Jon turned to Kovalesky. “Sir, you might want to man the top turret.”
Kovalesky looked at him blankly for a moment. Then it registered. He nodded, unhooked his oxygen and interphone, and awkwardly climbed out of the pilot’s seat. Jon did a quick check of the instrument panel. Number three engine was out, but the other three seemed to be ok.
Jon was surprised they hadn’t yet been attacked by any of the German fighters. He figured they must have decided the Deuces Wild was finished and stayed with the formation. The minute any fighter noticed the plane flying under the control of a pilot, all bets would be off. The Germans, of course, would have no way of knowing the pilot was a non-commissioned radio operator with less than twenty hours at the controls of a Curtiss JN-4 Jenny.
Jon knew the protocol for a bomber separated from its formation was to drop down to tree top level to avoid detection from both anti-aircraft gunners and enemy fighters. However, from that altitude, the men would not be in a position to bail out. Uncertain what he should do, Jon was about to poll the crew when there was an abrupt shout.
“Bandits, three o’clock, high.” It was Kovalesky.
Gooch chimed it. “I count two. Look like Ju 88s.”
After a moment, Kovalesky said, “I think they’re planning to come at us from behind.”
“Works for me,” Shim said.
Not that it was of much comfort, but Jon thought the German pilots were making a tactical error not attacking the plane head on. From the front, a lone bomber would be most vulnerable, particularly one whose nose had been blown off, taking away the two guns mounted in the forward compartment that the bombardier and navigator manned when not otherwise engaged in their primary duties.
Jon looked about for cloud cover. Below him at his eleven o’clock was a series of fluffy cumulus clouds, not the solid blanket he was hoping for, but better than nothing. He allowed the plane to continue turning until he’d lined the clouds up directly ahead.
“Radio operator to crew. I’m going to put us in a dive. Don’t panic. I’m going to try to get us into some clouds ahead and below us.”
“Good,” Gooch said.
Jon pushed the yoke forward. The plane’s nose, or, rather, the mangled stub that now passed for its nose, dipped, and they began to pick up speed.
“Here they come,” called Shim.
After a moment, Shim’s guns began to yammer. Jon could also hear Kovalesky firing bursts from the top turret. He saw tracer fire from the German fighters arcing over the left wing, and then the shells found the number two engine. The Deuces Wild shuddered from the impact.
The Germans passed directly overhead, apparently overshooting the bomber, and Kovalesky rotated the top turret, trying to bring fire to bear.
The oil pressure on number two engine began to drop precipitously. Realizing he had to act before he lost all pressure, Jon quickly reached over, shut the engine down and adjusted the pitch to feather the propeller as Tommie had shown him.
“The bastards are coming around again,” Gooch said.
The tips of the nearest cumulus cloud reached up and tickled the Deuces Wild. Jon flattened out the dive and gratefully eased the bomber into the protective cover of the clouds. The world around them went white.
“All right, Jon,” Gooch shouted. “Way to go.”
It was a short-lived respite. The bomber suddenly burst through the other side of the cloud and into the clear. Jon aimed for the next cloud, which appeared to be about a mile away.
Again, the bomber’s gunners opened up, and, again, Jon felt the plane shudder as the fire from at least one of the German fighters found the right wing and began tracing a path to number four engine. Then they were again in a cloud, and Jon immediately banked to throw the Germans off target, allowing the bomber to slip slightly in altitude before bringing her level again. It worked, as the shells from the German fighters stopped impacting the wing.
Jon looked anxiously at the dials indicating the status of the number four engine. He wasn’t sure he could get them back to England on two engines, but he knew he’d never be able to do it on one. The pressure and temperature seemed to be holding.
They slipped once more out of the clouds, but, almost immediately, they were back in. Jon noted their heading. They were flying almost due west. This course would take them across the Netherlands and out over the North Sea, assuming they were able to stay in the air that long. Their altitude was just under ten thousand feet.
“Radio operator to crew. We’re under ten thousand, so you can remove your oxygen masks.”
He checked his gauges. The oil pressure on number four had dropped slightly.
There was movement behind him. Kovalesky climbed down from the upper turret and crouched by the bodies of Reyes and Roth. Then he came forward and tapped Jon’s shoulder. Over the noise of the wind and the engines, he shouted, “They’re alive, but in bad shape. What do you think we should do?”
Jon pointed to Kovalesky, then up at the top turret. Then he brought a finger to his ear, indicating the interphone. Kovalesky nodded, and he climbed back up into the turret.
When he was confident Kovalesky was settled in, Jon keyed his microphone.
“Radio operator to crew. Here’s the status. Roth and Reyes are wounded badly. There’s no way they’d survive a jump. We’re down to two engines, numbers one and four, and number four is running rough. If we lose it, we won’t have a choice. We’ll have to bail and take our chances. I don’t know how long this cloud cover will last, but I’m inclined to stay at this altitude for as long as it does. If we lose the cloud cover, then it’s decision time. I can take us down to tree top level. Problem is, it’ll be dangerous trying to bail out from there, so, if we do drop down, at that point, it’s do or die with the engines. I’m prepared to take the chance, but nobody else has to. You don’t have to make the choice now. But if we pass into the clear, everyone will have to decide for himself. Jump or stay with the plane.”
There was a long silence. Then Gooch’s voice came over the interphone. “Waist gunners understand.”
“Roger that.” It was Shim.
“Understood,” Kovalesky said.
“Ditto,” Graham said.
They managed to stay in the clouds for about forty-five minutes, finally breaking out into a magnificently clear blue sky. Jon immediately nosed the plane down. As near as he could tell, none of the crewmen had elected to bail out.
Jon brought the Deuces Wild to the point where the plane was just skimming over the tallest trees. The land below them was, for the most part, flat, and Jon hoped it meant they were over the Netherlands. They were flying at about 150 miles an hour, and, at this level, Jon was truly able to appreciate the speed. She may be a big, ungainly thing, he thought, but she still moves almost three times as fast as the Jenny. Despite the tension, it was exhilarating.
They crossed directly over a couple of military installations, but they were moving so fast that no one on the ground was able to bring any weapons to bear. Then, with no warning it was about to happen, they were suddenly out over water, and Jon could see the white caps of the waves below them.
The oil pressure in number four engine was getting close to critical. If they were to lose it, Jon’s plan was to buy as much altitude as possible with the last remaining engine, then order the crew to bail out. Unfortunately, after a few minutes, the fuel and oil temperature for number one engine began slowly creeping up, and he realized he soon might not even have that option.
Finally, Jon decided that, whether or not they were near the English coastline, he had to allow the altitude to increase. He began a slow climb.
Kovalesky’s voice came over the interphone. “Sweet mother of God, isn’t that a beautiful sight?”
Jon looked forward, and, sure enough, land appeared ahead of them. He breathed a huge sigh of relief. “All right,” he said, into the interphone, “let’s find a place to land.”
#
Wing Commander Douglas Townsend was studyin
g a map laid out on the large table in the operations room when one of his orderlies stuck his head in and said, “Sir, you might want to come see this.”
Townsend set down the pencil with which he’d been making marks on the map and stepped over to the door. It led out to a viewing platform overlooking the landing field at Queen’s End. Several officers stood along the rail, many with binoculars, and they all had their heads raised, following an aircraft that was flying directly over the base.
All of the Mosquito bombers of Townsend’s No. 73 and No. 132 Squadrons were on the ground at the moment, though several would be flying sorties later that night. This plane was obviously not one of his.
He joined his adjutant at the rail and said, “What have we got, Mark?”
“An American B-17. It flew over at about five hundred feet and has now circled back. It’s very badly damaged.”
Townsend nodded. He’d had a couple of Yanks put down at Queen’s End in the past, planes unable to make it all the way back to their own bases. “Have you scrambled the emergency crew?”
The answer came in the form of a pair of fire suppression vehicles that suddenly appeared from across the field, heading for the end of the runway. They were joined a moment later by a couple of ambulances.
“May I?” Townsend asked, pointing to the binoculars in his adjutant’s hand. The junior officer immediately handed them to Townsend. The wing commander put the binoculars up to his eyes and adjusted the focus. “Badly damaged” was an understatement. The entire nose of the American bomber was gone, the fuselage ending just forward of the cockpit in a mangled mess of twisted steel. The plane was flying on the two outboard engines only, smoke trailing from one of them. Massive holes peppered both wings. He had no idea how the craft was still in the air.
As he watched, a parachute opened, then another. In all, he counted four ‘chutes. He wondered if that was all that remained of the crew, but realized after a moment there was still someone flying the plane as it banked and made a controlled turn. The pilot, he realized, was going to try to land the thing. A red flare appeared over the damaged aircraft.
Townsend lowered the binoculars for a moment. “He’s got wounded on board,” he said, to no one in particular. “That’s why he’s trying to bring the thing in. That’s one crazy Yank.” And one damn brave one, he said to himself.
He retrained the binoculars and noticed that the third engine had been shut down. The American was now trying to come in on only one engine. Then he noticed something else. Only the left landing gear had lowered. Where the other should have been, a loose piece of metal dangled uselessly below the right wing. What the American should do, he thought, was retract the gear and attempt a belly landing. Then he realized that, most likely, the American pilot couldn’t get the gear back up.
“This is not going to be pretty,” he said.
#
In the cockpit, Jon set the flaps. He’d finally had to feather number four and boost power to the one remaining engine to keep the bomber aloft. That engine was threatening to seize at any moment.
They’d tried to raise the left landing gear as soon as they realized the right gear was not extending. It had jammed, and, though Kovalesky had attempted to get it up manually with the crank, it simply wouldn’t budge. They’d have to set the plane down on the one wheel and then drop the right wing. It would take a miracle to survive the landing.
Jon had ordered the crew to bail out. Everyone but Kovalesky had jumped, and Kovalesky reported that, thankfully, four parachutes had opened. After checking again on Roth and Reyes, Kovalesky had climbed back into the pilot’s seat, explaining to Jon that, as the last functioning officer on board, he felt he had an obligation to help Jon get the plane down. He’d made it clear, though, that Jon was in charge.
As Ben had taught him to do, Jon noted landmarks as he came downwind in order to help himself line up on the runway. Now, as they approached the field, he went through the instructions one more time with Kovalesky.
“As soon as we touch down, pump the brakes. I’ll try to hold the wing up as long as I can. When I say ‘now,’ lock the brakes. Got it?”
Kovalesky nodded.
Jon forced himself to be calm. He imagined he was approaching Ben’s field. Easing back on the throttle, he allowed gravity to draw the plane down slowly. He kept the wings dead level. At the outside barrier, he shut down the number one engine. If they missed this landing, they would not be going back around.
In sudden eerie silence, broken only by the whistling of the wind passing through the opening at their feet, they crossed over the threshold of the runway. Jon eased back on the yoke, and the big bomber skimmed along the surface, finally settling onto its one wheel. Jon let the tail come down.
Kovalesky began pumping the brakes as Jon had instructed him to do. With all the concentration he could muster, Jon kept the wings level, as though he were still flying the plane. They were slowing, but not quickly enough to avoid running out of runway. Jon held the right wing elevated as long as he dared. Then he gradually allowed it to dip. With a grinding sound, it made contact with the surface of the runway.
“Now,” Jon said, and Kovalesky locked the brakes on the one usable landing gear. With a squeal of protest, the rubber slid along the tarmac. The tip of the wing acted as a fulcrum, and the heavy plane performed a slow languorous turn, pivoting majestically around the wing tip. The wheel dropped off the edge of the runway into the adjacent grass, and, with a last few creaks, the Deuces Wild slowly came to a stop.
There was dead silence.
Jon closed his eyes and let out the air that he’d been holding in his lungs. He was suddenly shaking, but, after a couple of deep breaths, he steadied himself.
He turned to look at Kovalesky. The man had his eyes closed, and Jon could see that he was also shaking. After a moment, Kovalesky opened his eyes and turned to look at Jon. A grin split his face, and he emitted a short laugh, almost like a cough. Suddenly, they both dissolved into an uncontrollable fit of laughter. It was as if someone had just told them the funniest joke they’d ever heard in their lives, and, for several seconds, they laughed so hard tears began running down their cheeks. The moment passed, and Jon drew in another deep breath, his chest shaking as he did.
He heard noise behind them, and, turning, saw a couple of men in coveralls bent over the bodies of Roth and Reyes. They appeared to know what they were doing, so Jon decided not to get in their way. He looked again at Kovalesky, who nodded solemnly. After a moment, Kovalesky held out his right hand. Jon took it, and they shook. Kovalesky did not seem to know what to say. Neither did Jon.
Jon looked back again to see that the men behind them were easing the body of Reyes out of the forward hatch. Roth’s had apparently already been taken. An officer in a blue uniform with three stripes on his epaulet appeared and climbed up into the area immediately behind the cockpit. The man’s eyes took in the blood splattered across the instruments and soaking the seats. He looked below the flight controls, where the ground was visible through a large hole. Finally, he whistled.
The officer turned to Kovalesky and said, in a clipped British accent, “Lieutenant, that was some of the finest flying I have ever seen in my life.”
Kovalesky nodded. “Got to agree with you there, sir. But don’t look at me.” He nodded toward Jon. “Sergeant Meyer flew this plane home and landed it.”
The officer stared at Jon with a shocked expression. After a moment, he put a hand out, and Jon took it. “Nicely done, sergeant,” he said.
16
Mary returned to her desk and took a seat. From one of the drawers, she retrieved two pieces of plain white paper and a sheet of carbon paper, arranged them, and set them behind the roller on her typewriter. She scrolled them through and gave the carriage return lever an efficient smack. Referring to the notes she’d just made on her pad, she began typing.
It was a busy Friday afternoon, but Mary was hoping to get away early, and her fingers flew on the keys.
Known as Wealdon Manor, the building in which Mary now sat had been constructed in the early nineteenth century by the seventh earl of Wealdon. It was a massive structure perched on the north bank of the Thames River, a short distance from the Tower of London. Having served variously as a royal residence, guest quarters for visiting dignitaries, and, during the Great War, a hospital, it was now headquarters to the British Home Defense Agency, a joint services group charged with coordinating and overseeing development and logistical support for all military installations in the British Isles.
Mary worked for the senior American officer assigned as liaison to the Department. She had been in England two weeks.
After completing the basic training course for enlistees in the Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps, Mary had been taken aside by her commanding officer and encouraged to enter the officer’s candidate school. When she learned that the school would involve an additional twelve weeks of training, she graciously declined, saying she felt an immediate need to apply herself to the war effort. When it became apparent to the officer that Mary was not to be dissuaded, she’d offered Mary her choice of assignments.
Mary had carefully reviewed the list of available postings, immediately rejecting all but the handful that involved assignment to England. The opportunity to work in the office of the American liaison to the Home Defense Agency had seemed, to Mary, to offer the best chance for finding Jon. It also had the benefit of having been tagged as a priority assignment, which meant Mary would be sent immediately, without any opportunity for leave following her training. That was perfectly fine with her. Mary’s insistence on getting to her post without further delay had impressed her commanding officer, and she’d approved Mary for the assignment.
In New York, Mary had boarded the RMS Queen Mary, an ocean liner from the Cunard White Star Line that had been converted to a troopship. The trip across the Atlantic took a week and was a surprisingly enjoyable experience. Mary was invited to dine with the captain the first night at sea, and he subsequently arranged for her to be a permanent guest at his table for the remainder of the voyage.
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