Mary heard a snicker and turned in time to spot Patrick playing an invisible violin. The driver stared straight ahead, but Mary could tell he was holding back a laugh.
“Are you mocking me?” Her eyes widened. “It’s not some sob story; it’s the truth.”
“Not mocking, just giving my opinion of what it sounds like from here.”
Mary turned back toward the front and crossed her arms over her chest.
The driver leaned in closer to Mary. He didn’t look old enough to drive, let alone be so far away from home without supervision. “I’m listening, lady.”
“Thank you.” She tipped her chin and raised her voice, projecting it toward the backseat. “That means a lot.”
“Hey, buddy. I appreciate you helping the lady out, but I have a favor. Can you pull over for just a minute? This shot’s too incredible to miss.”
The jeep had just crested a small hill overlooking the base, which was still five or so miles away. Without comment, the driver pulled off the narrow road. Mary opened her mouth to protest, but as she followed the photographer’s gaze, she immediately understood. The sun streaming through the thinning clouds reflected off huge silver bombers rising from the airfield in an almost continuous stream. Her stomach flipped as their controlled power overwhelmed her.
As Mary watched, she thought of her complaints just moments before, and heat filled her cheeks. The photographer was right. Her sob story was nothing compared to the sacrifice of those fighting and dying this very moment.
She climbed out and watched the way Patrick tilted his head as he studied the sky. With a knowing smile, he finally hunkered down to brace his Speed Graphic for the perfect angle. He snapped one shot at a time, sliding each plate in and out of the camera manually. Then he straightened up, repacked his equipment, and climbed back into his seat.
“Okay, let’s get going,” he said, as if he’d been waiting for her.
After they started down the road once again, Mary couldn’t help but get the feeling he was studying her. She glanced out the open window, tucking strands of wayward hair behind her ears, attempting to ignore him.
“So why don’t you just make the best of it?” He leaned forward in the seat, and she could feel the warmth of his breath on her neck.
“Excuse me?” She continued looking toward the base, refusing to turn around.
“I mean, you’re in Europe, for goodness’ sake, covering the war. Instead of complaining about what’s not working, figure out what you want. For instance, if you had the choice, who would you interview on this base?”
Mary scrunched her nose and lifted her hand to the door, drumming her fingers on the frame. “Well, personally, I’d be interested in talking to someone that everyone else overlooks—but someone vital to the war effort.”
“Like a member of the ground crew? A man who keeps the planes flying, but no one really thinks twice about?”
Mary turned in her seat, facing the photographer. “Exactly! After all, in New York, that’s what I was known for. Looking beyond the obvious to stories of the heart.” She paused, thinking of Paul. If he were here, he’d tell her the same—follow your gut. Show the people what matters. She bit her lip and imagined what his advice would be. Go for it, sweetheart.
Suddenly a bright flash of the glass bulb and click of the shutter caught Mary by surprise.
She blinked. “Hey, what was that for? Are you trying to blind me, or use that photo for blackmail?”
Patrick laughed. “Nah, it was just a good shot, that’s all. If someone in Hollywood were to cast the role of battle-ready war reporter, primed for the front lines, you’d be the last person they’d pick for the part.”
“Thanks,” Mary huffed. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”
They pulled up to the base and stopped for the MPs guarding the front gate. Mary couldn’t help but smile as she handed over her press pass. After all, Patrick had called her a battle-ready war reporter. Primed for the front lines.
CHAPTER NINE
After getting permission from the main office to interview the ground crew, Mary hurried through the feathery afternoon fog, past the squat control tower and dreary combat-crew equipment sheds. Up ahead she saw a row of aluminum huts—the tech sites where the oil-splattered mechanics bustled around aircraft in various stages of disassembly.
The high-pitched whine of drills and the banging of sheet metal put her on edge, and she covered her ears against the deafening echo reverberating off the aluminum. She turned, gazing through the opening.
Surely, there has to be someone outside to talk to….
Then she saw him, on a cement pad near the airstrip. A tall, trim man in overalls and sheepskin jacket stood with hands in pockets, his head tilted back as he gazed into the sky. That’s him, she told herself.
Mary approached, sidling up beside him.
He glanced down, meeting her gaze, and his brows lifted in surprise. “Well now, another first. Whatta day. Can I help you, miss?”
Mary stretched her small hand toward his large, grease-smudged one. “Mary Kelley, ETO Correspondent.” She shook his hand vigorously. “I was wondering, sir, if I could ask you a couple questions concerning today’s missions? I’ve already cleared it with the CO. Are you part of the ground crew, Mr.—” She cocked her head.
“Harris. Jack Harris. Crew chief in charge of maintenance of Destiny’s Child.” He shrugged. “Don’t know what you’d want to talk to me for. I’m probably the least in the know.”
“But you were here this morning, correct?” She pulled her notepad and a freshly sharpened pencil from her jacket pocket. “When did you first know today was the day of the invasion?”
He rocked back on his heels, digging his fists deeper into his pockets. “Well, as usual, the crew left on a mission unknown to us. This morning didn’t seem all that different. Same number of planes going up. Same mode of operation. Nothing too unusual. ’Cept for the gliders, that is.”
Mary paused from her note-taking and glanced up. “Gliders?”
“We always have a crewman or two who stays in the dispersal area in case a plane has to abort. I was waiting this morning when suddenly there were these planes flying over the base. They were towing gliders. Never seen that before.”
He chuckled and readjusted his cap. “Heck, then one of those gliders broke loose and circled the field. It landed off the runway, and right before my eyes a group of armed paratroopers complete with camouflaged faces piled out.” He shook his head, chuckling again. “Man, did those guys seem disappointed they’d malfunctioned. But their being here told me—no doubt about it—the invasion was on.”
His blue eyes met hers. “I think that’s all, really. I won’t know more about the mission until the guys return.” His smile faded, and he scuffed the toe of his boot to the concrete. “Those who do return, that is. Even when the aircraft comes back in pretty good shape, sometimes the same can’t be said of the men.”
Mary still didn’t comment, but waited for him to continue. While some reporters would jump in with the next question, Rule Number 4 of Paul’s Pointers reminded her to give the interviewee time to speak. The good stuff, he always insisted, came after a long pause as the person worked to fill in the silence.
“About a year or so back, I was the assistant crew chief on Invasion 2,” he finally said. “They’d been out on a mission to Germany. Done a good job too, but were receiving a lot of ground fire.” His forehead creased. “They sent a Kraut aircraft whistling to the ground, but not before a stray bullet nicked the radio operator at the base of his spine. He was gone by the time the plane made it back.”
“That must’ve been so hard to witness.”
Jack’s voice grew thick and raspy. He peered back into the sky as if reading a script there. “Heck, there’s a lot we do on these aircraft—engine and prop repairs, aileron and elevator changes, supercharger changes—anything to keep it in tip-top shape. That’s the easy part. The hard part is cleaning up messes like that one.
I wiped up that radio room.” He swallowed hard. “I—I’m not too proud to let you know that my tears flowed into the pail with each squeeze of that sponge.” Jack rubbed his pointer finger near his eye, leaving a grease smudge.
Mary pictured the scene in her mind, this big man unashamedly weeping over the lost crew member.
“Not too long later, Invasion 2 was shot down by fighters and flak over Bremen,” he continued. “Our squadron sent six planes out that day and none returned. We found out later that all the men on Invasion 2 bailed. They’re prisoners of war … somewhere.”
He straightened his shoulders and glanced at Mary, as if remembering she was still there. Then he shrugged. “When you’re on the ground crew, you know there’s a war on, and that you’re a big part of it. But sometimes, I feel bad not being up there myself. I mean, what I deal with doesn’t seem much compared to what the crews face—”
“But that’s not true,” Mary interrupted. “If it weren’t for the ground crews, well, these beaten-up planes would never make it back up, fighting for freedom.” She could see in Jack’s eyes this war had been as painful for him as it was for anybody.
“Thanks, miss. That means a lot.”
She tapped the pencil to her lips, amazed that the man had been so willing to open up. Then she glanced behind her and saw Patrick approaching. She was thankful he’d given her the fifteen minutes she’d asked for. That was another pointer she’d picked up from Paul—no cameras during the interview. Nothing made a person’s lips clamp down tighter than a camera in his face.
“Thank you, Jack.” She placed her hand on his arm. “I appreciate this; I really do.”
The crew chief followed her gaze, noting Patrick. He crossed his arms over his chest, the vulnerability of the moment fading. “Do you got what you need, then? I’d like to get back to the shop to see if there’s been word ’bout my plane.”
“Just a few photos, if you don’t mind.”
Jack agreed, posing in the same wide-legged stance—eyes skyward—as he’d been when Mary had first approached.
When Patrick was finished getting his shots, Jack hustled away in short, Jimmy Cagney–type steps.
Mary slid her pencil behind her ear and tucked her notepad back into her pocket. “Well? That was the best thing I’ve done since I’ve been in England.”
Patrick dropped onto one knee and returned his camera to the case. “Get what you were looking for?”
“Yeah.” She patted her pocket and gave a contented sigh. “The story’s already half-written in my mind. That’s a good sign. Let’s just hope he likes it.”
“Gee, Mary, Sergeant Perkins is an open-minded kinda guy. You’re going to give him a great story.”
Mary pursed her lips as they began the slow walk to their waiting driver. She didn’t tell Patrick that it wasn’t her boss’s opinion she was worried about.
The roar of the bomber’s four engines filled Eddie’s ears, and his stomach quivered—both from the rumbling plane beneath him and the nervous excitement about the day’s events. Their mission was to bomb targets on the La Havre coastal area, softening up the opposition for troops preparing to invade France.
From the moment they awoke, he and Adam had known something was up. A number of things had clued them in—getting awakened at 0130, the bomb load of 100-pound fragmentation bombs, and the number of aircraft involved in the mission, to name a few. And by the time they’d filed in for their briefing among the other sleepy-eyed officers, the two had come up with a few options: Berlin, a possible raid on Russia, or invasion.
They’d glanced at each other with a knowing look as the CO pulled back the curtain and they spotted the red ribbon that marked a straight line to the French coast.
“This is it, boys. Invasion Day. What I ask of you today must be achieved if we ever hope to liberate ‘Fortress Europe.’” The CO placed a finger under his nose and said the words in a heavy German accent, making fun of Hitler’s term for his empire.
“Guns will be manned but not test-fired at any time. Gunners will not fire at any airplane unless being attacked. Bombing on primary targets will be carried out within time limits prescribed. Takeoffs will be accomplished according to schedule—regardless.”
The CO then informed them that 11,000 planes and 4,000 ships would be taking part in the day’s events. It seemed an impossible number until hours later, when Eddie witnessed it for himself.
Dawn was just beginning to break as they found themselves at 15,000 feet. A blanket of thick cloud cover, tinted pink from the first rays of sun, lay under them. Above them, the moon was still high in the sky, the large round orb refusing to give up its position of prominence just yet. And in the space between the clouds and moon, three levels of aircraft circled, each moving into the exact position that would take them to their final destination.
“Gee whiz, they’re everywhere! Above. Below. I feel like I’m being surrounded by a swarm of bees,” Adam said into the interphone.
Like toy planes being lined up by invisible hands, Eddie thought as he watched, impressed, as they moved from disarray to order, lining up to their exact specifications. By the time they’d all filed into play, they were well over the Channel with only minutes to spare before making a fix on the target.
“Oh, man, can’t see a thing,” Vinny moaned.
“Can’t see a thing? This is one of the prettiest mornings I can remember.” Eddie glanced at his watch, jotting down their time and position. Then he looked back out the window, both taking in the beauty of the day and keeping his eyes open for enemy planes.
“He means the ships in the Channel.” Marty’s voice also hinted of disappointment.
“What a sight that would have been,” Chancey stated over the interphone. “The clouds look the same to me as any other day.”
“And there are no Germans yet. Not even much flak. Looks like the only thing pelting us today will be the rain when we return below the clouds.”
“Let’s hope anyway,” Vinny added.
Eddie focused out the window on their pathfinder navigator aircraft, which was already dropping smoke bombs, marking the correct bombing location. The bombs dripped from the sky like raindrops on a windshield, marking where to drop their load over the coast of France.
Eddie shook his head, amazed they could even find France. While he most likely would have had to abort the mission due to lack of visual confirmation, the pathfinders used a combination of grid radio navigation and airborne radar to find the exact drop points. The clouds didn’t even slow them down.
Vinny’s voice was strong over the interphone as he prepared for the drop. “Bomb bay doors opening.” The cold morning air blasting through the fuselage confirmed his observation.
The radio operator responded. “Roger! Bomb bay doors are open.” Then his official voice turned playful. “Hey, guys, look at that.”
A thin cloud break seemed to open out of nowhere, revealing hundreds of navy ships steaming toward the Continent, their wakes looking like party streamers following behind them.
But not ten seconds later the clouds closed up again, and a loud, “Bombs away!” filled Eddie’s ears as they released their load.
In unison, the bombers around them let loose over their respective targets. Like large bullets plummeting toward the earth, they were dull, drab, dark brown, and deadly. There were too many to count. Eddie’s mind couldn’t comprehend the destruction they’d cause on the ground, crippling enemy positions and making it easier for the landing troops.
He sent up a silent prayer for those guys. Lord, help them. Hide them under the shadow of Your wings. Help them to regain ground lost to those lousy Nazis.
“Bombardier to radio operator. Bomb bay doors are closed. We’ve delivered the goods.”
“Roger Dodger, time to head home.”
Yet even as Eddie let out a sigh of relief that their mission was complete, he knew it wasn’t over yet.
“Navigator to crew. Watch those clouds, gentlemen. We’re cro
ssing the Cherbourg Peninsula and still have a half hour in enemy territory.”
Yet, surprisingly, there was little resistance.
When thirty minutes passed, Marty’s voice came through the interphone. “Boys, looks like we’re gonna be sleeping in our beds tonight—and hopefully soon walking the streets of Paris.”
“I’ll be making a beer run tonight, boys!” Reggie said after landing an hour later, as he swung down from the nose-hatch exit. “Wish I could buy you a beer, my friend,” he added, patting the plane.
“She sure done us right once again,” Glen Cromwell added, patting Marty’s back. “A toast’ll have to do.”
“And I’ll find the chickadees.” Adam’s young eyes gleamed.
Eddie shook his head as he sauntered toward debriefing.
Early this morning, before the day’s mission, the line to the chaplain had been especially long. Now things were different. They were safe with their feet back on the ground, and, as Eddie hung behind watching his friends pass by, it seemed to him as if those promises made to God in the predawn hours had already been forgotten.
“Hey, Ed.” Vinny was waiting for him. He wrapped an arm around Eddie’s shoulders. “I bet you there’s a few girlies in town who’ll be all hot and bothered by news of today’s mission. How about joining me later? We can catch the Liberty Run heading out.”
“You kidding? I’ve watched how it works. Those girls are more trouble than the German fighters. Not only will they shoot you down, they’ll rip your heart from your chest and dangle it from their pretty little hands.”
Vinny slapped his forehead. “You can’t be serious. C’mon, pal, it’s a day to celebrate!”
Eddie shrugged. “I’ll go in with you, but it’s a no-touch policy for me.” He blinked as a drop of rain fell to his face. “I don’t think I’m gonna find a girl to take home to Mother in the joints you drag me into.”
Arms of Deliverance Page 10
