Friends & Enemies (Promise for Tomorrow Book 1)

by Terri Wangard

  The workmen cheered. A bomber had been shot down. No parachutes appeared. Heidi shuddered. Had she just witnessed the deaths of several men?

  No sooner had the planes passed from her sight than explosions could be heard. Düsseldorf wasn’t the target. Solingen was, a few miles away. The steel works? Shivers raced down Heidi’s spine. She hurried back to the train. The faster she returned to the safety of Bickenbach, the better.

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Same Day

  The thunder of a hundred engines woke Paul as the day’s mission got underway. He peered at his watch. Just past six. A headcount in the hut revealed Marvin and his crewmates were gone, along with the Peters crew. They’d been quiet as church mice in slippers. Dressing quickly, he hastened to a neighboring Quonset and smacked his friend’s arm. “Come on, Art. Let’s go find some grub.”

  The Stiles crew hadn’t been assigned to a mission yet. They’d flown several practice sessions to become familiar with group procedures and formation flying at high altitudes. Now, Aubrey informed them, they could expect to be scheduled for the next mission. As a rookie crew, they would not be sent out alone. Quinn would fly with an experienced crew while a veteran copilot took his place to guide the novices through their first taste of combat.

  They needed to get that first mission under their belts. Paul had watched damaged bombers return from missions, with ambulances waiting for their wounded. He’d seen the empty hardstands of those who failed to return. War was a business of kill or be killed. Now that he was here, he wanted to get his obligatory tour of duty over and done with.

  The sun burned through the fog by late morning. With some free time, Paul and Art grabbed their bicycles and took off to explore the countryside and nearby villages. They began in silence at a brisk pace to generate some warmth in the damp air.

  “Can you imagine living in this constant fog?” Art huffed. “One of the fellas in my hut told us it’s not unusual for Forts to collide while trying to form up. He said they’d even had a near miss on the runway when the plane taking off before them had to abort and didn’t get out of the way fast enough. Forget about the Germans. Surviving over England is going to be tough enough.” He wagged his head. “I have to tell you, Paul, I have a bad feeling about this.”

  “Yeah, so often the target’s hidden under cloud cover. Walt’s been fussing constantly during our practices that he can’t see the target and it’s not his fault.” Paul chuckled. “Yesterday I was ready to throw something at him. Aubrey finally admonished him to stay off the intercom. I’ll probably be ready for a straightjacket after too many six- to eight-hour missions spent in the nose with him.”

  “He still hasn’t warmed up to any of you?” Art frowned. “Sounds like he and my pilot came from the same mold. As long as conditions are perfect, Ed’s fine. I don’t look forward to his first encounter with danger though. I hate to say this, but I don’t have a whole lot of confidence in him.”

  “After our first mission, we’ll be experienced. Hopefully that will give a boost to everyone’s outlook.” Paul’s tone was unconvincing, even to him.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Ridgewell Air Base, England

  Wednesday, March 22, 1944

  A sergeant entered their hut at three in the morning to wake the crews assigned to the mission. Paul rose, shivering, with the rest of the men. Did he shiver from the cold or from nerves? He fumbled into his winter woolies before donning his GI shirt and pants.

  “Hold off on all the heavy gear until after the briefing,” Marvin advised. “Otherwise you’ll be sweating buckets which will freeze when we get up to altitude.”

  An army truck delivered them to the mess hall. With Art, Paul silently shuffled through the serving line, found a table, and tried to eat, but his appetite deserted him. Most men ate calmly and chatted with their tablemates. They must be veterans. Survivors. After today, he’d have more confidence, too.

  He forked his eggs onto his toast, folded it like a sandwich, closed his eyes, and imagined he and Rachel were on a picnic by Lake Michigan. The image fractured when his first bite lodged in his throat. He gulped his pineapple juice and shoved away his plate.

  Seated across from him, Marvin pushed it back. “Eat. Missions can last all day. Once we’re airborne, the initial jitters will pass and you’ll be glad to have something in your belly. Even if it’s an all-day affair, we won’t have lunch on the plane since it would freeze. We only have hard candy to suck on.”

  Paul’s belly didn’t agree, but he picked up the sandwich and took another bite.

  He joined his crewmates in the officers’ briefing hut, sitting on hard backless benches. A black curtain was pulled back from the map of Europe as the group’s commanding officer announced their target: Berlin.

  Paul’s stomach dropped. Could there be a worse target for a first mission? He shouldn’t have forced down that pretend egg salad sandwich.

  The briefing officer took over, explaining the target, where they could expect escort fighters, the Initial Point where the bomb run started, the Rally Point after dropping the bombs, and the return route. Intelligence and weather officers gave their reports, and then Paul attended the navigators’ meeting. How would he ever remember all this? He packed his leather navigator’s briefcase with charts and flight plan, code data sheets and weather card, speed and altitude computers, protractors and dividers, and several sharpened pencils. Did he have everything?

  As he headed out, he spotted the chaplain surrounded by several men and hesitated on the group’s fringe. Kyle nodded a greeting, and Paul stood taller. He listened as the men repeated the Lord’s Prayer together. The eternal words had never sounded so good. God shouldn’t hold it against him that they weren’t exactly on speaking terms at the moment.

  Berlin. Maybe today he’d be joining Rachel. He headed resolutely out to the hardstand.

  Arriving at the Spam Can, their assigned airplane for the mission, the crew settled into their stations and donned their headsets. Their liaison copilot polled the crew.

  “Navigator checking in.” Did his voice come across as high-pitched as it sounded to his ears?

  Time to get back on speaking terms. This is it, Lord. Keep us safe. Don’t let me screw up.

  A cough and a whine preceded their number one engine, the left outboard Wright Cyclone, rumbling to life. The airplane vibrated as numbers two, three, and four started up and revved to taxing speed. Paul’s heart vibrated in sync.

  A green flare rose from the control tower at 6:15, barely visible in the fabled English fog. The roar of engines rolled across the field. Paul started to arrange all the tools of his new trade on his small plywood table, but hesitated. Best wait until after takeoff or things might slide around. His eyes traveled across the ribs in the fuselage, the bundles of wiring, the numerous instruments he had never even heard of a year ago.

  The Spam Can eased forward and joined the lineup waiting to take off. Soon they raced down the runway and lumbered into the air. After several minutes of ascent, they broke through the fog and saw other B-17s of the lead squadron nestled around them. From his place behind Walt in the Plexiglas nose, Paul spotted the high squadron forming up above them to the right. The low squadron emerged from the fog below to their left, airplanes sparkling in the sunlight.

  The bombers flew in elements of three in an inverted V formation. Aubrey eased the Spam Can into its assigned slot as the left wingman of their element leader like he’d been formation flying all his life. Art’s plane was somewhere in an element behind them, out of sight.

  The squadrons of the 381st joined up with other groups, forming a massive bomber formation. A thrill shot through Paul. What an awesome display of firepower. It gave him goose bumps. Why couldn’t the Germans realize they didn’t have a hope of vanquishing such a powerful foe?

  He busied himself verifying their position and recording it in his log. They weren’t the lead plane in their squadron, so they simply followed the leader. In the even
t they became separated, however, their survival could depend on him knowing exactly where they were. He called over the intercom, “Navigator to pilot, we are over the channel, heading zero-eight-five degrees. On course, on time.”

  Aubrey acknowledged him and continued, “Time to test your guns.”

  The plane rattled with short bursts from the fifty-caliber machine guns. Paul fired his own gun as the stench of cordite filled the plane.

  Presently their liaison announced, “We’re at ten thousand feet, men. Everyone on oxygen.”

  With a distasteful grimace, Paul pulled on his oxygen mask. He wrinkled his nose. Its strong smell of rubber and sweat wasn’t an improvement on the Quonset hut’s stench of socks and cigarette smoke. He responded as the copilot called the roll, as he would do periodically, making sure everyone continued to breathe normally.

  A plane shot past.

  “Hey, our Little Friends are here,” one of the gunners called out, maybe Ben at left waist.

  He craned his neck for a look at the fighter planes. Last year the bombers hadn’t had adequate fighter escorts. Now the air force had fighters capable of long distance flights. Their Little Friends couldn’t do anything about the flak but should help keep the German fighters away from them.

  A squad of Mustangs headed to the right. The reason became clear when Bob at the right waist gun yelled, “Bogies at two o’clock and climbing!”

  Paul scanned the sky and spotted the specks rapidly approach and materialize into planes. Flickers of fire sparkled on their wings. His heart skipped a beat. Those fighter wings were spitting bullets at them. Trying to kill them. He swallowed hard. Welcome to war.

  He tensed as the battle began. From their position in the midst of the middle squadron, they seemed to be in the safest spot. Usually the rookies were placed in the rear, in Coffin Corner. That must be where Art was. Still, no place was entirely safe. Howard yelled from the ball turret, “Some of them are trying to sneak around and ambush us from the rear!”

  In the tail, Lester sounded unconcerned. “Don’t worry. I got ‘em covered.”

  The hammer of Lester’s gun vibrated all the way to the nose.

  Herb, their radio operator, announced, “The Little Friends have been pulled away, and now another group of bandits is really going after the low squadron!”

  With the sky immediately around them clear, Paul leaned forward to the window, searching for the planes of the low squadron. One Fortress had a feathered prop, another a flaming engine. The B-17 at the edge of the formation appeared to be missing considerable sheet metal. He flexed his fingers. Better record his observations.

  The battle raged for twenty minutes. Then, as suddenly as the German fighters had appeared, they vanished. “Hey, where’d they go? Is that it?” Bob’s voice over the intercom sounded bewildered. “That wasn’t so bad.”

  “Don’t you believe it,” their liaison responded. “They left because now we’re getting flak. They’ll refuel and be back after the bomb run. Count on it.”

  Little black puffs of smoke blossomed around them from the German aircraft defense cannon. “Flugzeugabwehrkanone.” Paul didn’t speak the name into his headset. Hearing flak described and seeing it for himself were two very different things. No sound could be heard over the roar of their engines, but soon the flak bursts could be felt. The Spam Can shook as a burst exploded off their left wing. This helpless feeling of not being able to fight back against the flak was terrible.

  It was about to get worse. Berlin lay just ahead.

  “Navigator to pilot, we’re approaching the IP.” Once they were on the bomb run, they had to fly straight to the target with no change in speed or altitude, without breaking formation or evasive maneuvering. They’d be easy pickings when the flak operators found their altitude.

  “Okay, Walt, the plane’s all yours,” Aubrey called.

  Paul glanced toward the plane flying the point of their element, and it exploded. One moment it was there, the next it was a fireball. He gaped at the sight. There had been ten living, breathing men on that plane. The Spam Can shuddered in the blast and he jerked sideways when debris clanked against the fuselage, just behind the Plexiglas nose. His heart hammered in his chest as he stared at a resulting dent. The shrapnel hadn’t punched through!

  Up ahead, the lead planes had their bomb bay doors open. Walt sat immobile at the bombsight. Paul tapped his arm and pointed to the switch. Are our doors open?

  Snapping back to attention, Walt pulled the switch. “B-bomb bay doors opening.”

  He rubbed a hand against his eyes.

  Too bad they couldn’t wipe away the sight they’d seen.

  “Doors open,” Herb confirmed from the radio room.

  When the lead plane dropped its bombs, Walt released their own. “Bombs away!”

  Relieved of the weight of eight five-hundred-pound bombs, the airplane lurched upward.

  “All right, let’s get out of here.” Aubrey circled to the left in synchronization with the rest of the squadron. They maintained their tight formation to present the best defensible posture to the fighters that indeed awaited them.

  A Focke Wulf fighter targeted the Spam Can as it bore down on them. All of the Spam Can’s guns on the right side blazed away at the FW until smoke streamed from its engine, and it fell off to the side. The pilot bailed out.

  “Yahoo!” Bob’s shout over the intercom pierced Paul’s ears. “I got it.”

  “No, you didn’t. That was mine,” Howard growled.

  Arnie chimed in. “Sorry, guys. I had him in my sights.”

  Aubrey barked, “I don’t care who got him, just as long as he’s gone. Stay on your toes now. We’re not out of here yet.”

  “Fighter coming around at seven o’clock low. He’s yours, Howard,” Lester warned.

  “I see him.” The plane vibrated with more gunfire as first Howard, and then Ben and Paul opened up. The fighter rolled away from them unharmed, but it must have sported at least a few bullet holes.

  “I see a squadron of Little Friends cutting capers over us.” Arnie’s yell elicited sighs of relief from his crewmates.

  Paul got a fix on their position and announced, “We’re now over Holland. We should be over the coast soon. New heading two-six-zero.”

  “Two-six-zero. Roger that,” Aubrey answered. “What say we all go home?”

  Cheers filled the intercom until Herb broke in to announce, “Lieutenant, I just heard the low squadron lost two planes, we lost one, and someone in the high squadron is losing altitude fast and may have to ditch. A few chutes were seen.”

  The formation that had set off from England hours ago now looked worn and ragged. When the Ridgewell airdrome came into sight, Paul slumped in his seat like one of his mother’s dishrags after she’d wrung them out. Totally limp. One mission down, twenty-nine more required of him.

  As they circled the base, awaiting their turn to land, one of the gunners exclaimed, “Boy, would you look at that. Somebody didn’t make it.”

  A mile or two past the runway from which they’d taken off that morning lay the shattered, fire-blackened wreckage of a bomber. A short distance beyond, another Fortress had furrowed deep gashes in a farm field, coming to rest after what looked like a survivable belly landing.

  “They must have collided in the fog after take-off.”

  Paul rose from his seat to look, and shuddered. The comment echoed Art’s words from yesterday.

  A somber crew tumbled out of the Spam Can after nine hours aloft. They inspected their plane. Ben turned to Aubrey. “Look at all the bullet holes, sir. I didn’t know we were hit that many times.”

  A jeep paused in front of them and Art struggled off with a pair of crutches.

  Paul blinked. “What happened to you? Wait a minute! You couldn’t have just come back in if you’ve already got crutches. Did you turn back before getting to the target?”

  “You could say that. We barely got into the air.” Art studied the ground for a moment. Finally
looking at Paul, he exhaled hard. “We bumped into the Lucky Tramp at two thousand feet. The Tramp sure was lucky. They came down in a field with all hands safe. But our plane,” he pressed his lips tight. After a moment, he continued, “As soon as we collided, Charlie, our navigator, yelled, ‘Get out of here!’ and he dove out the forward escape hatch. I was right behind him. I even don’t remember moving. One of the gunners got out, too. But the rest…”

  He shook his head, eyes closed. “The plane exploded when it hit the ground. It hit before I did, and I don’t think I hit more than five seconds after my chute opened. First, I thought the jolt of the chute opening would tear me right out of the harness. Next thing I know, I’m sprawled in a farm field. It wasn’t the most graceful landing. Sprained my ankle.”

  Paul stood with his crewmates in stunned silence. They’d spent the last several weeks training alongside those men. They all knew someone in the lost crew. Paul stepped forward and grabbed his friend in a rough embrace. “At least the planes didn’t explode on contact. How are Charlie and the gunner? And what happens now?”

  “Stan’s in the base hospital for observation. He couldn’t remember what color his eyes are. Charlie came down on some farm equipment and busted his leg with the bone sticking out. He was transferred to the hospital in Braintree for surgery. And I’m available for whenever anyone needs a replacement bombardier.” Art recited their statuses with no emotion. He looked over at the Spam Can, now surrounded by its ground crew. “Looks like you had a good day.”

  Paul nodded. “We picked up a few bullets from a Focke Wulf before the gunners shot the plane out from under its pilot. Nothing serious.”

  His friend didn’t need to hear about the stress and horror of the mission. Art had experienced enough terror of his own.

  They piled onto the jeep for the ride to debriefings, dropping Art off at the barracks to lie down. Too bad Paul couldn’t do so, too. No lectures had covered how to decompress from the missions. The intelligence officer asked him how much flak, how many fighters, and other mundane questions. His memories must be muddled by exhaustion. He shoved his logbook across the table.