Of Windmills and War

by Diane Moody

  “I’m glad you came.” When his father broke into a chuckle, Danny surprised him with a hearty hug. “I’ve missed you!”

  His week-long leave flew by much too fast. Three days after he got home, Danny served as best man as Joey and Millie were married in a small ceremony at the church. Watching Millie walk down the aisle on the arm of her father, he’d felt a twinge of jealousy as he watched her eyes locked on Joey’s. What would it be like to know without a single doubt that someone so beautiful, so wonderful, loved you unconditionally? He’d almost chuckled out loud when he sneaked a peek at his brother and caught a glimpse of his goofy, love-smitten grin. He’d never seen his brother so happy.

  As Joey and Millie mingled with family and friends at the reception, Danny heard someone call out his name. He turned to find his former high school teacher beaming at him.

  “Mrs. Zankowski! Nice to see you!”

  She hugged him hard. “Oh, the pleasure’s all mine. What a handsome best man you made! Why, I couldn’t believe that dashing young man in uniform standing up there beside Joey was that skinny little guy who used to mow my yard. How in the world are you, Danny?”

  “Great. I just graduated from flight school, and I have to say I’m feeling pretty good about that right now.”

  “Congratulations! That must have been so exciting! We’re all real proud of you. I pray for you every single day. Your mother keeps me up to date on all your news.”

  “I appreciate that, Mrs. Z.” He turned to look at Joey and Millie who were talking to some friends. “I guess you and I are family now, huh? Millie’s a great gal. Joey’s a lucky man.”

  “Isn’t she a dear? And oh my, how she loves your brother. Watching those two fall in love—well, it reminded me there’s still some good left in this old world after all.”

  He noticed a trace of sadness in her eyes.

  “Any word from your family over in Poland? I think of them every time there’s war news out of Warsaw.”

  Her face darkened as she looked away. “Oh, let’s not spoil such a nice occasion. I thank you for asking, but a wedding isn’t a place for such troubling talk.” She gave him a trembling smile. “Never mind all that. How about you? I’ll bet there are lots of pretty girls out there lining up for a smart, good looking fella like you.”

  “Well, I hate to disappoint you, but there’s no pretty girls chasing after me and certainly no lines forming. I was just hoping you had another niece or two like Millie.”

  She laughed, looping her arm with his. “Well, I’ll have to give that some thought. In the meantime, let’s go have us a piece of wedding cake.”

  Four days later on his way back to California, Danny dug in his satchel for his journal. He’d been negligent lately, with so little time to jot down a note or two. But the long flight back to California gave him plenty of time to catch up.

  I can’t believe I’m already heading back. It was great to be home, but strange too. It’s hard to even remember the kid I was when I used to live there. Same house, same family, same smells, same sounds . . . but I don’t feel like the same person. Not at all. I wonder what it will be like when I come back from the war?

  With Joey moved into the apartment, Sophie decided to spend her nights with me. I’d forgotten what it was like to share a bed with a beagle. But I have to say, I’ll sure miss her. She’s great company. And apparently the only kind of female company I can handle these days . . .

  I couldn’t help thinking about Beverly while I was home. I guess being so close to Evanston brought up all those old memories. I’m sure she’s married by now to Mr. Football. I heard the Wildcats turned their season around and only lost two games this year. I guess I should be happy for them—the team, that is.

  I came across the old cigar box with all my letters from Hans and Anya. I’m not sure why but something made me read all through them again. It seems like it’s been a lifetime since I lived for the mailman’s delivery, hoping to have a letter from Holland. It was hard reading the letters from Hans again. Even after all these years I still can’t believe he died so young. It reminded me of how I felt after Craig died. We were never that close, but it still seemed like such a waste. I wonder how God chooses who will die young and who dies of old age?

  I’ve thought about Anya a lot after reading through all her letters. I wonder what she looks like now. Does she still have those freckles? Has she grown into a beauty like her mother once was? Did she grow tall like Hans? Hard to imagine, after all these years thinking of her as “little Anya.” I’m not sure why, but I stuck that picture of the Versteegs in my wallet. For old time’s sake, I guess. In my gut, I want to believe she’s still alive, but I don’t know. The war seems like such a distant monstrosity, but whenever I think about Anya and her family, it seems very close and personal. I guess it should, since I could be smack dab in the middle of it soon. Sometimes the thought of it scares me more than I’m willing to admit. And sometimes . . . well, sometimes I can’t wait to get there.

  Las Vegas, Nevada

  Upon returning from his leave, Danny and several of his fellow graduates were sent to Las Vegas Army Air Base in Nevada where they were first introduced to the mighty Flying Fortress—the B-17. Danny was in awe of the enormous aircraft, grasping at once the reasoning behind the legendary nickname. The four-engine bird was the biggest aircraft he’d ever seen.

  It was here at the base in Las Vegas that Danny learned he would be training as a co-pilot. The training at the Las Vegas base served two purposes. Gunners were sent up for practice in the air while co-pilots used the same flights to learn the ropes of flying the Fort. Some flights were strictly for co-pilot training, a tremendous responsibility onboard the four-engine birds.

  Shortly after their arrival, Danny and his buddies learned that D-Day was on and the invasion was underway. Time was of the essence.

  Once they had mastered the B-17, Danny and his unit were transferred to Lincoln Army Air Base in Nebraska for crew assignment. Danny was glad to finally meet the men he would fly with, a diverse and interesting bunch. He looked forward to getting to know them better.

  Pilot Dick Anderson hailed from Milwaukee, Wisconsin. Anderson, about six feet two with a shock of brown hair, seemed like a congenial guy, but Danny knew instantly he took his job seriously. Twenty-six year old Anderson would serve as the airplane commander, responsible for the safety of his crew. His leadership would set the tone for the morale and discipline necessary for them to function as a unit. Respect and confidence in the airplane commander was vital to the men who served under him. His word was final, regardless of the situation. Danny had a feeling Anderson could easily maintain those responsibilities.

  Navigator Lane Pendergrass had the look and demeanor of an Ivy leaguer. With his black hair, blue eyes, and an air of self-confidence, he reminded Danny of the fraternity boys back at Northwestern. With a name like Pendergrass, the Boston native surely had blue blood flowing in his veins. But none of that would matter in the skies above enemy territory. A navigator needed the smarts to get his plane to the target and back in spite of weather, flak, or formation emergencies, while also calibrating all of the Fort’s complicated instruments. Positioned in the Plexiglas bubble in the nose of the aircraft, the navigator would also man the nose gun when fighters attacked.

  Sullivan “Sully” Thornton, a twenty-two year old from Atlanta, Georgia, would handle the toggelier controls for the crew. The primary function of a B-17 is to drop bombs on the target, which is no simple task. In the lead crew, bombardiers are responsible for calculating altitude, air speed versus ground speed, actual time of fall, drift, bomb trajectory and several other factors to make precision bomb drops. Toggeliers would control the bomb release switch in non-lead crews, following the signal of the lead crew.

  As senior enlisted man on the crew, the flight engineer had to know more about the B-17—its mechanics, its armament, and the function of all equipment—than anyone else on board. He also served double duty as the top turret gun
ner. Paul “Shorty” Lowenstein, born and raised in Pottstown, Pennsylvania, didn’t really look the part—at least to Danny. The five-foot five-inch engineer had a quick smile, and he constantly worked a wad of gum like it was the difference between life and death.

  Radio operator Tony Franconi was a New York native from Staten Island with a thick accent to prove it. For the long hours of flight, the radio operator manned his desk in the middle of the fuselage with the constant crackling static streaming through his headset. He would give position reports every thirty minutes, while keeping headquarters informed of target attacks and results.

  Ball turret gunner Don Michaels came from St. Louis, Missouri. As required for the cramped compartment beneath the belly of the B-17, Don was also a short guy, but he made up for it in strength. Danny had never seen a guy so chiseled. He didn’t envy Michaels’ vulnerable position in the ball turret. It gave Danny claustrophobia just thinking about it.

  Tail gunner Dal Nicholson was a good looking kid came from Sterling, Illinois. The eighteen-year-old’s easy manner would hopefully be a calming influence on the crew. Danny had to admire anyone willing to crawl back around the tail wheel then man his position while kneeling on what looked like a bicycle seat. No wonder they draft ‘em young.

  Left waist gunner Francis McCabe called New York City home. Danny was quite sure the young kid must have lied about his age to enlist. But he took his job seriously and that’s all that mattered. Nashville, Tennessee native Jimmy Foster rounded out the crew as right waist gunner. Tow-headed and feisty, Foster always kept a deck of cards on hand “for a quick one.” Waist gunners had the highest rate of casualties, exposed to the 150 mile per hour slipstream while manning the 65-pound machine guns in the mid-section of the Fort.

  Danny liked the guys and felt confident they’d make a good team. It was a sobering thought to realize these complete strangers would play a significant role in whether or not they would return home after the war—be it safe and whole, wounded, or in a wooden box. It was a thought he chose to ignore.

  After their crew was assembled, they were sent to Alexandria Army Air Base in Alexandria, Louisiana for Phase Training. Here, they would learn to operate as a unit, working in sync with one another to perform the necessary tasks for combat flying.

  Over the next few weeks, they flew constantly, learning to work together and do the job as flawlessly as possible. But they learned early on how easily mistakes could be made. On a Saturday afternoon exercise involving a mock bombing mission, they witnessed the crash of a P39 Aircobra crashing into one of the B17s—a maneuver that was definitely not in the planned mock-drill. In less than a minute, they’d accounted for all crew members on both planes—a miracle considering the extreme damage to both aircraft. The crash made an indelible impression on every one involved in the exercise that day. In the blink of an eye, everything could go wrong—a lesson Danny never forgot.

  In another week, they boarded a troop train and headed back to Lincoln where combat gear was issued to each of them. By the type of gear they were given, Danny and his crew realized they would most likely be headed to the European Theater of Operations, or ETO. In the back of his mind, Danny had always assumed he’d be flying above the warm waters of the Pacific when the time came. But after a year and ten months of training, he didn’t care where they were assigned. He just wanted to get there.

  35

  November 1944

  He’d never seen a cruise ship before. The Queen Elizabeth was a beautiful vessel, massive in size, sailing beneath the Union Jack—and the main means of transportation for those like Danny, heading to his home away from home in England.

  Halfway across the Atlantic, he took out his journal for an update.

  After arriving at Camp Kilmer, New Jersey this morning, our crew boarded the “Queen Elizabeth” headed for England. The last place I expected to be on Thanksgiving Day was on a ship cruising the Atlantic. I have to admit, there’s not a lot to be thankful for here. We’re all crammed on the QE like sardines. She’s a beautiful ship—the largest ship afloat these days—but there are 20,000 troops on board, plus another 2,000 of the ship’s crew. As officers, we were assigned to bunk in staterooms. Sounds fancy and it is—except for the fact there are 48 of us squeezed into three-tiered bunks in these two-room staterooms which normally accommodate just two passengers!

  To make things worse we’ve encountered unusually rough seas which has caused most of the troops on board to toss their cookies into their helmets. Thankfully, as aviators, we’re used to motion sickness so it hasn’t been a problem.

  We were all hoping the meals served on the QE would be up to par for a ship this classy. The officers are served meals by British waiters in a special dining area, but much to our disappointment, the food is typical military grub and very bland. So much for tea and crumpets.

  I’ve never seen so much gambling in all my life. The main ballroom has turned into an Officers Club, where every game of chance is played almost around the clock. I’m too cheap to take a chance on losing my hard earned cash, but some of these guys would mortgage their skivvies if they could. Pendergrass, our navigator, has already made $1000! Rumor has it a chaplain from the Bronx put the title of his new Buick convertible in the pot and LOST it! These guys are nuts!

  But I’m so glad we’re finally on our way to do our part in the war effort. We keep up with the war news as best we can. We hear the Allies are making huge progress in fighting the Axis powers since the invasion on D-Day last June. And all of us cheered when we learned that Paris had been liberated near the end of August. In September we heard about “Operation Market Garden” – the Allied assault on The Netherlands. British General Montgomery’s plan was for the Allies to drop paratroopers and supplies at Arnhem while at the same time marching a major force from Belgium in the south. When they met up, they would defeat the Germans, free The Netherlands, then have easy access to Germany through the Dutch border. But it all went horribly wrong. The Germans in Holland were much stronger than they’d expected, and the paratroopers dropped in Arnhem were quickly defeated. Not only was it a serious disappointment for the Allies, it had an extremely demoralizing effect on the people of The Netherlands.

  Of course, I never hear news of Holland that I don’t think of Anya and her family. It’s hard to believe it’s already been four years since I last heard from her. I sure hope she’s okay.

  Something really bizarre happened today. I remember hearing about “Tokyo Rose”—the Japanese radio doll who attempted to demoralize the troops by propaganda. So today we were told that “Lord Haw Haw,” the German’s answer to Tokyo Rose, announced that our ship, the Queen Elizabeth, had been sunk by German subs and all hands were lost at sea! We had a good laugh over that one as we sailed along. We’re told the QE is more than capable of outrunning any subs, so we’re not sweating it.

  I keep wondering what it’ll be like to be in actual combat. Training can only take you so far. Sometimes I get a little queasy thinking about being up in the sky, dodging the Luftwaffe fighters. I’m not too anxious to fly through all that flak they’ve told us about. Then I remember why I’m here and all I can think about is swinging up into the cockpit of our own Fort.

  On December 1, the Queen Elizabeth docked at Greenock, Scotland up the Firth of the Forth.

  “Well, which is it? The fifth or the fourth?” Sully teased, as they walked down the gangplank.

  “No, it’s a ‘firth’,” Pendergrass answered, pointing up at the majestic peaks surrounding them. “It’s what the Scots call these inlets in the mountains.”

  “Yeah? So why don’t they just call ‘em inlets?”

  “Because they’re Scots. They can call them whatever they like.”

  “Yeah? So?”

  “Listen up, men,” Anderson interrupted. “We’ll grab a ride on one of these troop trucks to the train station. From there, we’ll board a train for a short trip to Warrington to the reassignment station.”

  Franconi moaned. �
�You’ve gotta love the Army. They can’t just send us where we’re going. We have to make twenty stops before we get there.”

  “At this rate, we won’t get our birds up in the air until the day after the war ends,” Jimmy whined. “All those months of training for nothing.”

  “Don’t worry, Jimmy,” Dal said. “We’ve called Roosevelt and asked him to keep the war going long enough so you’ll get your chance.”

  “Called FDR, did you? Did you ask if Eleanor was there? I heard you’ve got a crush on her.” He grabbed Dal’s hat off his head.

  “Nice one, Jimmy,” the tail gunner quipped. “Now give me my hat back or I’ll call your mother.”

  “Over here, men.”

  When they got to Warrington, they were assigned to the 390th Bomb Group housed at Framlingham near Ipswich, which was clear across the British Isles. The next morning, they boarded yet another train for a day long journey which put them in Ipswich in the early evening. When they arrived, the town was under total blackout conditions. Danny immediately felt a chill that had nothing to do with the cold, damp British weather or the mud squishing beneath their boots.

  This is a war zone. We’re finally in it.

  He shrugged off the disconcerting realization as they checked in at the 390th. He couldn’t tell much about the base under blackout. Since dinner had already been served on the base, they were told they could get something to eat at the Combat Mess. They made their way to the large Nissen hut walking on a series of planks to avoid the impossible mud puddles.

  “They can’t be serious,” Franconi groaned as they picked up their grub. “Liver sandwiches?”

  “What did you expect?” Shorty asked. “Spaghetti and meatballs?”

  “Yeah, Franconi,” Michaels taunted. “Stop your bellyaching and chow down. A little liver never hurt anybody. In fact, it’s good for you. Full of iron.”