by M L Maki
He hears the splat-boom of a rifle round hitting his tank and slews his machine gun toward the sound. He studies the buildings and sees movement behind a curtain. He opens up, and an unarmed old woman falls out of the window. Another round hits the coaming, just inches from his hand. He turns forward and machine guns a butcher shop up the road, “Target the butcher.”
The main gun fires, causing the building to collapse. He radios his battalion, “Target all civilians. Target the buildings. There are irregular troops in this town.” The tanks open up.
The battalion reaches the bridge over the river Aire. They see a soldier slipping under the bridge and one of the machine gunners fires and he crumples out of sight. “Come right, they’re trying to blow the bridge.”
His tank swings right and he orders the turret swung around. The other tanks spread out for a clear shot. Then, he sees more men under the bridge and starts firing, “Small arms only. We must save the bridge.”
CHURCH STEEPLE, LEEDS, UK
Wingnut is watching the movements of the large tanks with his binoculars. He knows they’re firing on the American sappers, “Any Warthog near Leeds, Wingnut.”
“Wingnut, Rusty flight 2, go ahead.”
“We have troops in contact. Tiger tanks in Leeds attempting a crossing of the Aire.”
“Roger, Wingnut. Engaging.”
Wingnut puts his binoculars back up and checks the bridge. Most of the sapper unit has been killed. German troops are dismounting. He sees a sergeant under the bridge carefully connecting wires. The unit patch on his shoulder is the red and blue flower with a white center of the 9th Infantry Division. The sergeant stands and his hit. He stays on his feet and pushes down the plunger. The explosives detonate right over the sergeant’s head, killing him and dropping the bridge.
Wingnut watches, transfixed. In a Hollywood movie, the hero would walk out of the dust, but this hero is gone. He looks at his watch and starts taking notes, frantically writing, while coordinating with the A-10s. Time, place, unit. “Sergeant, did you see the guy blow the bridge?”
“Yes, sir. He sacrificed himself.”
“Take notes: time, date, rank, unit.”
“He was 9th Infantry.”
The A-10s start their strafing run and one tank goes up. Another starts to smoke and the tanks retreat into the town.
“I agree, and obviously a sapper.”
“Why are we documenting it?”
“For a Medal of Honor.”
“Yes, sir.”
Wingnut, “Sergeant, we need to go. They’re going to head west. Let’s get ahead of them.”
They hear on radio, “Wingnut, Yankee, we need you to the east, in or around York. That’s the German’s main push.”
“Yankee, Wingnut. This unit is heading west.”
“Roger, Wingnut. We’ll keep an eye on them. Link with the 9th Infantry and coordinate. We’re teaching others to be forward observers, but they aren’t ready yet.”
“Understood, Yankee. Proceeding to York.”
Sergeant Johnny Rodriguez, “Roger that, sir. Your chariot awaits.” They walk from the church, and a deuce and a half pulls up. The squad scrambles on board and they move out. Wingnut rides in a comfortable chair tied to the bed. He crumples into it and takes a swig of water. The corpsman, Andy Love, asks, “Sir, are you okay?”
“Shoulder hurts like hell, but fuck it. I got it to do.”
“Want more pills?”
“No, not yet.”
FLIGHT LINE, RAF KINLEY
0840, 26 September, 1942
Swede, Gandhi, Too Tall, Thud, Speedy, Trollop, Mouse, and Spike stand in a circle. Spike, “Okay, we can’t get new equipment, short term, so we need new tactics.”
Mouse asks, “What is the chaff? I know what we use, and what it does. What is German chaff made of?”
Everyone looks at Thud. He hangs his head and sighs, “All right, the Germans call it Duppel. They normally used strips of aluminum. The strips are of random lengths and widths so they easily disperse in the wind.”
Too Tall, “You know, bud, you’re an encyclopedia. He’s right. It doesn’t stop the radar; it massively attenuates it. The signal has to make it through, hit its target, and make it back to the receiver.”
Spike, “We need to split up our formations when they use it. Hopefully one bird can get a good lock.”
Swede, “The bird with lock fires as the other maneuvers.”
Speedy, “We can also fiddle with our frequency to try and peek through. The width of the aluminum strips will cause it to reject a specific wavelength more than others.”
Too Tall, “That’s only sort of true. If they’re using basically aluminum scraps, they might be random enough to stop your entire band. It’s worth a shot, though.”
Spike, “Another thing. Steer clear of Ouston. They hold it and they’re using it. I don’t want to attack it.”
Gandhi, “Why? Why give them a toehold?”
Spike makes eye contact with each person, “They already have more than a toehold. They have a Corp of five divisions. If we start with Ouston, they’ll improve their defense of the place and make it a harder nut to crack.”
Swede, “Wouldn’t it draw forces from the front?”
“Yeah, maybe, and dig them in where they’d be a bitch to rout out. While they’re mobile, they’re easier to hit.”
Trollop, “So, we let them keep it?”
Spike, “Until we have the forces to take it completely back, we leave it alone. Let them relax and think they’re safe. Too Tall, without getting yourself killed, I’d like you to figure out their radar guided missile configuration and start building a plan to wipe out their defenses. No attacks, though, without my permission. Clear?”
Too Tall, “Roger, Spike.”
Swede, “Roger, Spike.”
RAF ELMDON, BIRMINGHAM, UK
0900, 26 September, 1942
The prototype Lancaster gunship has been pulled out to in front of its hanger and crew and engineers are pouring over it, making final checks. The short barrels of three M61 20mm Vulcan aircraft gun are sticking out of the left side of the fuselage aft of the wing. One of the engineers asks, “How in the hell is the crew going to target this thing?”
LT Oscar Hammond smiles, “By turning.”
The engineer spins to face Hammond, “There is no way at all a pilot can shoot out of the side of the plane and accurately hit anything.”
Hammond pulls a string out of his pocket and offers the engineer one end, “Humor me.”
“You’ve lost your wits, you know,” but he complies. Hammond loops the other end of the string around a model of the Lancaster that is a mock-up of the gunship. The engineer, “Why do you have a model Lancaster?”
Hammond, “Teaching the flight crew. So, the pilot has a sight in the cockpit on his side window. Normally, as he flies the bearing of any specific point on the ground changes.” He illustrates by moving the model straight and taking up the slack in the line to keep it taut.
The engineer, “Exactly. Precise aiming is impossible.”
Hammond, “But, when the plane is in a coordinated pylon turn, he can point his wing, and thus his guns precisely at a single point on the ground.” Hammond moves the model in a turn, lining the stick gun with the string. “Still the job is a challenge because of turbulence, but the guns each fire six thousand rounds a minute. Absolute accuracy is unnecessary.”
The engineer is silent and they hear an engine start on the Lancaster. Hammond gathers up his training aid and walks to the boarding hatch, “Are you coming?”
GERMAN HQ, OCCUPIED RAF OUSTON
1015, 26 September, 1942
General Weber looks over a map of England, “She does nothing to attack us here, which surprises me.”
His aide asks, “Could she have too few planes to launch an effective attack?”
“She attacked Brest with bombs and landed them close enough to destroy a dry dock. The Scheer is still under repair.”
“True, that may be it. Now, we have a complete missile defense system, and any attack would be futile. Also, after the first attempt, she doesn’t even hit our supply formations over the North Sea. It’s odd.”
“Have we broken her will? Perhaps she cowers in her bed.”
“No, not her. She’s a shrewd and clever adversary. Know this, Victor, you do well to overestimate your adversary. You court disaster should you ever underestimate their capabilities.”
Major Gunter enters and salutes, “Heil Hitler.”
Weber, “Heil Hitler. What do you bring me from France, Major?”
“I bring three bottles of brandy and good news. Out long strike missiles are ready.”
“Excellent. We must change tactics. Sometimes they shut off their radar.”
BLACK BULL, STATION STREET, LOCKERBIE, SCOTLAND
1513, 26 September, 1942
LT Gus ‘Cuddles’ Grant accepts a draft and takes a long pull. The beer cuts the dryness in his throat, slaking his thirst. He’s a sight. His flight suit and the bandages on his head are filthy with blood and dirt. The civilian wool coat hangs over his uniform and he smells of blood, oil, and wet wool.
The bartender, a lean woman in her 50’s hands him another and asks, “You’re a Yank, right?”
“I am. Lieutenant Grant, US Navy.” He offers a hand.
She takes it with a smile, “Patsy Stewart. I’ve a room where you can get cleaned up.”
“Thank you.” Keeping his beer, he lets her lead him into the back.
“Have you any other clothes to wear?”
“Yeah, in my bag, but they’re filthy, too.”
“I’ll clean both sets and get you something dry to wear. What brings you to Lockerbie?”
“The British Army. I’ve been helping after I was shot down.”
“You’re a flyer?” She starts filling a tub with steaming hot water.
“A RIO. My pilot is somewhere down south of the German lines. The Germans have stopped and dug in just a few miles away. No one had use of me, so I walked into town. I have money.”
“My oldest is in Burma. I’ve two more in Egypt or there abouts. I’ll charge you for food and drink, but the rest is the least I can do.”
She takes off his coat and sets it aside. Then, starts helping him peel off his flight suit. He pauses, then goes with it. In a minute, he’s sinking into the hot suds. He closes his eyes and lets the heat relax his muscles, and his mind. She carefully washes his head and right arm, removing the bloody dressings. “I’ll have someone check on this.”
“It’s nothing. There’s no shortage of soldiers with far worse.”
“Well, I’ve bandages. I’ll take care of this. What is the cat tattoo?”
He smiles, “I fly the F-14 Tomcat. The tattoo is the Tomcat logo, ‘Anytime Baby.’”
She stands, “I seem to have soiled my dress.” She looks him in the eye and disrobes.
A few hours later, he’s wearing clean pants and a shirt and his wounds have fresh bandages. He sits with another pint of beer and has a bowl of mutton stew in front of him. By now, the pub is pretty full.
A huge, grey-haired, Highlander, wearing the yellow and black of the clan McCloud, walks into the bar with several older men. They’re all carrying Lee Enfield rifles, and in his hand, it looks like a toy. He has a bandolier of ammo across one shoulder. A belt, with a dirk, holds the bandolier in place. His voice booms through the room, “Beer for me and my men.”
Cuddles, “God, I hope this isn’t the husband.”
The Highlander takes a long draft of his beer and turns to the room, “I am Ian McCloud of the clan McCloud. I served our King as a captain of the 1st Battalion, Gordon Highlander in the last war and now, the Highlanders have come to give battle to the Germans who have brought war to our homes. I’ve over a hundred men, but I’m not too shy to ask for more.”
Cuddles stands, “I’m Lieutenant Gus Grant from the Black Knights. I would be honored to fight beside you and call in the air support you will need.”
“You’re a flyer?”
“Yes, shot down on the beach north of Shield. I supported the Home Guard and then the Leeds Rifles. They’ve holed up south of here and the Germans have ceased their advance north.?
“They aren’t fighting?”
“No, sir, and it make me damn useless. The helicopters are busy with dust off and can’t waste time fetching me.” He looks at his clothes, “The lady is washing my uniforms.”
“It’s no problem, laddie. Ye fight with us, you’ll wear the uniform of a Highlander.”
NORTH OF WIGGINTON, NORTH YORKSHIRE, UK
1604, 26 September, 1942
Tommy ‘Wingnut’ Urland lies on the slate roof of a barn looking across a large field. The rain is pelting down, causing him to wipe the lenses of his binoculars repeatedly. Sergeant Johnny Rodriguez is lying next to him, the rest of the squad under the eaves below. Wingnut, “This weather is for ducks and Marines. A God loving aviator should never have to get wet.”
Johnny chuckles, “There’s no way you’re an aviator anymore.” Ahead of them infantry and tanks are dug in, waiting. They watch the soldiers bailing out their trenches. Beyond, the fields are flooded.
“What do you mean?”
“Well, you’re scruffy, dirty, unkept, and oh, you don’t have a scarf.”
“All logical points.”
“Your shoulder holding up?”
“No, but I’ll live.”
Guardsman Sergeant Tully climbs the ladder, “There’s a report that the Germans are advancing in a wedge formation.”
Tommy, “Roger,” and lays his head down, “Fuck, I’m tired.”
Rodriguez, “We stop them here, sir, and we can all get a bath and a long nap.”
“We won’t. All we have is the Sherman.”
“Yeah, we have that, but we have the Warthogs.”
“Yeah.”
They silently contemplate the distant tree line. A murmur of birds fly down to lite in the trees, then suddenly veer back up. Tommy, “They’re here.” He turns on his radio, “Any hog pilot, Wingnut.”
Wingnut, “Dog flight 3. Where are you?”
Tommy gives his coordinates and watches the German tanks shaking the trees in the distance. “Bring friends. It’s a target rich environment.”
FABRIC SHOP, LOCKERBIE, SCOTLAND
Ian McCloud, his voice booming in the small room, “So, you dinna have the red and green of the Grant Tartan? The Grants are a fine clan.”
The old woman says, “It tis indeed, but I have none. You do know, sir, that we have a war on?”
Ian turns to Cuddles, “Could you live with this Stewart red?”
Cuddles nods, “Truth, Mr. McCloud, I’m American from 1990. I don’t know the difference.”
“Well, let me show ye how to put it on and I swear on my father’s bones, I’ll make a clansman out of ya.”
Cuddles walks out of the shop with the red and black of the Stewart tartan across his left shoulder and down his back like a cloak. It’s held in place, over his coat, with a stout leather belt. They walk to join the others and Patsy intercepts him, “Darlin’ man, you’re wearing the tartan of my clan. You need this,” and gives him a dirk in its sheath. “It was my Arnold’s before he fell to fever. He carried it in the last war, it ought to be used in this one.”
“Thank you, Patsy. I’ll bring it back, after.”
“You do that, darlin’ and I’ll see to it you never leave again,” and lays a passionate kiss on him. He returns it, with vigor.
CHAPTER 13
GYM, RAF KENLEY
0822, 27 September, 1942
Sam, wearing sweat pants and a gray US Navy t-shirt, goes through a kata. She’s in her own world, focusing on her body, tightening her muscles in each precise move. She moves slowly, the position of each imaginary foe in her mind, then blindingly fast, she strikes. Moving precisely through the kata, she becomes a
ware of being watched, but maintains focus and completes the kata. At the end, she turns and looks behind her.
Squadron Leader Maugham is standing there, “I apologize for interrupting.”
“So, you’re all healed up. Congratulations. What’s up?”
“What were you doing?”
“Aikido. It’s an ancient Japanese martial art.”
“Where did you learn it?”
“A dojo in California when I was in college. Is this why you’re here?”
“No, I’m sorry. I was told you wanted to see me. I command your Griffin squadron.”
“Oh, the Merry Men. Interesting choice of call signs. You’re Robin, correct?”
“I am. Your pilots trained all of mine, and we’re acquitting ourselves fairly well, thus far. I’m told you have standing orders?”
“I do, Richard. I want Ouston left alone.”
“I heard. To me, your logic is unassailable.”
“Next, winning is not the most important thing. We must survive and continue to be a threat. When the Germans spread us out, we focus on the priority missions and pray that, someday, the British people will forgive us for the bombs that get through.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Spike smiles and continues, “Our men; there primary job is to fight. Ours is to give them everything we can to make them successful. In saying this, I know a commodore shouldn’t fly combat, but in truth, we have so few pilots, I just can’t give it up just yet.”
“We need you out there.”
“Who?”
“Ma’am?”
“Who is the we?”
“Oh, Britain. All of Britain. I doubt you realize it, but you have become a symbol of our resistance. Because you fight up there every day, all the people can believe in victory. We can cast aside our doubts and push on.”
“I’m just one pilot.”
“No, you’re the leader. You lead from the front like the knights of old.”
She looks at him, starts to reply, and stops. “I don’t really get it, and I suppose, I don’t need to. Take care of your people, and they will take care of you. And, yes, don’t ask your people to do anything you won’t. If there’s a problem with a plane or a person, notify my staff immediately. They know when to wake me up. Questions?”
