Betrayed Valor

by Anda Vranjes

  Looking his friend in the eye, O’Donnell hoped he was wrong.

  * * *

  Several other airmen sat around the barracks, as well, contemplating the briefing and the information that the General had shared. They were both ripe and weary for the mission.

  “I heard the Chetniks cut off a man’s ears while he was alive then chopped his fingers off one at a time,” said a soldier sitting under an open window.

  “They burn down their own villages and turn over their women and children to the Nazis to torture,” added another soldier.

  While the soldiers related their stories, Red, the British flyer who’d joined them in Italy about six months ago, slowly stood up and looked around the room. His military haircut, as short as it was, could not diminish the bright red tint of his hair. As a result, his name quickly changed from Simon to Red. He was enjoying the stories about the Chetniks, if his smug smile was any indication.

  “It’s a shame that we spent so much time providing valuable artillery and manpower to Mihailovic. If we had not been so blinded by him, perhaps this godforsaken war would be over. Or at least that much closer to the end.” Many of the soldiers nodded in agreement.

  “His Chetniks are ruthless monsters, as all of your stories have confirmed. His cowardly collaboration with the Nazi’s was a slap in the face, after we have supported them for so long. Who knows what else he is capable of ? I shudder at the thought. Allying ourselves with him was an enormous mistake.” Red walked around the room, making eye contact with every man as he shared other stories of betrayal by the Chetniks.

  “Tito is our man and when the time comes we must help him rid Yugoslavia of the Germans. Unfortunately, that is a topic for another day and another mission. As for today, at this moment, we must focus on the oil fields of Ploesti, and disrupting, or better yet, eliminating that oil supply to Hitler.”

  CHAPTER 2

  August 1, 1943

  THE EARLY MORNING light of the predawn hours of North Africa seeped through the windows of the briefing room. The men were gathered again, this time after two weeks of intensive practice flights. Confident that they were ready to fulfill their mission, they waited anxiously for the General’s briefing to begin.

  O’Donnell, Petrovich and Red, full from the hearty breakfast they ate before each mission, leaned against the back wall of the room. The air was heavy with nervous anticipation for the day’s mission. Petrovich watched as the General strode to the front of the room. A map of Eastern Europe hung on the wall behind him.

  “Good morning, men,” he began. “Well, the intensive training you’ve completed is about to be put to the test. You will be flying out today to destroy as much of Ploesti as possible.” He faced the map and pointed to Ploesti, Romania. The men listened carefully as he continued.

  “Five groups will be traveling in formation from our current destination in North Africa to a town about sixty-five miles from Ploesti called Pitesti. The last of the five groups, which will be the 389th Bombardment Group, will turn slightly left to attack it’s target at Campina,” he moved his finger towards the left and stopped.

  “The remaining four groups will fly to Floresti where they will then turn,” he gestured towards the right, “and head for Ploesti. All four groups will simultaneously hit the oil fields at Ploesti and Brazi, then turn right and come home.”

  The General outlined a few additional specifics of the mission as the men listened at full attention. The dangers of the day’s mission were very clear, even though they sounded simple. So many things could go wrong at any given time.

  “That’s it, boys. You’re ready for this. Dismissed.”

  The airmen slowly exited the briefing room and headed out towards their planes to board and await their signal to take off. Red left the room first, followed by Petrovich and O’Donnell. Petrovich slowed his pace to allow the others to pass him. O’Donnell glanced back at him and slowed to allow Petrovich to catch up to him.

  “What’s wrong?” asked O’Donnell.

  “The mission sounds easy enough. Right?”

  “Sure, man. We know this one’s got more danger written all over it. But we’ve run through it so many times, we could all probably fly to Romania with our eyes closed and still be fine,” answered O’Donnell.

  “I know. Just something about it, that’s all. I think I’ve had enough of the flights. We’re pretty close to our flight limit. I’m about ready for it.”

  “I’m right there with you. But until then, we need to stay focused on what we’re here for. Don’t overthink it. Just go out there, be alert and come home.” O’Donnell said as he shifted to the right and headed towards his plane.

  “You too,” replied Petrovich. Feeling better for saying it out loud to his friend, he zipped his flight suit and jogged towards his plane.

  His ten crewmembers were already on the B-17 bomber, in their positions, waiting for the signal. They were dressed in their thirty-pound flak suits and steel helmets that were designed to protect against enemy fire. Since parachutes were too bulky to wear all the time, they were also sporting the harness that allowed them to quickly clip on their parachutes when needed.

  Petrovich sat in the cockpit next to his co-pilot and checked his instruments to ensure everything looked good. He was a good pilot and felt confident in the cockpit. As he ran through his routine check, his nerves calmed and he focused on the mission.

  “We need to be extra alert this morning. The Germans will be pissed as hell when they see us. I expect them to come at us from all sides,” Petrovich announced to his crew. “Let’s pray that the long range fighters escorting us there and back can hold them off long enough for us to do our drop and get the hell out of there.”

  The planes and crews were ready to go. The engines roared to life and they waited for their turn to take off. Since the planes were unheated and temperatures could dip at their cruising elevation to as low as sixty degrees below zero, the men wore electronically heated suits that plugged into the plane. In preparation for the inevitable cold, they donned their heavy gloves, glad to have the warmth they would provide.

  His turn to move, Petrovich sped down the runway, relishing in the intense speed of his aircraft. As the plane soared into the sky, he continued checking his gauges and instruments, looking for any sign of trouble.

  At ten thousand feet, to compensate for the drop in oxygen levels, Petrovich and his men put on their oxygen masks. They continued climbing to their desired elevation. Once they reached it, Petrovich spoke to Ellison, his bombardier.

  “Ellison, you comfortable down there?” joked Petrovich. The bombardier sat right in the Plexiglas nose of the plane. He could see everything laid out below him.

  “As ever. Got my eyes open, sir. I won’t let one near us. Had an extra cup of coffee this morning. Just to be sure . . .” he joked back.

  “Glad to hear it. Let’s be safe. Once over the Mediterranean, we pass Yugoslavia and we’re there. As we approach the mountains that separate Albania from Yugoslavia, we will start lowering our elevation. We’ve got some time, but stay alert anyway.”

  “Just enjoying the view for now, sir.”

  As they approached enemy territory, the jokes stopped, replaced by the roaring hum of the engine. Anxious anticipation was thick in the air as ten sets of eyes searched the skies for enemy defenders, armed with machine guns, canons and rockets. They looked for any and all signs of the enemy. Even on the ground, because the heavy antiaircraft fire from the ground was just as much as threat as the enemy fighters.

  Once they reached the Yugoslav-Albanian border, the sky was thick with heavy clouds, which prevented them from flying at the preferred lower route through the mountains. Petrovich adjusted his route and elevation accordingly.

  “The first two groups are pulling away too quickly.” Petrovich whispered, “Something’s not right.” He was trained to maintain his position at all costs, so that is what he did. But the gap between the first two groups and these last three groups
was getting too big.

  He returned his attention to his mission. They were headed for Floresti first and then to Ploesti. He verified his coordinates and confirmed that they were nearing Floresti. He turned the plane slightly to the right and headed towards Ploesti.

  “Flak below!” shouted Ellison. He watched as the flak exploded beneath the plane. The different colored puffs looked almost pretty as they made a soft colored cushiony pattern below. But they knew better. It was dangerous.

  Something on the ground caught Petrovich’s eye. “I’ll be a son of a gun. That train is shooting at us!” Johnson turned and looked on the ground and saw a specially designed flak train. The freight cars dropped their sides and revealed anti-aircraft artillery. The train raced in tandem with their planes and spewed bullets from its guns at them.

  “We’re almost there!” shouted Petrovich. As he maneuvered the plane towards the oil fields, screaming in from his right a 20 mm cannon shell exploded just in front of the nose of his plane. The Plexiglas shattered and his intercom broke from the impact of the explosion. The plane jerked hard to the left from the waves of the explosion. He steadied the plane and continued forward.

  “German fighters are swarming in!” Ellison shouted. But Petrovich saw them first. Hundreds of German fighters were flying towards them. The Allied fighters surrounded and defended Petrovich and the others, freeing them to focus on their targets.

  The bombers ahead of him in the formation had already reached their destination. Without his intercom, Petrovich had to shout instructions to his crew.

  “Target is in view. Just a few minutes now!”

  Kaboom! The oil fields began exploding in front of his eyes. Petrovich watched as those bombers that had already reached the oil fields explode along with the oil fields.

  “What’s going on?” The oil fields exploded before the planes had a chance to drop their bombs. Something wasn’t adding up. Petrovich watched in horror as plane after plane went up in flames as the oil refineries combusted one by one.

  “Delayed-action bombs! Did our other guys get here first?” Petrovich reasoned. He didn’t have time to think. “Bombs away!” they dropped the bombs on their targets and got the heck out of there.

  CHAPTER 3

  Spring 1944

  OPERATION TIDAL WAVE was a DISASTER-one of the deadliest Allied missions of the war. Looking back now, Petrovich could name a dozen reasons why the mission failed. Lack of proper planning, poor execution, under estimating the enemy, and plain bad luck were just a few.

  On one hand, they were able to get in and do some serious damage. They destroyed over 42% of the refinery capacity. On the other, the cost was much worse than they had ever anticipated. The sheer number of losses (fifty-four aircraft and five hundred and thirty-two airmen killed or missing) made him shudder. But the fact that he was able to sit here now and reflect upon it, to think of those men and their families, made him thankful.

  He could have been one of them. Heck, he almost was one of them. But he was able to pull out of the attack just in time to make it back to base. His Liberator was severely damaged and he knew it was only by the grace of God that he and his crew made it back. The German antiaircraft fire came at him from what seemed all sides. He weaved through the bullets and smoke, blinded half the time. After what felt like a lifetime or two, he finally got the plane out of the line of fire.

  He wasn’t arrogant enough to say it was his mastered flying skills alone. Regardless, he was here, so were O’Donnell and Red. But poor Torretti didn’t make it back. A German fighter came at him with no mercy. Bullets barraged though his bomber, killing his gunner instantaneously. Petrovich saw, through the smoke and haze, Torreti’s plane spiral out of control and explode as it hit the ground.

  The others were at the wrong place at the wrong time. The clouds over Yugoslavia wreaked more havoc than he originally thought. The first two groups of bombers had a sixty mile gap from the others. That was the beginning of a series of mistakes. The first groups mistook the town of Targoviste for Floresti and turned too soon. They reached Bucharest before they realized their mistake. Unfortunately, that was the headquarters for the Romanian air defenses. They alerted Ploesti before the bombers could reach their target.

  They continued on to Ploesti and dropped delayed action bombs onto the refineries. Unfortunately, they didn’t realize that Petrovich’s groups were right behind them. Those delayed action bombs exploded as the bombers flew above and killed hundreds of Allied airmen. It was complete and utter chaos. A horror that he didn’t think he would ever forget.

  Restless from waiting, he rose and walked across base. He looked around and contemplated the bustle of activity. Everyone had a purpose. And they knew what they were there to do. Focus. That’s what it was: focus. And determination. Determination not only to win the war, but to also live through it. For most, it started as the desire to stand up and do the right thing and stop the bloodshed. At least for Petrovich it started out like that.

  Before he enlisted, he was deeply interested in the war. He read about it every day in the newspaper and talked about it with his father over dinner. He sat at the local diner with his friends and heatedly discussed Hitler’s maniacal desire to take over Europe. Plus, he’d felt an immense sense of pride when he heard that the Yugoslavs were fighting Nazi occupation tooth and nail. Both of his parents were Serbian immigrants who fully embraced America and were committed to raising their children as Americans. But they also wanted their children to fully understand their heritage and to be proud of it as well.

  That sense of pride grew even more when General Mihailovic was named one of TIME Magazine’s men of the year for bravely leading the Serbs of Yugoslavia in a campaign of guerilla warfare resisting Nazi occupation. Though he wouldn’t admit it now, that was one of the reasons he enlisted. Every time he looked at that cover page, he thought of his ancestors and how they always rose to the challenge and fought for what was right.

  Then Pearl Harbor was attacked. That swell of pride for being of Serbian descent was quickly replaced by national pride of being an American. He was furious that his country, America, had been attacked. Sucker punched by the Japanese. He read and re-read the newspaper articles outlining the damage and destruction. He enlisted the next week. His mama cried, his dad slapped him on the back and then hugged him in that way that men do, and told him that he was proud of him. His sister, who already worshiped his every move, told everyone that her brother was going to show those Germans, Japanese and Italians who was boss! Heck, in her eyes, he was a war hero before the ink on the enlistment paperwork dried. He was determined to not only fight for his country, but to win this war for America and all it represented too.

  Smiling at the memory, Petrovich put his hands in his pockets and contemplated the decision he made to join the fight against the Axis.

  He knew he wanted to join the Air Force. Who wouldn’t want to fly a plane and look so good doing it! And lucky for him, his aptitude for the skills necessary for flying naturally put him in that role. Training wasn’t easy - there were days he thought he’d made the worst decision of his life. But overall, even through the worst days of training, he knew this is what he was born to do. Every time he went up, it was as if he was going back to where he belonged. He loved it. He couldn’t imagine doing anything else in this war.

  Although he loved what he did, he was tired of the war. Tired of seeing friends die. Tired of hearing the horror stories of torture and killing. What started out as a heartfelt mission to right the wrongs of the world was becoming something else.

  Wanting to stop the Nazis hadn’t changed. But each time he went out on a mission, he knew that the probabilities were working against him. Each flight was another that was either closer to his death or closer to going home. It was like a flip of a coin. And those chances didn’t appeal to him very much at all.

  Contemplating this, he opened his eyes and he saw O’Donnell and started walking towards him. He was leaning against the wall, hi
s arms crossed over his chest, staring out into the sky. O’Donnell was his closest friend in this war. They didn’t start out that way, but war had a way of creating bonds between unlikely people.

  “What are you thinking about?” Petrovich asked as he leaned against the wall next to O’Donnell.

  “My mother’s cinnamon apple pie. She liked to put vanilla ice cream on top of it when it was warm. The ice cream would melt over the sides of the pie. “He licked his lips and smiled. “Man, I could go for a slice of that right now.”

  “Soon enough. But I seriously can’t believe that you’re thinking about apple pie.” Petrovich laughed. “Me? I’m thinking about the girls back home. I can’t wait to kiss a few!”

  O’Donnell grinned. “Don’t worry about me, my friend. I do my share of thinking about those American pretties too. But right now, I’m thinking about my mother’s apple pie.”

  “My mama loves to bake too. When she came to America she bought a cookbook of American recipes and tried a different one on my dad every day. He used to joke that he ate more American food than his American born friends.” Petrovich smiled at the memory. “But nothing beat the days she decided we needed to have a taste of the ‘old country.’ After those hearty meals, she would pull out her homemade desserts. Now that I’m thinking about it, I think I’ll eat ten pounds of those desserts when I get back home.”

  “I’ll make you a deal” O’Donnell said and extended his hand to Petrovich. “When we get home, you come to my mother’s house and try her cinnamon apple pie. And I’ll go to your mama’s house and try those old country desserts. My bet is that your mama will be asking for that apple pie recipe.” Petrovich laughed and shook his hand.

  “You’re on. But it’ll be your mother who will be learning a thing or two from my mama!” It was an old joke between them: something to think about other than the war going on around them. Friendly competition to make the days pass was better than thinking this might be the last time they saw each other or spoke.