Rush to Glory

by Robert L Hecker

  Before Hal could answer, the door at the end of the barracks opened, and someone shouted, “Tenhut!” Everybody snapped to attention until Luke’s voice echoed, “As you were.” He walked down the aisle to stop in front of O’Reilly.

  “Glad to see you’re here, O’Reilly,” he said. “I figured you’d be shacked up with some broad on a day like this.”

  “No, no, mon capitaine!” O’Reilly snapped his heels and came to quivering attention. “I’m standing by for your command.”

  “Yeah,” Luke said laconically. “Well, here it is: tomorrow we’ve got the group lead. You’ll be my co-pilot. Cossel and Bailey’ll make up the rest of the crew. Fox will fly with Irving.”

  O’Reilly turned slowly to look at Hal. Cossel was staring at him too. “I’ll fly with who?”

  Luke turned to Hal. “Didn’t you tell ’em?”

  Hal shook his head. “No.”

  “You haven’t backed out. If you . . .”

  “No,” Hal interrupted. “I’ll fly your mission.”

  Luke turned to O’Reilly. “Then that’s it. If the weather breaks, we’ll go tomorrow.”

  “Not me,” O’Reilly said softly. “I won’t fly with him.”

  Luke had started to turn away, but now he turned back slowly. “The hell you won’t. You’ll fly with Felix the Cat if I tell you to.”

  “Felix the Cat, yes. Him, no.”

  “The crew is me, you, Cossel, and Bailey. That’s an order. Now, what the hell are you going to do about it?”

  O’Reilly smiled. “Easy, fearless leader. I’ll refuse to fly.” He turned to Hal. “Would you mind briefing me on the proper protocol, old chap?”

  “I’ve had enough of this crap,” Luke said. “You’ll fly tomorrow, or you’ll get the same treatment he got. If you think you’ve got guts enough to get up on that briefing platform tomorrow and talk about the weather, you damn well go right ahead and refuse.”

  Without waiting for an answer, Luke turned and stalked out, slamming the door behind him. Nobody moved until he had gone; then they turned to look at O’Reilly.

  “Well,” Cossel finally said, “O’Reilly, you are now part of the great experiment. Does it take more guts to fly or not to fly?”

  “No,” Hal said abruptly. “You can’t compare his reasons with mine.”

  “So?” Cossel asked. “Why are you flying tomorrow?”

  “Because . . . you said it: things change. I’ve learned a few things I never knew before, things you probably knew all the time. It’s like you said, O’Reilly: You can’t hold back your own life when everyone else is offering his. I don’t even think it would bother you much to get up in that briefing tomorrow because you’d know you could change any time you wanted. I couldn’t.”

  O’Reilly studied Hal thoughtfully. “I still have a choice,” he said. “I can either beat the hell out of you or buy you a drink. I can’t make up my mind which.”

  “All right with me,” Hal answered. “But how about the drink first?”

  “Just answer me one question,” O’Reilly said as he put his hat back on. “Maybe your philosophy has changed, but what about your balls? Are you still as gutless as before?”

  “I don’t know,” Hal answered truthfully. “I think . . . I’ve found something but . . . I don’t know.”

  “Now I’ve got to go tomorrow,” O’Reilly said. “I wouldn’t miss what’s going to happen for all the beautiful virgins in Thorpewood.”

  “There aren’t any virgins in Thorpewood,” somebody said, and O’Reilly grinned.

  “I know,” he said. “Boy, how I know!”

  CHAPTER 22

  The tension in the Operations Room was like an electric charge. There was no apparent reason. The light was no more dim than usual; the small stove was as inefficient as usual; the faces of Major Deering and the other staff officers were as impassive as usual. Even Luke’s face was an immobile mask. But from the moment Hal walked in, he was aware of tension like a palpable force.

  Could he be the cause? The news that Hal Bailey had decided to fly had raced through the 401st. Reactions were mixed. Most of the flight crews were remarkably indifferent. True, they resented him taking part in mission briefings. They felt that he was flaunting what they considered cowardice. But if he kept out of their sight, they didn’t give a damn what he did. Their concern was on staying alive through today’s mission.

  It was the ground-grippers who had registered the most contempt. They thought that Major Bailey was right to humiliate his brother. Given a chance, they would have run him off the post. They certainly didn’t want to associate with a friggin’ coward.

  The directive that the chicken bombardier was going to lead the next mission had come as a shock to everyone. Money changed hands with the speed of the rumor. The odds were that Bailey would back out before the plane got off the ground. And even if he did get in the air, it was ten to one that he would screw up the mission. And if he didn’t, he might be a jinx who could get them all killed.

  So, the lead crewmen were already in an uneasy mood when they entered the operations room. There was none of the small talk and laughter that was always present even on those days when they suspected it was going to be a bad mission. They did not exactly shy away from being close to Hal. But they did not stand too close either. It was as though each person had erected a shield designed to keep out any suspect influence. Even O’Reilly stood quietly, not making any attempt to break the tension. Either he didn’t want to, or he realized that changing the mood today was beyond even his abilities.

  When all the lead officers had arrived, Major Deering said, “Colonel Sutton will be here shortly. I’ll conduct the briefing. First, the target.” He paused, and the crewmen shifted uneasily. They did not like the edge of sympathy they detected in Deering’s voice. “Our target is the rail marshaling yards at Dusseldorf in the Ruhr Valley.”

  Sharp intakes of breath shattered the death-like stillness. They had been right. It was bad! Worse than bad. The Ruhr. Shit! The Ruhr Valley was one of the most heavily defended areas in Germany. The Germans had proven time after time that they would use both flak and fighters to protect their armament factories. There was even a macabre song about ‘The Valley Of The Ruhr’ that some flier with a wry sense of humor had written. The beautiful river, picturesque bluffs, and forests and smoke-belching factories had been the last sight on earth for many an airman.

  “These rail terminals have become increasingly important,” Deering went on. “The Nazis have dispersed their aircraft factories because we’ve been knocking them out faster than they can get them rebuilt. Now they’re making their airplanes piecemeal so we can’t knock out the manufacturing by hitting a single target. And they’ve put their assembly plants underground where we can’t hit them. But there’s one flaw in their plan: transportation. All those subassemblies have got to be transported to an assembly site. So, if we knock out their transportation, we kill two birds with one stone: they can’t assemble their airplanes, and they can’t move other war material. So, this target is extremely important.”

  He looked around as though expecting a challenge, but the men waited, their faces as expressionless as chiseled rock. “We know that the Germans can’t afford to lose those rail yards. They’ve proved that they’ll fight, and they’ll fight hard. So, the plan is to make a fast bomb run downwind. Get in and out as quickly as possible. But,” . . . he paused for effect, as though the veteran flight crews would appreciate his dramatics . . . “a storm front is moving into the area. If it does, you may get a change of wind. If that happens, you might have to make your bomb run upwind. That could be fatal. You’d be sitting ducks for every flak gun and fighter in the Ruhr. We’ll be getting reports on the weather while you’re assembling, and we’ll know how that cold front is doing. You copilots, and your radiomen are to monitor the VHF. If we have to
divert to secondary targets, you’ll get the word.”

  “The secondary don’t mean shit,” Luke said. He put his finger on a small rail junction south of Dusseldorf marked with a yellow arrow. “That wouldn’t even put a dent in their transportation.”

  “We can’t know that,” Deering said. “That’s the secondary that came down from Wing. There’s no doubt that the railyards in Dusseldorf are a hell of a lot more important. But we’re not going to jeopardize the entire Eighth Air Force to get them. If you get the word, you’re to hit the secondary.”

  Hope flowed through the room like a refreshing tide. If God was kind, he would speed up the cold front, and they would be diverted to the easy secondary. If Bailey wasn’t a total jinx, they might have a chance. During the next couple of hours, God was going to be inundated with prayer.

  Then the door opened, and the tension was cranked up another notch. It was Colonel Sutton. And a girl was with him. She was wearing a gabardine flying suit with a U.S. fleece-lined B-3 leather flight jacket and A-3A flight boots. A WAAF garrison hat was, typically, perched precariously on the side of her head. At first, Hal did not recognize Betty Axley. When he did, he was almost sick with anger and disgust. She was checking up on him. He had told her he would fly, and she had not believed him.

  What hurt badly was the awful sense of loss. He really liked her. He might have even been in love. But how could he be in love with someone who did not trust him?

  He turned away so she could not see his disappointment.

  Major Deering snapped, “Tenhut!” and everyone snapped to attention.

  Colonel Sutton smiled into the staring eyes. “As you were,” he said, and the officers relaxed, but their eyes did not waver as they continued to stare at the WAAF lieutenant.

  Colonel Sutton felt the tension in the room, and his smile froze, then slid away. The sound when he cleared his throat was loud in the stark silence. “This is Lieutenant Axley of the British WAAFs. I believe some of you may have already met her.”

  Hal glanced at O’Reilly, who raised a quizzical eyebrow as though to ask if Hal had known she was a WAAF and what the hell was she doing here anyway?

  Colonel Sutton answered for him. “Lt. Axley is attached to the BBC as a special reporter. The BBC has made a request to Pinetree that one of their reporters be allowed to fly with an American B-17 crew on a mission. They have agreed. It took some string-pulling, but they selected the 401st.”

  “Jesus Christ, Jim!” It was Major Deering. “Not today!”

  Colonel Sutton spread his hands, palms outward. “It’s been cleared. It has to be today.”

  “But the mission is to Dusseldorf.”

  The colonel rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth. He turned to Betty. “Uh, lieutenant. You may want to postpone this. Dusseldorf is a rough target. Very rough.”

  Betty nodded toward the flight crews. “They’re going, aren’t they?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  “Then, so am I.”

  Hal was stunned. Why? There was no reason for her to persist in the charade. She could see that he was here, that he was going to fly. Since he was the only one who knew her real reason for being here, she could back out gracefully and wait for a less dangerous target. So why didn’t she?

  “Very well.” Colonel Sutton did not look disappointed. He had probably worked very hard to get her on board a ship from the 401st. It meant great publicity for the group and him. And if the mission was particularly hazardous, if they ran into a lot of flak and fighters, it would make a better story. Even if the reporter was lost, the BBC would give the 401st BG a great deal of coverage. “You’ll fly as an observer with the group lead.”

  Damn her! She was going to check up on him throughout the entire mission! She would rather be killed than be wrong.

  “No!” Hal said. “Not today. Not on my ship.”

  Betty’s eyes found him, and he thought she smiled coldly as though to tell him that she would be watching . . . and waiting.

  “That’s not for you to say, Bailey.” Colonel Sutton let his contempt come through as he added, “If this mission is too much for you, maybe you’d like to stand down.”

  Hal felt a swift rush of anger. What the hell did he have to do to convince them? “No, sir,” he said harshly. “I’m going.”

  Colonel Sutton stared at him a second before he shifted his gaze to Luke. “How about it, Major? Do you have any objections to an observer?”

  Luke smiled. He was no fool. He was aware of the value a good story could have on his career. “No, sir,” he said. He grinned at Betty. “Glad to have you aboard, lieutenant.” Then, so that it would appear that he was accepting reluctantly, he added, “Just don’t get in the way.”

  Betty smiled at him. She knew why he was not objecting. “Thank you, Major. I’ll try not to interfere.”

  O’Reilly stepped forward. “Don’t pay any attention to him, lieutenant. I am the real hero. You just concentrate on me. We can start with breakfast.”

  O’Reilly offered his arm, which Betty took playfully. Colonel Sutton looked at O’Reilly leading Betty toward the door and smiled ruefully as he shook his head. He knew when he was outclassed. Then he turned to Luke, and his expression grew serious. “I’m depending on you, Bailey. You know how important this mission is.”

  Luke understood all right. Colonel Sutton was not talking about the target. He was talking about the publicity. And he was perfectly aware that Luke wanted a good story as much as he did.

  “Don’t worry,” Luke said. “We’ll make it good.”

  Sutton glanced at Hal. “Make sure you do.”

  The threat was naked. If didn’t matter if they got shot all to hell. What mattered was how it looked. A fouled-up mission might damage the colonel’s career, but for Luke, it would be a disaster.

  For Hal, the pressure would be almost intolerable. Every doubt, every action would now be vastly magnified. With Betty Axley watching his every move, his fear of failure was now compounded by the fear of failure in front of her.

  Then he thought of the target and smiled inwardly. What the hell difference did it make? They would probably all be killed anyway.

  Later, watching the other crewmen wolf down the breakfast of scrambled powdered eggs and hotcakes, Hal wondered how they could eat knowing what would be waiting for them high in the skies of Germany. They had refined to a high degree the soldier’s only means of retaining his sanity: the other guy might get killed, but not me.

  Fox, wearing his white scarf and Colt .45, was seated at a nearby table with Irving’s crew. Irving’s ship, “The Magic Wand,” had been badly shot up on the last mission, and he had a new navigator and bombardier, both on their first mission. Now the blond co-pilot was holding forth on the dangers of London, and the fresh-looking second lieutenants, with their shiny leather A-3 jackets and nicely crushed hats, listened enraptured. Fox was making them think that the dangers of the mission, and all the other missions, were merely diversions that they would have to endure before the real excitement would begin with their first three-day pass.

  Some of Fox’s comments were pungent, and Hal was embarrassed for Betty Axley. Fox was directly behind her, so she could not avoid overhearing him.

  She nodded toward Fox. “Isn’t that Lieutenant Fox?” she said to O’Reilly. “I thought he was on your crew?”

  “He usually is. But Irvine lost his co-pilot on their last mission. So today, Fox is flying with him.”

  “He certainly seems to have a lot of girlfriends.”

  “That’s Fox for you,” Luke said with a grin. “He knows every commando in Piccadilly.”

  “Yeah,” O’Reilly agreed. “They’re all madly in love with him. You should write a story about him.”

  Betty laughed. “The typical American flier. The answer to every girl’s dream.”r />
  Resentment shot through Hal. She was in no position to make fun of Fox . . . or any of them. He was risking his life for her and all the other Brits who could have stopped this war before it started if they had stood up to Hitler. “You could do worse,” he said.

  Betty made a tiny smile. “You’re right, lieutenant. I have done worse.”

  She meant him. She had to mean him. Hal felt his face flush, and he looked down at his plate.

  O’Reilly chuckled as though he knew exactly what she meant. “What’s the matter, tiger? Lost your appetite?”

  Hal thrust his plate aside. “Yes,” he said. “I’m not hungry.”

  “You’d better eat,” Luke said. “It’ll be a long mission.”

  Hal tried to smile. “I’ll ask for an extra cookie.”

  “Don’t worry,” O’Reilly said. “Getting shot at’ll give you an appetite.”

  “Knock it off, O’Reilly,” Cossel said. “I can remember when you couldn’t eat.”

  “Yeah,” O’Reilly admitted. “But that was just before a pass to London. Those big towns always scare the hell outta me.”

  In the General Briefing Room, the tension had built as the rumor that the target was a bad one had seeped in like a noxious mist. When Betty Axley walked in escorted by Luke and O’Reilly, murmurs of surprise rippled through the room. But when the colonel introduced her and explained that she would be flying in the lead ship, some of the tension went out of the atmosphere. It wasn’t likely that the target would be tough if a BBC observer was going along.

  But when the target was revealed, and they stared at the colored thread angling toward the middle of the Ruhr Valley, the miasma quickly returned.

  In the personal equipment room, Luke showed Betty Axley how to use the Hand Receipt Issuing Form to check out an electrically heated suit, gloves, boots, helmet, and the other items of flight equipment.

  She did not seem the least bit anxious about the mission, and Hal wondered how she could be so calm. Of course, she had been on other missions . . . with RAF bombers. But this was different. This was a daylight attack on the Ruhr. She couldn’t possibly realize the danger.