On Wings of the Morning

by Dan Verner

  I’m writing this in the ready room while the rest of the troops are out on a mission. It’s so tense to wait for them to come back, to hear the first sounds of engines and then to count them as they come in one by one. Some of the ships are badly shot up. Some have wounded. Some don’t come back. That’s the hardest of all, not knowing what happened to them unless someone saw the aircraft explode or go down without parachutes appearing.

  I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just the way things are here. Soon we will be joining that flight of bombers and I pray that I will always come back, and that I will, God willing, come back to you and Mama and Papa.

  About time for lunch so I’ll close.

  Your brother,

  Otto

  Otto held the Mata Maria in a hard left turn, keeping in position with the Fort ahead of and above him. The little thirty-ship formation cruised through a spotless English sky. They were on another formation practice mission. Their instructors stressed the importance of staying in formation as a life saver. In formation, one ship could protect others. Alone, the big bombers were easy prey for German fighters. Otto prayed that he would never fall behind the formation or get separated out somehow.

  This should be about the last training mission, he thought, and he in fact was itching for some real action. The formation began the long descent into the air base. One by one the bombers peeled off and landed. Otto was next to last and he brought the Mata Maria in for a smooth landing, taxied to the hardstand and chopped the engines.

  “Next time for real,” Donovan said.

  “That’s what I hear,” Otto replied, flipping the switches as indicated on the shutdown checklist.

  “You want to go with us tonight? We’re going to a pub to sample British hospitality and celebrate going on combat status.”

  “I don’t know, Bob,” Otto demurred. “I need to write some letters and finish my book.”

  “Ah, you can do that any time. Your crew needs you.”

  “Well…all right.”

  “There’s a bus leaving at 2000 hours. We’ll see you then.”

  Donovan dropped down into the hatch. Otto as the captain of the ship was the last to leave. He walked back to their hut from the flight line. He really didn’t want to go to a pub. Although the Brits were their allies, there was tension between them and the Americans. The British attitude was somewhat warranted, he thought. Some American troops acted in an arrogant manner not calculated to win friends and influence allies. But he needed to support his crew. He’d go for one drink and then turn in early. Four AM would come soon enough when they were awakened for their first combat mission.

  ***

  Otto climbed aboard the olive drab bus precisely at 2000 hours. His crew was already in place, with a seat saved for him. The rest of the bus was overfilled, with three men crowded onto a seat meant for two. The sergeant who drove the bus got on, started the engine, and put it into gear. They started for town.

  The bus made stops at several pubs. Donovan and Frederick had conducted reconnaissance, as they called it, and told the rest of the crew to get off at a seedy-looking pub called the King’s Head Inn. Donovan called. “This is it, fellas! Drink up.”

  The crew filed through the door into the dimly lit interior. They stood for a moment waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Otto became aware the pub was populated by about a dozen rough-looking Englishmen. Donovan moved forward to the bar. “I’d like a Guinness,” he said.

  The bartender didn’t move from the other end of the bar. Men that Otto assumed were regulars moved away from them, leaving the Americans standing in an open space.

  “I said, ‘I’d like a Guinness,’ ” Donovan called in a louder voice.

  The barkeeper answered, “I suppose you would.”

  Donovan slapped some bills on the bar. “Does this change your mind?”

  The bartender looked at the money and then at Donovan. “It does about the drink. It doesn’t change my mind about you Yanks.”

  Otto stepped up. “We don’t want to change your mind, friend. We just want to have a drink or two.”

  One of the men standing by the wall spoke up. “Why don’t you leave and then have your drink?” The rest of the Brits laughed.

  Visibly irritated, Donovan growled, “What’s your problem?” He was asking everyone and no one.

  “Our problem is that you Yanks are here.”

  “We’re here to help.”

  “Yeah, and there are just three problems with that; you’re oversexed, overpaid and over here.”

  “That’s clever,” Otto said. “I hadn’t heard that before. Bet you had to think all day to come up with that.” He thought, we’ve worked too hard to be here to put up with this.

  “You calling me stupid?”

  “You said it: I didn’t.”

  The fliers instinctively moved into a ring, facing out and raised their fists.

  “Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Otto said, feeling the situation escalating out of control.

  “Well, leave.”

  “We will,” Donovan said. “You don’t deserve being saved from the Germans.”

  “Go have some tea,” one of the regulars called.

  “Kiss my ass!” shouted Briscoe, and then they were through the door onto the street.

  “Let’s find another place,” Donovan told the group.

  “I’m going to walk back to base,” Otto said. “I’ve lost my thirst. You guys be careful and I’ll see you in the morning.”

  The crew walked off down the street. Otto turned in the direction of the base. He normally had a good sense of direction and walked slowly down the wet streets. The cobblestones were hard to see with the blackout, but his eyes soon adjusted to the surface. He thought of all he and the crew had been through to get to this point. It was a slap in the face to be rejected by those they had come to help. But he had heard of some pretty big fights between hot-headed G.I.’s and equally hot-headed natives, and they certainly didn’t need that.

  As he walked on, he thought about Mata and Mama and Papa. It would be about 3 o’clock in the afternoon at home, and they would be ready to start afternoon chores. Suddenly he thought of Betty and wondered what she was doing. Probably sitting at her teller station at the bank. He thought he had handled their last meeting poorly and had started to write her several times, but thought better of it and never did.

  Lost in thought, he looked up and realized he had no idea where he was. The labyrinth of old streets, in the dark, had turned him around, and he had lost his orientation. He kept walking, thinking he would find someone to ask directions from. But the streets were deserted.

  Otto wandered around for half an hour, thinking he would come across something familiar, but he had not been off base and had not paid attention to the bus route. Then, far down a street, he saw the bus pull through a cross street. “Hey!” he shouted, trying to run on the uneven cobbles to catch up. The bus went on without stopping. Otto slowed to a walk and then stood there.

  “You shouldn’t run on cobbles, you know. You’re likely to stumble.”

  He turned toward the voice and saw a young woman in a British Red Cross uniform. “Are you lost?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am, I am. I’m trying to get back to the air base.”

  “First of all, don’t call me ‘ma’am’: it makes me feel old. And secondly, you’re headed away from the base. I’ll show you how to go.”

  “I would appreciate that, M—Miss—?”

  She put out a tiny hand. “Dodgson. Alice Dodgson, Red Cross volunteer. And you are?”

  Otto shook her hand, feeling its coolness. “Otto Kerchner, second lieutenant, Eighth Air Force.”

  “Pleased to meet you, lieutenant.”

  “Likewise.”

  “Let’s be off, then. Do you have a mission in the morning?”

  “Yes.”

  “All the more reason to proceed with dispatch.”

  As he walked with her, Otto could see well e
nough to tell that Alice was a beautiful woman with the clear skin possessed by many British women, and regular features. The top of her head came up to his shoulder, and she wore her brown hair in a fashionably short cut.

  “So, what’s a girl like you doing wandering around at this time of night?”

  “I could very well ask you the same thing.”

  “I went with some buddies to a pub and we received a less than hospitable welcome so I left to walk back.”

  “And I got off duty and am going home.”

  “Doesn’t it worry you to walk alone through here?”

  Alice laughed, a melodious silvery laugh. “I’ve lived here all my life. I know practically everyone, so there’s no problem.”

  “I see. Hey, it just occurred to me that your last name is the same as Lewis Carroll’s real name. If he had married Alice, her name would have been yours.”

  “Well, fancy that! An American who knows British literature. We’re distantly related to Mr. Dodgson, although he never married, as you probably know.”

  “Yes. Alice in Wonderland is one of my favorite books.”

  “Mine, too.”

  They walked on in silence for a while.

  “Are you a reader, Alice?”

  “Yes, anything I can get my hands on. You?”

  “Same thing.”

  “Look,” she said. “We’re coming up to the base.” Otto saw that they were approaching the flight line. “Well, I’ll leave you here. I’m sure you know where you are now.”

  “I’ll be fine. Thank you for your help.”

  “It was nothing. Glad to help an ally.”

  Alice offered her hand. Otto shook it and she started to walk away, saying “Ta ta for now.”

  “Good-bye, Alice.” Otto stood there wishing he had asked if he could see her again. She was attractive and a good conversationalist. He could tell.

  “In the words of the song, ‘we’ll meet again.’ You’ll see me at some point, I’m sure,” she called back over her shoulder.

  He walked around the flight line area to reach the road that separated it from the living and administrative buildings. He crossed the road easily with its light traffic and presented his ID to the M.P. at the gate.

  “Good evening, sir,” the M.P. said.

  “Good evening, sergeant,” Otto returned, and made his way to his hut. He got ready for bed and read a little Shakespeare. He kept thinking of Alice and hoped he would see her again soon. He turned out the light and was fast asleep when Donovan and Frederick came in.

  Chapter 26

  First Blood—Late September, 1943

  Otto was flying. He held the stick of the J-2 he had learned on, high above the autumn Wisconsin fields. He flew toward the sun, and all was golden—the air, the fields, the sun low on the dawn horizon. He smiled, completely relaxed as the little engine pulled him along.

  He felt a hand on his shoulder, which didn’t make sense because he was flying solo. A voice came to him: “Wake up sir. Time to get up.”

  Otto opened his eyes not to a golden morning but the dimly lit interior of his hut. Mission time. It was the real thing this time.

  He went to the ablution hut and stumbled through the 4 A.M. darkness with other shadowy forms. He couldn’t tell who anyone was until they got inside the lit interior of the hut. He saw Donovan just ahead of him. “Bob! When did you get in?”

  Donovan rubbed his eyes. “About 2 A.M. Too late. Christ, I feel like hell.”

  “Can you fly?”

  “Oh, yeah, I can fly.”

  He and Donovan washed and shaved at a long line of sinks where other airmen were doing the same thing. No one spoke.

  Otto finished and went back, dressed and headed for the mess hall, Donovan walking silently beside him. They came into the warm steamy space of the mess hall and loaded up their plates. One thing, Otto thought, we’ll fly with full stomachs. The mission would take about five hours, and they would have sandwiches but he wanted to load up before they left. He hoped he wouldn’t lose it all from nerves.

  He and Donovan ate quickly and then headed for the ops building where they would receive their briefing. About 200 officers filed into the wooden structure and took seats on wooden benches. Precisely at 0500 hours, Colonel Rackham strode on stage, followed by his aides. The officers sprang to attention. Rackham gave them a dismissive wave of his hand. “At ease. Be seated.”

  “Today’s mission,” he began, “should be an easy one. It’s right over in France and we expect minimal flak and fighters. You’ll be targeting a rail yard. Good luck and good flying.”

  Navigators stayed for weather briefing while the rest of the officers went outside to take a brief break. Many of them lit cigarettes and stood around in small groups. Otto noticed once again there was very little conversation.

  Donovan said quietly, “There’s the rest of the crew.” They were standing about thirty yards off, smoking and stamping their feet to ward off the early chill.

  Otto and Donovan walked over. “Good morning, guys,” Otto said and was greeted by a variety of responses, including grunts and lifted hands. “Ready to fly?”

  This time the crew mumbled assent. “Do you think this is going to be as easy as they say it will, Lieutenant?”

  “I hear the intel on that’s pretty good, but we’ll have to be sharp anyhow.”

  The navigators started coming out of the briefing room. King joined them and they walked over to their jeep. Somehow they managed to cram ten men onto one jeep. Otto took the passenger seat; Donovan drove. “You know how to drive this thing, Bob?” he asked.

  “It’s only got one engine and it doesn’t get off the ground. Piece of cake.” Donovan threw the jeep into gear, and they lurched forward, the men on the back holding on for dear life.

  The flight line was shrouded in mist, but it lifted quickly as the sun came up. Donovan stopped in front of the Mata Maria. The crew climbed out and, one by one, took their stations in the aircraft. Otto signed off with the crew chief and pulled himself through the hatch. Donovan was already strapped in the left seat, looking over the checklist. Otto slid into the right seat.

  “Let’s do it,” he said. He and Donovan ran through the checklist.

  Donovan called each item and Otto answered in a kind of litany.

  “Form 1 A?”

  “CHECKED!”

  “Controls and Seats?”

  “CHECKED!”

  “Fuel Transfer Valves and Switch?”

  “OFF!”

  “Intercoolers?”

  “Cold!”

  And so on down through the items on the list. Donovan called, “Preflight?”

  “Complete!” Otto answered, and pushed his throat mike. “All right, crew, engine start is coming up. Preflight stations, everyone.” The replies came back:

  “Nav, here.”

  “Nose, check.”

  “Flight, yeah.”

  “Radio, roger.”

  “Waist one, I’m here.”

  “Waist two, likewise.”

  “Ball here.”

  “Tail present and accounted for, sir!”

  Otto sighed. Why did he have a bunch of clowns for a crew? Still, they were a good one, and he supposed that he had to expect some monkeying around.

  Donovan fired up the inboard engines. The aircraft next to them pulled forward and turned onto the taxiway. They followed and held as the Fort in front of them turned onto the runway, held, ran up each engine and started its takeoff roll.

  “We’re next,” Otto said, thinking, could I say anything more obvious? Mata Maria surged with the power of the four Wright engines. Bob and Otto ran them up, studying their instruments.

  “Engineer here, everything looks good. Let’s roll,” came Frederick’s voice through the intercom.

  “Crew, prepare for takeoff!” Otto called as he advanced the throttles and released the brakes. Fully loaded, Mata Maria started her takeoff roll slowly, then more and more quickly as the broken white center line
disappeared with growing rapidity under the nose.

  “Rotate!” called Donovan at ninety-five knots, and Otto pulled back on the wheel. They were airborne.

  Otto climbed out, following the previous bomber to the holding area where they would join up. The sky was a perfect blue, and the yellow sun hung low over the horizon. It would have been a great day for flying were it not for a few flak cannons and fighters who were aching to spoil it for them.

  Otto realized he was concentrating on the mission too much to be nervous. Mata Maria joined the other planes in formation. When they were all assembled, the flight of twenty “boxes” of ten planes each headed for the coast, not far away. They crossed the Channel at 20,000 feet and climbed to their operational altitude of 30,000. Otto had ordered the crew on oxygen at 10,000 and had the gunners test their weapons. Even with a mask on, he could smell the reek of cordite as the chatter of machine guns echoed through the ship. The guns fell silent and the armada of aircraft droned on to the coast.

  “Stay alert, crew,” Otto said into the intercom. “We’re feet dry and that’s enemy territory down there.” Again stating the obvious, he thought.

  “Waist one, I’ve got a few puffs of flak off to starboard.” Otto and Donovan looked off to the right, but the bursts were too far aft for them to see.

  “Tail here, wish you guys could see this. The whole sky is filled with aircraft. Wow!”

  “Wonder where our escort is,” Donovan said.

  “Top, little friends incoming, six o’clock high.”

  “There’s your answer,” Otto said.

  The Mustangs wove over the formation, since they were faster than the lumbering heavies. The escorts would go all the way to the target with them since it wasn’t that far into France.

  “Top, I’ve got a couple of bandits circling out of range, nine o’clock low.”

  “Keep an eye on them, top. Sing out if they make a move,” Otto cautioned.

  “Top, wilco. Stay where you are, you stinkin’ Huns.”

  Otto started to chide Marx for extraneous chatter but decided to let it go. They were all keyed up.