by Dan Verner
Otto
***
Otto was playing cards with some of his crew when a corporal assigned to HQ appeared through the doorway. A low overcast and heavy rain had cancelled their formation training flight, so the crews had a rare day off. Some stayed in barracks and slept or read; some, like Otto, gathered in the mess hall between meals and wrote letters or played cards or just talked. There was always talk, Otto thought. An inexhaustible supply of talk.
The corporal walked up to Otto and saluted. Otto gave him a quick salute. Someone from HQ was never good news. “Lieutenant OK,” the corporal said. “Colonel Meachum has asked that you report to the ready room ASAP.”
“All right, corporal,” Otto said. “I’m out,” he said to the other players, tossing down his cards. He followed the corporal through the rain to the ready room about 200 yards away.
I look like a drowned rat, he thought. So much for a military appearance. He and the corporal walked into the ready room. Meachum was there, standing by the large table where four chairs had been drawn up. Otto saluted and the colonel returned the salute.
“Kerchner, you speak German, correct?”
“Yes, sir, it was my first language, although I didn’t use it much after first grade.”
“But you can still speak and comprehend it, right?”
“Yes, sir.”
“We need your help. We have a captured Luftwaffe ace who will only speak to an officer of German background. We can’t do too much to force him to talk, but I had him brought here so you could interrogate him about tactics and strategy. Are you game?”
“I’ll try, sir.”
Meachum nodded to the corporal, who went out of the room and returned quickly, followed by a man in a P.O.W. uniform. He was over six feet tall with blond hair and blue eyes. Well, he looks the part of the Master Race, Otto thought. Two M.P.’s came in on either side of him. The group stopped before Otto.
“Lieutenant Kerchner, this is Major Hans Krieger; Major, Lieutenant Kerchner.”
Otto reflexively started to put out his hand but caught himself. Krieger bowed from the waist and said in German, “I was hoping for a Colonel, more my equal.”
“I’m about as good as you’ll get, Major. May we all sit down?” He quickly repeated his comments in English and continued to do so the rest of the conversation.
“So, you are of German background, Lieutenant. My wife has Kerchners in her background. Perhaps you are related.”
“Maybe,” Otto returned. “That’s not what we’re here to talk about.”
“What are we here to talk about, then?”
“We want to know your tactics for taking on our bombers.”
“I just bet you would.”
“I can promise better treatment if you cooperate.” Otto quickly looked at Meachum, who nodded.
“I am treated well now. You Americans are soft. You do not even know how to discipline P.O.W.’s.”
“Again, we’re not here to talk about that. We want to know your tactics.”
“Our tactic is to strike hard and often until you are swept from the skies.”
“Specifically, which quadrant do you use for attacks? Do you come in high or low? Singly or in groups?”
“My dear lad, we use whatever tactics work. We have superior machines and superior pilots. We are a superior people.”
This guy really believes that crap, Otto thought.
“And frankly, Lieutenant, I am surprised that someone like you would fight against the Fatherland. There are ways you can join us.”
“No thanks, Major. I’m an American and soon I’ll be in a bomber and I hope it will be to rain down destruction on the likes of you.”
“We will see about that, Lieutenant. We will see. I have nothing more to say.”
Otto translated this last bit and then shook his head at Meachum. The colonel sighed and nodded to the M.P.’s who escorted Krieger out of the room.
“Arrogant s-o-b., ain’t he, Kerchner? Thanks for trying.”
“Yes, sir. I’m not trained in interrogation. I don’t think my translations of what he said conveyed the coldness and self-assurance of the man. Here he is, in prison for the duration, and he’s making threats about destroying us. That takes arrogance, all right.”
“Thank you for your help, Kerchner. I’ll note it in your record.”
“Thank you sir,” Otto said, saluted and walked back to the mess hall and his card game. The rain continued to pour down.
Chapter 23
Intermezzo—July, 1943
Dear Mata,
We’ve had a spell of rain here so that gives me time to write you an “extra” letter. There’s not much to do outside in this weather so we read and talk or sleep. And eat. Eating is very popular.
I wanted to tell you about an ugly episode recently that turned out well from my point of view. We were having lunch in the mess hall and this jerk pilot named Rogers came by. I don’t know what his problem is, but he said that we had misnamed our aircraft. I ignored him because he wants to stir things up, but Bob Donovan can’t stand the guy so he answered. He said Rogers could have named his a/c the Jerk Express. Rogers told him that we should call our ship the Kraut Wagon since so many of us on the crew are of German background. Donovan stood up at that, called Rogers a name that’s not fit for ladies to read and was about to smash Rogers in the face. The major came over and broke it up before it started. The C.O. has a rule that any fight goes to the ring in the rec center. Boxing with gloves settles the matter. It provides a break from the routine.
Well, the match was set up for a couple of days later. I told Donovan he didn’t have to fight, to just ignore the guy, but he was determined to see it through. He said he couldn’t stand a bully. We found out why he was so confident.
The day of the match came, and I think everyone in camp had placed bets on the outcome. Rogers came out swinging; Bob ducked his wild punches, stood up, and floored Rogers with a right to the jaw. It lasted maybe ten seconds. There was a stunned silence and then cheering from all those who had put money on Donovan.
I asked him afterward why he was so good. “I was a Golden Glove champ three years running in Eau Claire,” he said. That would explain it.
I know you don’t like fights or violence but I thought this was an interesting story.
All my love to you and Mama and Papa. You won’t hear from me for a while until the mail catches up, but I will write.
Your brother,
Otto
Chapter 24
Across the Pond—August, 1943
Dear Mata,
The practice missions have continued and become more complicated. We’ve had missions for gunnery practice—our guys are really good! Watch out, Jerry! Then there’s formation flying—it’s the best way to protect each other. A formation of a hundred Forts brings 1300 machine guns to bear on attacking aircraft. I would hate to fly into a hail of bullets, but the Germans do it, and sometimes damage or shoot down our aircraft. But not if we shoot them down first.
We also have long-distance navigation exercises. Our navigator, John King, is the best. He was lead navigator on our long-range practice bombing mission. I can’t tell you exactly where we flew to “drop” our practice bombs, but it’s an island 90 miles south of Florida. We did very well, but I still worry about running into another aircraft in formation or having to ditch over water or put down in an emergency. I feel a lot of guys are depending on me.
Some fellows drink a lot. I might have a few beers at the officers’ club, but I unwind by studying our manuals so I know all I can about what I’m doing or playing baseball (the “OK Corral” is 12 and 2 for the season! Hooray for us!) or reading or writing a letter like this.
These days I’m reading the Bible and Shakespeare’s plays, mostly. I notice how many wars are recounted in the Bible. The chaplain here talked to us about a just war. We’re fighting this for not only our own freedoms and dignity but also for people all over the world. These brutal totalitaria
n regimes have to be stopped! And we’re the ones to do it.
I just finished re-reading Shakespeare’s Henry V. That’s about war as well, but it’s so inspired and inspiring. I love the St. Crispin’s Day speech that Henry gives to the troops right before the battle and particularly the lines:
We few, we happy few, we band of brothers.
I feel my crew and I are a band of brothers, and those bands are all over the Allied forces. We are sharing something that is stronger and deeper than most blood relationships.
But not deeper than the bond we share, dear Mata. I am so proud of you, taking care of Mama and Papa and running the farm so well!
I was glad to see you and Mama and Papa when I finally made it home a couple of weeks ago. I’m sorry the train was so late and also sorry that I couldn’t stay longer. Duty called, as the saying goes.
We don’t know when we ship out or where we’re going, except that we will fly the bomber there. Well, I guess it will either be the Atlantic or the Pacific, unless we’re posted to the Aleutians. We should be able to tell by the clothes we draw. Although even with that you can never tell with the Army. One group recently drew cold weather gear and they were posted to India! Bet they were plenty warm!
I will send a quick note when I find out our departure date.
Take care. My love to you and Mama and Papa.
Your brother,
Otto
Otto looked around the airfield. It was seasonably hot and humid, but where they were headed it wouldn’t be. They would take off as soon as the Mata Maria was refueled and then they were bound for the air base at Goose Bay, Labrador, where they would spend the night, then over Greenland to Iceland where they would have another layover, rest, refuel and then press on for Wales. From what he had heard about this northern passage, he was glad that King was their navigator. He’d hate to have to put down on an ice floe.
Otto saw the crew coming back from the ops shack across the tarmac. He had done a walkaround although the crew chief at the base had signed off on the aircraft. He wanted to see with his own eyes that everything looked all right.
He saw that Stone was carrying a large bag and Detwiler had a metal carafe, probably full of coffee. Stone raised the bag. “Hey, Lieutenant OK! I got sandwiches!”
“Good thing,” Otto called “There are no restaurants for about 1500 miles.”
He went over to the Mata Maria and hoisted himself through the nose hatch. The rest of the crew followed suit. He and Donovan climbed into their seats and buckled in. The engines were still warm from a runup by the crew chief, so they should start easily, Otto thought. He stuck his head through the side window.
A ground crew corporal gave him the “start engine” sign. Donovan punched the start button for each of the four Wright Cyclones in succession and soon all were running at idle. Otto got on the intercom.
“Prepare for taxi and takeoff, gentlemen!”
“OK, Lieutenant OK” That was Stone’s voice. Otto sighed and keyed the intercom.
“Don’t call me that on a mission,” he said to the whole crew. “It’s ‘pilot.’ And identify yourself by position when you call.”
“OK, Lieutenant—uh, pilot. This is tail over and out.”
Donovan advanced the throttles and they rolled to the end of the runway. Otto keyed the microphone. “Ground control, this is Ferry Flight 301, requesting permission to take off.”
“Roger,” came the reply through his headphones. You are cleared for takeoff. Good luck and good flight, Mata Maria.”
“Thank you, ground. This is Mata Maria starting our takeoff roll. Over and out.”
***
Otto and Donovan took two-hour turns flying the long featureless stretches of ocean and then of ice. The desolate landscape stretched as far as the eye could see. You’d never know there was a war on, Otto thought.
“Man, I’d hate to have to land on a glacier,” Bob said, echoing Otto’s thoughts.
“Yeah, if you managed to land in one piece, you’d have to survive the deep freeze.”
“Glad we had arctic survival classes. Although I don’t know what we’d do in a blizzard.”
“Huddle inside the plane and hope someone comes to get us, I suppose.”
“If there’s enough of the a/c left to huddle in.”
“Do you have less than full confidence in my ability to crash land this beast, co-pilot?”
They both laughed.
The 1550-mile leg to Reykjavik took seven hours, and it was with relief that Otto put the Mata Maria down on the runway there. The crew piled out of the bomber. Otto turned it over to the crew chief. “Number four seems to be running a little rough.”
“I’ll check it out, Lieutenant,” the sergeant answered.
The crew stumbled into the reception room, where they dispersed to their quarters overnight. “Breakfast is at 0700 hours,” the officer on duty told them.
“Is that Icelandic Frozen Time?” Cousins piped up. No one paid him any attention.
With his officers settled in the transient officers’ quarters, Otto prepared for bed and lay under the blankets with the light on. He didn’t feel like reading. He thought that they were drawing close to the real thing, and he hoped he was prepared for what would meet them. He kept coming back to feeling responsible for his crew and prayed he was up to the challenge. He fell asleep to dreams of desolate white spaces.
***
The crew gathered in the mess hall the next morning with several other crews who had arrived the evening before. No one said much. They were all thinking of the hours of transit time that lay ahead of them. Apparently there had been a marathon poker game going on the whole flight to that point. Otto didn’t want to know how much money was involved.
The ten men gathered their gear and walked to the flight line where the Mata Maria stood covered with frost. The ground crew had brought a warmer in under each engine. Otto signed off on the crew chief’s form. “We got the roughness out of number four,” the chief told him.
“Thank you, sergeant,” Otto told him and climbed up to his takeoff position. The engines started readily and Otto thanked God once again that they had not been posted to the Aleutians. Mata Maria rolled to the end of the runway, held while Bob ran the engines up and then, with a word from the control tower, took off into the morning sun, headed for England, 1865 miles and eight hours away.
King’s precise navigation put them exactly where they wanted to be, at the airfield in Valley, Wales. From there, they loaded on a train for London and then were driven from there seventy-five miles to the home field of the 34th Bomb Group in Mendlesham, on the northeast coast of East Anglia, a few miles from the English Channel and less than 100 miles from the continent. They were finally where they could do what they had trained for. Still, Otto couldn’t keep a whole flock of butterflies from inhabiting his stomach. Training was one thing, practice missions were one thing, but soon they would encounter the real thing. He hoped they were up to the challenge.
***
The crew jumped out of the truck that had brought them up from London. The air base was strangely quiet. There were no aircraft on the ground, none in the air. A group of senior officers was standing on the second story of the wooden control tower, binoculars in hand, scanning the skies to the east.
“They’re waiting for a mission to come back. From the time of day, it must have been one to Germany,” Donovan offered. The ten men stood there, waiting with the rest of the base.
Finally, they heard a faint hum from the east. Then, one by one, the black bombers in trail appeared, one after another. Some appeared to be completely undamaged; others were missing parts of their wing or tail plane. Occasionally an engine would be feathered, although the Fortress could fly on two.
Several ships shot off red flares, meaning they had injured aboard. They landed first, and fire trucks and ambulances rushed out to meet them. The rest of the bombers came in one by one. Otto didn’t know how many had gone out, so he had no idea o
f how many were lost. His stomach tightened at the thought that soon he and his crew would be on one of those bombers, either making their way back, perhaps undamaged, perhaps torn up but still flying…or they could be one of those shot down, either parachuting to capture and imprisonment or not escaping the Fort’s death spiral or sudden explosion. There were so many possibilities, and he grew dizzy thinking about them.
Well, nothing to be done but find out where they would be billeted. Otto picked up his B bag and led his crew over to operations. It would probably be a while until the operations officer showed up, but they could wait. The Army was all about waiting.
Chapter 25
Set to Go—Mid-September, 1943
Dear Mata,
Well, we’ve been here for three weeks, and it has been training, training and more training. We must be the best-trained air force in the world, but I suppose it’s for our own good. We’re eager to get into the fight, but watching the bombers come back torn up or realizing that some have not come back at all tempers that eagerness somewhat. Still, this is what we have trained (there’s that word again!) for.
I haven’t said much about our living arrangements. About 3000 people are housed on the base, 500 of them airmen. The enlisted men live in barracks, about thirty-two to a unit, while the officers live in Nissen huts, which are rounded metal structures about thirty feet long and sixteen feet wide. Donovan and I are in a hut with four other officers, so it’s not so bad. We have a coal stove in the center of the hut, and each of us has a space with a cot, underneath which we put our foot locker, and a place above the cot to hang our uniforms.
We have an ablution hut for daily bathing needs and, further away, a shower hut which we visit once a week.
