by C T Glatte
He noticed a viewing deck on the second level. It had a foot of snow on it, but he pushed the door open and crunched through the crusty top layer until he was at the railing. It was cold and he wished he’d brought a heavier coat, but he could see the action on the airfield much better now.
There were six large concrete hangars, each containing two bombers. He didn’t know what kind they were, but they had two engines and looked menacing and proud. He could see a flurry of activity around each one and he guessed they were mechanics and air crewmen fussing over their steeds.
The smaller fighters were tethered to the ground with stout chains along the edges of the runway. They were widely spaced, parked inside concrete walls with only camouflage netting for roofs. Jimmy idly wondered when they’d get around to capping the small structures with proper roofing. One good snowstorm would bury them.
He noticed a group of what could only be pilots walking toward the airport. They were dressed in flight suits with heavy leather coats and white fur up around their necks. They wore white helmets with oxygen masks hanging down. They swaggered toward the terminal with a confidence that only fighter pilots could pull off.
They were almost to the terminal doors when there was another roar of aircraft overhead. The pilots stopped and looked up at the latecomers. Jimmy saw them point and followed their fingers. The clouds were descending quickly and it felt like it would snow. He saw a P-51 suddenly burst through the layer and flash over the airfield. Two more appeared and the planes stayed beneath the layer only a couple hundred feet above the ground and flew north up the valley before turning back.
Jimmy watched in fascination as the first pilot deftly lined up and landed without so much as a bounce and taxied off the runway toward an empty revetment. The next two landed hard, each bouncing a few times before finally steadying. He noticed each plane had the same distinctive flash of pink on their tails.
Jimmy saw the first group of pilots enter the main terminal, after watching their fellow pilots land safely. He felt like a kid at a major league baseball game wanting to get a closer look at the ballplayers as he trotted through the tracks he’d left in the snow and re-entered the heated terminal. He stomped his feet, leaving a trail of melting snow, leading to the stairs.
He stopped halfway down and stood in shock as the group of pilots took off their helmets. They were all women. The pink slash suddenly made sense and he wondered how he’d not thought of it before. There were many all-female units in the armed forces, but he hadn’t actually seen any on the front lines yet.
Despite their loose-fitting flight suits and thick layers of winter clothing, he couldn’t help evaluating their womanly features. They stood around just inside the door, their attention focused outside. He heard snippets of hushed conversation that made him think they were worried.
He descended the rest of the way to the ground floor and walked past as nonchalantly as possible. No one gave him a second glance. He took a hardwood seat in the main part of the terminal a few yards from them and pretended to read an old magazine while secretly stealing glances and eavesdropping. He didn’t know why he was interested, other than the obvious fact that they were women.
As they warmed, some pilots took off their winter coats and Jimmy noticed the stitched-on ranks of officers adorning their shoulders and lapels. He shook his head, of course they’d be officers, flying a plane took brains. He didn’t want anything to do with officers, let alone female officers, so he placed the magazine back where he found it and stood to leave.
At that moment the three late pilots entered and were immediately surrounded by the other pilots. One officer with captain’s bars questioned the first officer that entered. The captain was obviously upset. She spoke with her fists firmly planted against her hips. Finally, she allowed the newcomer to speak and her voice made Jimmy stop.
He couldn’t put his finger on it, but he recognized that voice from somewhere. He tried to see beyond the gaggle of women but it was hopeless. He only got a glimpse of blonde hair, but not much else. He bee-lined it for the stairway again, determined to find out why the voice was so familiar.
He stopped halfway up and couldn’t keep himself from blurting out, “MaryAnn?”
The conversation stopped and every pilot’s face turned toward him. He gulped, realizing he’d spoken too loud. He didn’t know what else to do, so he braced and saluted.
MaryAnn’s worried face turned a bright shade of red as she recognized him. “Jimmy?” she asked. “Jimmy Crandall? Is it really you?”
He dropped his salute and beamed, “Yes, it’s me. Holy moly, I can’t believe it’s actually you?”
The other women couldn’t keep from covering their mouths and giggling. The captain became annoyed and turned toward him. “You have business here, soldier?”
He braced again and shook his head. “Uh, not really ma’am, I mean sir.” To make it less confusing, the United States military had decided years before to address female officers as ‘sir’ rather than ‘ma’am.’ He pointed sheepishly at MaryAnn, “She’s — well we were neighbors before all this.”
Captain Perkins glared at him. “Neighbors? Well, do you mind if I continue with my debrief private, or should I get in line behind you?”
An hour later, MaryAnn finally emerged and approached Jimmy with a huge smile on her face. She’d changed out of her flight suit and wore heavy wool pants, a button-down shirt with a wool coat over the top. Perched on her head at a jaunty angle was her peaked officer’s hat. Jimmy hadn’t seen her since he shipped out and he was shocked how beautiful she was.
As she approached, he remembered his manners and snapped off a crisp salute. She grinned and returned it, then stepped forward so they were face to face. “Jimmy Crandall, it really is you.”
He grinned, “Guilty,” he said.
“What are you doing here?”
His smile faded. “I was — I was wounded.” She looked worried but he shook his head. “I’m fine now. Scratches really.” He showed her his forearm where the skin was still puckered from stitches.
She was about to touch it, but he pulled his sleeve down and shook his head, “It’s nothing. Hank…“ his voice broke but he recovered. “Hank didn’t make it.”
MaryAnn’s hand went to her mouth and she gasped. “Oh no,” she uttered. “Oh no, not Hank.” He couldn’t bring himself to speak, just nodded. She gripped his arm and pushed him toward the lobby seats. “Let’s sit down and talk.”
He didn’t resist and allowed her to lead him. He waited until she was seated, then sat beside her. “He died in my arms. Russian grenade.” His voice quieted. “He saved my life.”
A tear welled in MaryAnn’s eyes making them glassy. She put her hand on his and it felt warm and comforting. He shook his head. “I should put it past me, but I can’t seem to.”
She shook her head. “Put it past you? How? He was your best friend. The pain will subside, but you won’t ever put it past you. Believe me.”
He looked into her eyes. “You’ve lost friends.” It was a statement.
She nodded and wiped her eyes and looked at the ceiling. “Yes, many.”
They held hands without speaking and minutes passed. It wasn’t awkward, in fact Jimmy thought he could sit beside her the rest of his life and be happy. He wasn’t sure what he was feeling, he just knew he didn’t want it to end.
The spell was broken when another female captain approached them. Jimmy wiped his red eyes and fidgeted, trying to get to his feet. The captain, whose name-tape said, Withers stopped him. “At ease, soldier.” She was short and cute with curves in all the right places. “Any sign of Lieutenant Knipps?”
MaryAnn shook her head and her eyes were full of pain. Jimmy looked outside. It was pitch dark. The sun had set on the short winter day some time ago without him noticing. “Someone’s still out there?”
MaryAnn nodded. “One of my pilots. She dove after a group of bombers. I couldn’t let her go it alone so we dove after her. We came out o
f the clouds and she didn’t.”
“Jesus, MaryAnn. I’m so sorry.” He’d been blubbering like a baby to a woman who had a hell of a lot more to blubber about.
Captain Withers tilted her head. “Come on, this place is shutting down. We need to get to the mess hall before they close it.” She looked at Jimmy, giving him a look up and down and liking what she saw. “How’d you get here?”
He pointed outside, “Ran here. It’s not far.”
“Well aren’t you the sporting one. You want a ride back or you wanna run in the dark?”
He gave a sideways glance at MaryAnn then back to Withers. “I’ll take a ride if you’re offering, sir.”
She grinned and held out her hand, “You can call me, Mandy.” He looked worried and unsure how to take that. She was a captain, he a PFC. Things didn’t work that way. She added. “When we’re not around other people.”
He shook her petite hand and smiled. “Okay, Captain Mandy.”
She shook her head and gestured, “Come on, Jeeps out here.”
4
Ensign Harry Park smoked a cigarette. He directed half his attention at his gun crew aboard the battleship USS Watkins and the other half trying to keep the cold winter wind of the Atlantic from penetrating his coat.
It was dark and cold and he didn’t remember ever being this miserable. He thought about the countless times he’d duck hunted with his dad through nasty cold storms, but this made those memories seem like a tropical paradise.
He’d been in the regular Navy six months now. Just like most boys with good grades and means, he was given a choice upon graduating high school: ROTC through college and owe the military six years, or go straight into mandatory service right out of high school and get it over with in two.
He’d chosen ROTC because he didn’t want to be in the Army, which is where most recruits ended up, he wanted Navy like his father and his father before him. Also, the mere thought of having some dumbass ordering him around made him ill.
Now, he was committed to six glorious years of this bullshit…and there was a war on. At least it was mostly happening on the west coast, thank God. He took the last drag off his cigarette and threw it overboard, quickly losing sight of the glowing ember as the wind caught it and blew it away. “Smoking lamps out, boys.”
The six men under his command took their last puffs and flicked the stubs into the sea. “Aye, sir.” They came up from below the rim of the four barreled 40mm Bofors gun adjusting their bulky Mae West life jackets. Normally, during the middle of the night there were only three men manning the anti-aircraft guns, but the captain had gotten some intel that spooked him and the order of the day and night, was readiness.
He paced behind the gun trying to stay warm as the crew stomped their feet and rubbed gloved hands together.
“How long you reckon we have to stay out here, sir?” Drawled Gunner’s Mate Lyle.
Ensign Park shrugged but knew he couldn’t see him in the pitch darkness. “Until the captain tells me otherwise, Lyle.” Park was annoyed by the question. Wasn’t it obvious? “Why don’t you sing us one of those southern ballads you’re so fond of?”
“You mean the ones about the thieving, murdering Yankees, sir?”
Park grinned and accentuated his New York accent, “That’s the one.”
“But sah,” Lyle drawled, “won’t that offend your Yankee sensibilities, sah?”
“I think I can take it, Gunner’s Mate.”
There was a sudden flash out to sea which drew their attention and ceased all conversation. Another flash, this time lingering long enough to see the outline of one of the cruisers in their formation. Despite the wind, the clap of an explosion washed over them. “What the hell?” exclaimed Park.
The blaring of the battle stations klaxon filled the air and Ensign Park knew it meant only one thing, they were under attack. “Load! Angle the guns to the waterline. No way this is an air attack in this weather.”
The crew sprang into action. The guns rotated downward as the gunners spun cranks with practiced ease. The cruiser lit up again and remained visible as fire swept the decks. “That’s the Spark, she’s on fire,” Ensign Park yelled over the din of the klaxon. “Gotta be a sub attack. I didn’t see any gun flashes.”
The battleship increased speed and slewed to the side as the captain went into evasive maneuvers. The burning cruiser suddenly erupted in a massive explosion and in the sudden light Ensign Park saw white streaks lancing through the water. He pointed and yelled, “Torpedos incoming!”
Two seconds later, two torpedos impacted the portside stern simultaneously. The brilliant flash blinded him briefly and he was thrown against the steel wall behind him.
The battleship immediately slowed and slewed to port. Park pulled himself off the deck and reached for the gun rail for stability. The fire consuming the stern cut through the darkness. The dual blasts had turned the sleek battleship’s stern into twisted steel and wood. He could see the remains of another bofors gun, but saw no sign of the gun crew. He tried to remember the duty roster, but couldn’t remember if it was Ensign Blaine or Rance.
His own crew was reeling from the blast. He yelled, “Look for more, be ready to open fire.” His crew settled and tore their eyes from the spreading inferno and focused on the lit-up water.
A frantic voice, “There! Torpedo!”
The gunner saw it too and immediately fired downward. The massive flash from the gun nearly licked the choppy seawater. Great geysers erupted as the 40mm shells impacted.
Ensign Park watched the streaking torpedo slice between the geysers and pass beneath the angle of the gun barrels. He yelled, “Brace for…”
The deck erupted beneath him and he felt a tremendous force compressing his body. There was an instant of intense pain, then he was flying, weightless. Just before his world went black he thought he glimpsed the sliver of the moon.
Captain Heinrich Onge watched the carnage through the periscope and a smile spread across his handsome, square jawed face. “Nice shooting gentlemen. The Watkins looks to be dead in the water. I saw two fish impact the stern and one amidships. She’s slewing to port and looks dead in the water.” His smile broadened when he heard his men cheer. He kept his eyes to the scope and turned it three-hundred-sixty-degrees, but only saw darkness.
This close to the surface, the rough sea rocked the boat and the black water sloshed over the periscope obscuring his vision much of the time, but the flames erupting from two burning ships lit up the night.
“Come to heading one-six-one, I want another spread on the Watkins.” The orders were repeated and he felt the boat responding to the slight heading change. “It appears U-boat five-oh-three has also hit her target. I see a cruiser already half sunk.”
He took his eyes from the scope and looked at his crew. He was proud of them, they’d performed perfectly, he expected nothing less. “Our hunter patrol has fired the first shots into the American Atlantic Fleet, gentleman.” There was another raucous cheer.
There was no more need for silence, the Americans certainly knew they were there now.
“Captain, torpedos ready to fire.”
“You have a good track?”
“We cannot miss, she’s dead in the water. I have torpedos set for deep running.”
Onge nodded, “Excellent. Fire at will.”
There was a whoosh as three more torpedos launched from the forward tubes.
Captain Ongle put his eyes to the periscope again and easily found the burning battleship. In the darkness, he couldn’t see the streaking torpedos but knew they’d impact momentarily. He stepped back and offered the sights to his second in command, Oberleutnant Zimmer. “Take a look, Zimmer.”
Zimmer stepped in quickly, relishing the chance to see the torpedos strike. Moments later there was a low rumble as the torpedos lanced into the already wounded battleship. Zimmer said excitedly, “Direct hit, sir. Three direct hits. It’s magnificent.”
Captain Onge called to sonar. “
You still have the other targets, Heinz?”
Sonarman Heinz had one headphone off expecting the question. “Yes sir. Bearing hasn’t changed, three-two-zero, speed still twelve knots.”
Captain Onge nodded grimly thinking what must be going through the American naval officer’s minds. They’d just watched two of their ships erased from the planet in less than five minutes, including one of their impressive battleships.
Zimmer wasn’t able to contain his excitement. “Take a look, Captain. The Watkins is going down.”
Onge stepped in and focused, immediately seeing the burning ship. It was low in the water and canted over unnaturally. He could see flames being squelched as the ship tipped over with sudden violence. The massive superstructure of the bridge smashed into the sea, sending shockwaves and a massive wave of water. “She’s flipped,” he exclaimed trying to keep emotion from his voice.
He got back to business. “We’ll slip through this mess and take the other two cruisers. Take us down to fifty feet. Coms, inform U- two-oh-three to match us.”
“Aye, Captain.”
Onge slapped the periscope handles up and the console sunk into the floor mimicking a support beam. He looked around his marvelous ship. He was a veteran submariner. He remembered the days when none of this would have been possible. Ship to ship communications while underway was a fantasy, even the sophisticated sonar system would have been something from a science fiction novel.
The arrival of the Korth in ’37 had changed all that. They increased every branch of the military’s technology, but none more than the Navy. He had no idea why they seemed to be more partial to his chosen branch of service, perhaps because being on a spaceship was the nearest thing to being on an ocean-going ship. Whatever the reason, he was grateful for the upgrades. He was quite certain they outmatched the enemy by a large margin, certainly in the submarine category.
