grinding into life. Hal lay in his upper bunk with his eyes open, staring at the low beams of the ceiling close over his head as sounds of the trucks driving away slowly faded.

  Silence. Silence and darkness made it easy to fantasize that this was all an illusion and that soon he would wake up in his familiar bed at home.

  Then he heard the nerve-shattering sound of B-17 engines coughing into life as ground crews prepared for the coming mission. This sure as hell wasn’t home.

  He had two hours before he had to get up, but he knew he wouldn’t be able to get back to sleep. He wondered where the real mission would be going. Spellman had said it was a milk run. But mission destinations were closely guarded secrets. So, he was probably lying. Wherever it was, the odds were that some of the men who had gone out into the gloom of an overcast night would not be coming back. And if he passed today’s test, it would soon be his turn to go. Could he handle it? Or would his first encounter with a barrage of flak or a fighter attack, make him freeze? Could he overcome his fear long enough to lead a real mission without falling apart?

  Oh God. Stop thinking about it. Try to sleep. Think about today. That would be bad enough.

  Actually, the taste of fear would not be new; it had first appeared one night in Oklahoma after a near accident during transition training at the Ardmore Air Base. Coming back from a training mission, he had been standing in the mid-section of the B-17 looking out the port waist window while the pilot brought the B-17 in for the landing. Just before the wheels touched down, lingering prop wash from a plane that had landed ahead of them flipped the big bird up on one wing, and he was frozen in helpless horror as the port wing dipped so low it touched the tall grass that bordered the runway. The four idling engines sprang into desperate life as the pilot shoved the throttles to ‘emergency’ and hit the turbochargers. The plane staggered, and Hal knew he was going to die even as the pilot and co-pilot fought to save his life.

  Time seemed to stand still until, after what seemed like an eternity, the high starboard wing began to edge downward as the B-17 righted. The wheels came up with a clunk and, relieved of the drag, the plane steadied. But it was off the runway, and the tips of the straining props cut swaths through the high bordering grass. Somehow, the pilot managed to lift the wallowing plane clear of trees a half-mile beyond the runway, and the big bird was once more majestic.