Of Windmills and War

by Diane Moody

  As Danny drained his second cup on his way out, Charlie caught up with him.

  “Morning, McClain. How’re you holding up?”

  “So far, so good.”

  Charlie patted him on the back. “You’ll do great today. Don’t worry about a thing. Besides, I’ll be keeping an eye on you, okay?”

  “Yeah, you’ve got nothing better to do than watch out for the green horns at the back of the formation.”

  “That’s what auto-pilot is for. Didn’t they tell you?”

  “Good to know.”

  A few minutes later they were back on the truck, whisked away to the Briefing Room located near the flight line. Once they filed in and took a seat on the long hard benches, Danny’s jitters kicked into double-time. Even the smells in the room got to him—aftershave, sweat, and enough cigarette smoke to choke thirty chimneys. Regardless, he took a couple of deep breaths, trying to stay calm.

  You’ve trained for this. You know the drill. You’ll be fine.

  He closed his eyes for a moment. As he did so, the image of his mother came out of nowhere—on her knees beside her bed, her hands folded in prayer. He’d seen her there so often when Joey was overseas.

  Keep ‘em coming, Mom.

  He opened his eyes, staring through the hazy room to the front wall which was shrouded beneath a heavy black curtain. Check out the yarn pulley on the left side of the map, Charlie had told him earlier. If the pulley is way down, you’ll be home in time for dinner. If the yarn’s all used up, say your prayers.

  “Ten-hut!”

  The thunder of boots hitting the concrete floor filled the room as everyone stood. A millisecond of quiet, then the quick, steady footsteps of the Group’s leaders echoed as they made their way down the middle aisle and up onto the platform.

  “Have a seat, gentlemen.”

  Colonel Joseph Moller, Commanding Officer of the 390th, began his introductory comments from the podium. “Gentlemen, your mission today is an opportunity to advance the cause of liberty in a substantial way. What you do today will have a tremendous impact on the outcome of this war. Do your best, and remember that those back home are proud of you, and so are we. Good luck, gentlemen. Colonel Waltz, Group Operations Officer, will now detail your mission.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Robert Waltz, second in command of the 390th, stepped up to the podium and nodded to the S-2 Security Officer assisting him. The lights dimmed as the black curtains parted revealing a map of Germany which filled the entire wall. “Gentlemen, your target for today is Frankfurt, Germany.”

  Groans and murmurs rippled across the room sending another wave of butterflies through Danny’s stomach. He was starting to regret he’d eaten any breakfast at all. Then, like everyone else in the room, he simply busied himself taking notes as Colonel Waltz detailed the marshaling yards they would bomb in a matter of hours. Danny studied the elaborate map, their course plotted by yarn stretching across the outlines of Britain’s coastline, the North Sea, and across the Continent into the Führer’s backyard.

  Following Colonel Waltz’s comments, the S-3 Officer from Operations and Planning described the pertinent operation details. The S-2 Officer representing Intelligence described what they could expect as far as flak and enemy fighters. The Weather Officer then listed current conditions for the flight over, but more important, the prediction for conditions above the target. Danny knew his would be the final word in determining whether their mission would get the green light.

  Colonel Waltz returned to the podium, checking his wristwatch. Everyone in the room did the same. “Time-tick. Gentlemen, it is now four-thirty-four minus thirteen seconds . . . ten, nine, eight . . . three, two, one—Hack!” With the official synchronization, the meeting adjourned.

  As they filed out of the room, Dick Anderson and the other first pilots stayed in the briefing room for any last-minute instructions, while Danny and the other co-pilots headed to the changing room. He knew that Pendergrass would join the other navigators in a separate room to draw up their flight plans. Sully would go to another room set up for bombardiers and toggeliers to finalize the check points and receive the flimsy sheets that would help identify the target. Chaplains, both Protestant and Catholic, roamed the entire area, available for prayer or encouragement to anyone who wanted or needed it.

  In the changing room, Danny handed over all his personal effects which were catalogued and held until he returned. He knew this procedure assured that no personal information would be available to captors in case the plane was forced down. Next, Danny received his flight bag which included his folded silk parachute. He swallowed hard when a corporal handed him the bag containing prisoner-of-war aids and rations.

  At this point, he stripped down to his long johns to put on the blue heated flight suit beneath his uniform. Next, he put the heated slippers inside his combat boots. By the time he was dressed again, a thin layer of sweat made him clammy beneath all the layers. How much of that was from the extra layers and how much was from nerves, he couldn’t tell. Danny slipped on his parachute pack, strapping it securely, then pulled on his life jacket—known affectionately in the Army Air Force as Mae West—over his head.

  Once they were all suited up, they loaded their gear back on a six-by-six for the trip out to the hardstand where Sweet Sophie stood in readiness. He admired the fancy big letters painted for her nose art. When the base artist asked what kind of picture he wanted to accompany her name, Danny told him that wasn’t necessary since “no picture could do her justice.” Now, seeing her name written in script, Danny smiled, loving the fact that his entire crew thought Sophie was his girl back home.

  Now, in the darkness, Sophie’s interior lights glowed as if welcoming her boys. The gunners were already on board, mounting their fifty-caliber guns and stocking their clips. While the ground crew attended to last minute details, the Ordnance Crew finished loading bombs into Sweet Sophie’s bomb bay. A gas truck lingered to top off the tanks.

  Danny and the other officers joined them after hopping out of the truck. Nervous chatter assured Danny he wasn’t the only one feeling the first-mission jitters. While Anderson made a final check of Sweet Sophie’s exterior, Danny grabbed his gear and headed toward the front of the plane. He tossed his bag inside, then turned to attend to one more matter before climbing aboard. In the bushes ringing the hardstand, he joined several of his crew for one last “comfort” stop. Twelve hours is a long time to hold it, Charlie had said.

  Finally, Danny hoisted himself up into the front end of the plane. After stowing his bag, Shorty handed him his flak jacket. He climbed into the cockpit after Anderson, slipping into his seat on the right. After strapping on his flak jacket, Danny went through the pre-flight checklist with Dick and tuned in to the Control Tower for any last minute changes. As co-pilot, Danny then requested the crew’s roll-call.

  “Toggelier, checking in.”

  “Navigator, checking in.”

  “Top turret, checking in.”

  “Radio operator, checking in.”

  “Ball turret, checking in.”

  “Right waist gunner, checking in.”

  “Left waist gunner, checking in.”

  “Tail gunner, checking in.”

  Danny took a deep breath as he kept his eyes glued to the tower, watching for the green flare which would signal time to start their engines. As he waited, another annoying round of butterflies flitted through his abdomen, so he tried to pray.

  He had never doubted there was a God. But right there, at that particular moment in time, he wished he’d spent more time with the Lord. Mom had always been the praying one in the family, but he was smart enough to know he couldn’t very well ride her spiritual apron strings into battle. With his eyes still open and watching for the flare, he prayed silently.

  God, I feel kind of stupid calling on You now when I’m facing such a dangerous situation. Seems like I should’ve prayed a lot more before all this. But the fact is I’ve trained two years for this. And in a few m
inutes, we’ll be flying out of here through some treacherous skies with a belly full of bombs beneath us before we dump them in the heart of Germany. I’m as ready as I’m ever going to be, but I’m sure You can tell I’m scared to death. Lord, I’d be awfully glad if You could take these nerves away from me so I can do the job I need to do. I promise I’ll do better and spend more time with You when this is over. Amen.

  Ten minutes later, a green flare arced through the air above the Control Tower. Danny and Anderson went through a final checklist then flipped all four ignition switches. The noisy engines coughed and sputtered then roared as Sweet Sophie came to life. Soon after, at a snail’s pace she turned to the right out of her hardstand onto the perimeter track, and took her predetermined place in the taxi lane. As they reached the end of the runway, as soon as the plane ahead of them was on the roll, Anderson taxied out and lined up for take off. Both he and Danny stood on the brakes as the engines revved to their highest pitch. With a full bomb load and full fuel tanks, building up airspeed was critical to lift off before they ran out of runway. The B-17 shook violently as if every rivet on the plane would surely pop out. Then, with engines screaming, Anderson gave the sign to release the brakes, and they were on their way.

  40

  Since this was their first mission, Sweet Sophie flew the “tail-end Charlie” position at the back of the formation. As predicted, the fog and low ceiling complicated the well-rehearsed assembling of aircraft into their formation. It took just under one hour for the entire division to unite into combat box formation and turn east toward the Continent. As they flew, Danny took in the heavily peppered sky filled with B-17s and B-24s. Then, as they gained altitude, chalk-like contrails formed by crystallized vapor began to stream behind each plane. A beautiful sight to the untrained eye, but it felt like they were flying blind-folded through those eerie contrails of the planes ahead. Both pilot and co-pilot held their breath, anxious to clear the stuff.

  “This is a whole lot worse than I expected,” Shorty said, chomping his chewing gum. As flight engineer, he stood directly behind the cockpit between the pilot and co-pilot’s seats. There he kept a keen eye on all the instruments, making sure everything worked as it should. “Sure wasn’t this bad in all those practice runs.”

  “Let’s just hope it’s not a sign of things to come,” Anderson said.

  “Captain, we’re over the Channel,” Sully said from his position in the nose. “Permission to arm the bombs?”

  “Roger that,” Anderson responded.

  As Sully left the nose to make his way down to the bomb bay, Dal Nicholson inched his way back to his position as tail gunner. Don Michaels crawled into the ball turret and strapped himself in.

  A short time later, Anderson said, “Time to test your weapons, gentlemen.”

  Shorty slipped up to the top turret position soon joining in the tat-tat-tat-tat-tat of machine gun fire that rattled the fuselage. From front to back, top to bottom, the gunners shot off their weapons sending the pungent odor of gun smoke whipping through the aircraft.

  “Little Friends at three o’clock high,” Dal announced from his position in the rear of the plane. “Nice to know we’ve got escorts, huh?”

  “Yeah, but they don’t come along just for the heck of it,” Franconi chimed in. “Must be bandits up here too.”

  “We’re at ten-thousand feet, men,” Anderson announced. “Time for those oxygen masks. Check in.”

  “Ball turret, checking in.”

  “Top turret, checking.”

  “Radio, checking in.”

  The rest followed, one after another.

  “Keep checking those masks for oxygen flow. At these altitudes, they’ll freeze and you’ll pass out if you’re not careful.”

  “Yeah, Franconi, you heard the captain,” Jimmy teased from his post as left waist gunner. “No drooling today. We wouldn’t wanna have to carry your sorry corpse outta Sophie tonight.”

  “Shut up, Foster.”

  “All right, that’s enough,” Danny said. “We’re all a little tense, so let’s cut the cheap shots.”

  “Stay sharp, men,” Anderson ordered. “We’re crossing the European coastline. Watch for those fighters and call them out the second you see them.”

  “Captain, I see flashes down below!” Michaels yelled from the ball turret. “You seeing flak up ahead yet?”

  “I see it,” Anderson answered. “Coming in heavy at one o’clock low. Men, make sure you’ve got those flak jackets on.”

  Danny spotted the black puffs of smoke popping up all over the sky. Soon the plane rocked hard as they encountered the dreaded explosive shells for the first time. Each jolt seemed to slam the B-17 harder.

  “Geez, it feels like we’re dancing through a mine field!” Danny yelled.

  “Better get used to it,” Anderson growled. “The closer we get to target, the worse it’ll be.”

  “I hate this stuff!” Michaels shouted, adding a string of expletives.

  “Three bandits! Coming in level at three o’clock!”

  “Thunderbolts fanning out! Knock ‘em outta the sky, Little Friends!”

  The B-17 slammed hard again, thanks to the dense flak.

  “OUCH!” McCabe screamed. “That one got me!”

  “Waist gunner! Where are you hit?” Danny shouted.

  “I’m okay! I’m okay! Just some shrapnel on my cheek.”

  Another explosion rocked the plane as hot shrapnel bounced through Sophie’s mid-ship.

  “Fire! Fire!” Jimmy shouted. “Balls of fire all over us!”

  “Put it out! Put it out!”

  “Tony!” Anderson yelled. “Can you put it out?”

  “I’ve got it!” Franconi answered. “Fire extinguisher blowing as we speak, sir. I think we’ve got it—”

  “Over here, Franconi!” McCabe shouted. “There—in that corner.”

  For three more hours, they battled German Messerschmidts and Focke-Wulfs while dodging the unrelenting flak. The constant ping of shrapnel and the hollow clanging of cartridge casings flying around the middle section of the plane all grated on Danny’s last nerve, an audio background to the visual madness.

  A few minutes later, they watched helplessly as Dream Boat took a direct hit on its left wing. The engine caught fire and the ship quickly started losing altitude, then spiraled out of control. Then, before a single chute was spotted, she exploded in a huge fireball, wreaking havoc on every ship in her immediate area. Anderson struggled to keep control of Sweet Sophie. As the initial shock swept through the plane, the intercom went silent, but only for a moment.

  “Dear God . . .” Danny’s breath caught as his heart pounded.

  “Those guys didn’t have a chance.”

  “Did anybody see a chute? Surely somebody—”

  “No time for chutes.”

  “My buddy Mickey,” Dal croaked. “Mickey was on Dream Boat.”

  “Get us to that target so we can take out those Nazi—”

  “Gentlemen, take a breath,” Anderson said.

  Danny did, and with it gave himself a mental slap in the face to focus on his job. Nothing could help those guys now. Not even a prayer.

  Anderson called for another oxygen check. The crew sounded off in order.

  “Captain, we’re five minutes, thirty seconds from the IP,” Pendergrass stated.

  The sky was nearly black with heavy clouds of flak as they drew ever closer to their first target. Anderson fought hard to maintain as level a path as possible.

  “Bomb bay doors in the lead plane opening!” Danny shouted as he watched the streamers of pure white smoke cascade from the lead plane.

  “Opening bomb bay doors,” Sully answered from the toggelier. Then, following the lead plane, Sully flipped the switch, releasing the payload from Sophie’s belly.

  “Bombs away!”

  All around them, the ships flying in their formation dropped the five-hundred pound bombs right on target. Danny had never seen anything like it. As th
eir craft still bounced along the flak-filled sky, he looked down, marveling at the explosions rippling across the landscape below. For a moment, the intercom remained silent. Danny wondered if the rest of the crew was experiencing the same emotions he was—pride at a mission accomplished, as well as a peculiar check in his spirit at the loss of life below. It wasn’t regret. Not in the least. The Germans certainly had it coming. The atrocities and bloodshed at their hands were the sole source of blame for the war here in the European Theater. Still, an odd and quite unexpected sense of sadness drifted through him, knowing there were also innocent lives lost below. Yes, war was necessary and he was honored to do his part. But that didn’t make it palatable.

  Danny called for another check-in, and once completed, the crew’s nervous chatter once again filled the intercom as they banked to the left to begin the long ride home. The trip back to England was much like the trip over, dodging the incessant flak and constant enemy fighters. Yet, knowing they’d fulfilled their first mission supplied Sweet Sophie’s crew with an adrenaline they’d never experienced.

  Several hours later they crossed the North Sea, thrilled to spot the famous white cliffs of Dover. Just as they’d taken off, they approached the base at Framlingham in formation flying in low circles until they peeled off and at last, touched down. And only at that moment, did Danny take a breath; one he felt sure he’d been holding since they’d left here before dawn.

  As they taxied on the way to their hardstand, the ground crew lined the flight line as was their custom, welcoming them home. These unsung heroes always waited patiently on mission days, keeping careful count as each plane appeared on the horizon. Danny wondered if they ever realized how much the flight crews appreciated all these guys did. He blew out a long sigh of relief and thanked God for Sweet Sophie’s safe return.