by Diane Moody
“Tough day?” she asked, gathering up some empty mugs from a nearby table.
“You don’t even want to know. But thanks for asking.”
“Actually, that’s what I’m here for, remember? Sometimes it helps to talk it out after a rough day in enemy skies.” She stopped for a moment, as if waiting for his response.
“I know, but I’d rather hear about your day. I’m sure it’s far more interesting.”
She gave him a playful look, but seemed to understand. “Well, let’s see. This morning I visited the boys over in sick quarters for a couple of hours. I helped three of them write letters home. I played cards with some fellows over at the Officer’s Club. This afternoon I made around two hundred donuts, making sure we’d have plenty for you guys this evening, and then I started brewing coffee. Lots and lots of coffee. Same old, same old.”
“Not such a bad day, if you ask me,” Danny said. “Any news from Geoffrey?”
Her face brightened. “Yes! He’s back in the states now and anxious for me to come home so we can get married.”
“That’s great, Sally. I’m happy for you. I really am.”
She beamed as she lifted the tray of empty mugs. “Thanks, Danny. That means a lot to me.”
“Here, let me carry that for you.” He took the tray and followed her back toward the coffee cart. “So how does it work—you serving in the Red Cross? Do you have to finish a tour of duty or can you leave any time?”
“No, we make a commitment to serve a tour of duty just like you do. I’ll be here until the end of May, unless the war ends sooner.”
He set the tray down with the others. “That must be hard for you, knowing he’s home and you can’t leave yet.”
She pushed a curl out of her eyes. “Yes, it’s hard. But I love what I do here, and he knows that. Besides, it won’t be that much longer. Oh, by the way, your friend Charlie was here earlier. He said to tell you a bunch of the guys are heading to Quincy’s tonight if you’d like to join them.”
Danny closed his eyes, shaking his head. “I don’t know how they do it after flying for twelve hours. All I can think about is calling it a night.”
“That’s because you’re the smart one.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment, Miss Wells.”
“As you should, because it was, Lieutenant.”
“Goodnight, Sally.”
“Goodnight, Danny.”
43
28 March 1945
“Bombs away!”
After successfully dropping their payload on the marshalling yards in Hannover, Germany, Captain Dick Anderson followed the lead element, banking sharply to the left to begin the trip back to England. On this, their eighteenth mission, the flak had been unusually thick—always the case near important target areas. The closer to target they’d flown, the heavier the anti-aircraft fire. They always felt like sitting ducks up there, but never more so than near the target. How many times had they limped back to base after one of these box barrages? The enemy would aim for a section of sky where they knew the planes were heading on their bombing run then bombard that area, filling it with exploding shells. Some crews called it an “iron cumulus” because the air looked much like a solid cloud of black. On approach to target, they were unable to veer one way or the other to avoid the nasty stuff. They had to fly right through it.
Sweet Sophie bumped, rattled, and rolled through the tremendous onslaught of anti-aircraft fire. As they completed the wide turn before settling in for the ride home, Danny called for the routine check-in following the drop.
“Tail gunner, checking in.”
“Ball turret, check—”
Suddenly, Sophie slammed hard once, twice, and a third time before pitching a sharp left then back right. Even from the cockpit, Danny could hear the explosions ricocheting through the cabin followed by the frantic voices of his crew.
“We’re hit! We’re hit!” Jimmy yelled from waist gunner. “We’ve got—”
“Somebody help me! I’m hit!”
“I can’t breathe! I can’t breathe!”
“We’ve got shrapnel—help me! Help!”
“Jimmy’s down! Oh God, no! Half of Shorty’s head got blown—”
“CHECK IN! That’s an order!” Danny shouted, unable to tell who was saying what. As he turned to ask Anderson a question, he stopped cold. His pilot sat hunched over his steering column.
“Dick!” Danny yelled, reaching over to pull him back. But Anderson’s wild eyes stared back at him, pleading, begging—his bloodied hands seemingly frozen in front of him even as blood poured like a fountain from a hole in his neck. A split second later, his eyes rolled back and he fell limp.
“PILOT DOWN! PILOT DOWN!” Danny shouted as he quickly grabbed his own steering column, fighting to keep control of the plane.
“Waist gunner down! Both waist gunners down!” Franconi yelled. “Top turret down!” “Lieutenant, we—”
“IT’S GONE! IT’S GONE! Get me outta here!” Michaels screamed from the ball turret.
“Somebody get Don out of the ball turret!” Danny shouted. “Tony! Lane! Get down there!”
“Lane, help me! Pull me up! Oh God, I don’t wanna die!” Michaels cried.
“I’ve got you, Don!” Lane shouted. “Look, you’re out, buddy! I’ve got you! You’re safe!”
As he fought Sophie’s stubborn pull downward, Danny could hear Don wailing in relief. “Everybody else, check in! That’s an order!” he repeated.
“Lieutenant, Jimmy’s out cold. I can barely detect a pulse!” Franconi shouted. “And Sully’s . . . oh God help us, Sully didn’t make it.”
Danny eyed the controls knowing he was fighting a losing battle. “Navigator, give me our location!”
“We’re approaching the German border into Holland,” Lane shouted. “About ten miles out.”
“Lane, get up here. Now!” Danny tried to visualize their position. The southern portion of Holland had been liberated back in September, but there was no way to know where they were in relation to that demarcation.
Something to his right caught his attention. Flames on engine number three danced wild around the edges. He flipped the lever to feather it but nothing happened. He flipped it up and down, up and down. Nothing.
“I’m here, Danny, what—” Pendergrass said, then stopped, gripping the pilot. “Captain!” He raised Anderson’s head and found his glassy eyes. “Danny, he’s dead!”
“I know, I know. Talk to me. What’s the status of the crew?”
“It’s just you, me, Donnie, Tony, and Dal. Everybody else is—”
“Get Dal to—oh, no no no!” Danny shouted, looking past the slumped body of his pilot. “Fire on number one! Three’s still burning! Lane, sound the bell. We’ve got to abandon ship!”
Seconds counted as the reality of those burning engines prompted Danny to get out of the cockpit as fast as he could. He put the plane on autopilot, then quickly pulled out of his seat and headed for the bomb bay.
“Don and Dal are already out!” Pendergrass shouted.
“Tony! Abandon ship!”
The radio operator made his way down to the door. He froze, his hands gripping the frame. “I can’t! I can’t do it!”
Lane stepped beside him. “Yes, you can, Tony! Your chute will carry you down. Just don’t forget to pull the—”
“GO GO GO!” Danny yelled even though he knew they couldn’t hear him over the engines.
With that Lane gave Tony a thumbs-up. “You ‘n me, Tony. Let’s do this!” And with that, they disappeared out the door.
As Danny stared down through the open bomb bay doors, the image of his mother kneeling in prayer beside her bed once again flashed into his mind. The thought gave him comfort, and with one final prayer of his own, Danny came to attention and jumped.
The whooshing of the wind roared in his ears as he tumbled downward. Be sure to wait a proper amount of time before pulling the cord in order to avoid getting tangled up with the plane. The
warning from his training manual came out of nowhere, but boy, was he glad it did. Not yet, not yet, not yet! He tried to look for the other chutes but couldn’t see them through the clouds whipping past him. How could Lane and Tony be out of sight so soon? Then, it occurred to him that his flight downward wasn’t as quiet as it was supposed to be.
Pull the ripcord, you knucklehead!
And he did.
OUCH! So that’s why the leg straps are supposed to be so tight that you walk bent over . . . Clearly, his weren’t tight enough as he felt the mind-numbing pain shoot through his groin. For a moment he saw stars, then despite the pain he couldn’t help enjoying the peaceful quiet as he gently descended slowly downward. A litany of random things rolled through his mind. The night he found Sophie in the alley behind the store; the feel of her protruding ribs beneath her filthy coat. The letter from Anya telling him that Hans had died. The homecoming dance at Northwestern where he and Beverly twirled to the music of Kay Kyser. The sticky blood pooling beneath his father that night the thugs beat him with a baseball bat. Sally’s smile earlier that morning when the Red Cross Girls brought them coffee at their hardstand.
They say your life passes before your eyes right before you die. A chill passed over him. Is this it? Am I going to die?
The huge blast from an explosion not so far away would be his last memory of Sweet Sophie and the crew members who went down with her. He turned to see the fireball and felt the loss deep in his gut. So many things rushed through his mind. Then, he gave himself a mental slap and tried to focus on his landing.
He looked below him as the earth came into focus. The afternoon sun glistened, sending rays into the forest as if he were looking at a painting by Michelangelo. The easy, peaceful descent surprised him, especially after the trauma of the last half hour.
Wait. A forest? I’m about to fall into a bunch of trees?
He looked all around, unable to see a clearing he could shoot for. Then he realized the breeze around him had kicked up considerably, wreaking havoc with his billowing chute. He hiked his knees up, hoping to shield himself from as much harm as possible.
And just that fast, he fell through the upper branches of several trees, tossed about like a rag doll; the snapping of tree limbs piercing the silence like a wild, unrestrained drum solo pounding in his ears. He raised his arms to protect his face as the slapping and scraping continued. Suddenly he found himself a human canon falling much too fast.
“This is gonna HURT!”
PART V
44
29 March 1945
Near Enschede, Holland
As Danny struggled to wake up, he had a feeling he wasn’t back on base. He tried to lift his head but a bolt of pain shot through it, taking his breath away. He rested a moment before lifting one eyelid only to find everything blurred.
He remained still, needing to get his bearings even if he couldn’t see anything at the moment. Where am I? How did I get here? He was in someone’s house or a building of some kind, by the sounds of it. He could hear voices speaking quietly somewhere, but couldn’t tell what language they were speaking. Panic quickly swept through him as he realized those could be German voices.
Wait. Think. What’s the last thing I remember? Oh . . . we had to bail! Sophie’s engines were on fire . . . The crew! Are they here too? No, that can’t be right. I was the last one out. We would have landed several miles apart. Or at least I think so?
But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t remember a thing after standing in the bomb bay preparing to jump. He searched his mind but came up blank.
The voices grew louder. Danny tried again to open his eyes, noting immediately that the room was mostly dark except for a soft glow off to his right. He blinked repeatedly then started to wipe his eyes but found his arm too sore to lift. He closed his eyes again, frustrated by his inability to do something as simple as rubbing his eyes.
A door creaked. Footsteps approached. Danny held his breath.
“Awake?” someone said with a thick accent. A woman. German? Dutch?
“Where am I?” he asked, surprised by the graveled sound of his voice.
He felt the warmth of someone’s hand on his forehead. “Ja, fever still.”
“Please, can you tell me where I am?” He tried again to lift his head and immediately felt a wave of nausea. “Uh, I think I’m gonna—”
The women muttered something he couldn’t understand, but soon he felt the coolness of a bowl placed beside him. Suddenly the blurry room spun and he leaned over, emptying the contents of his stomach into the bowl. The sudden movement made his head feel like it would explode. When he finally stopped throwing up, he felt a cold cloth pressed on his forehead.
“There, there,” the woman said.
He fell back against a pillow, biting his lip so he wouldn’t scream out from the excruciating pain gripping his head. He felt something roll down the side of his face and into his ear. And just as he wondered if it might be his own tear, everything went black.
He had no idea how long he’d been asleep, only vague memories of drifting in and out of consciousness. As Danny tried to wake himself, he noticed something near him smelled pleasant. Something fresh. Maybe it was nothing more than the absence of the usual smells—the strong scent of Sophie’s motor oil, the smoky stove in his quarters at the base, the constant stench of sweat, his own and that of his crew. Yes, this was something clean. He carefully lifted the back of his hand to his nose, thankful the pain in his arm had diminished somewhat. He breathed in.
Ah, soap. Yes, that’s what it is. Soap. But how . . . did I take a shower? Impossible. I couldn’t have slept through a shower. Oh. Then that means . . . somebody gave me a bath?
He carefully blinked his eyes open, relieved to find his sight no longer quite as blurred. He blew out a sigh, thankful he could finally look around. The room, still dark, was lit only by an oil lamp resting on the table beside his bed. Yes, a bed. He was lying in a bed, covered with a quilt or blanket of some kind. He moved his hand gently across the soft fabric. He touched his face, feeling the stubble along his jaw line, then looked down, surprised to find himself in pajamas instead of his uniform. He blinked, hoping to clear his eyes. Pajamas? He peeked under the covers. Make that a night shirt.
His eyes darted around the room looking for his clothes and not finding them. The nerves kicked in sending his imagination in too many directions at once. He moved his legs under the covers and quickly discovered another injury when a sharp pain jolted his left foot.
This is worse than I thought.
“Hello?” He coughed and tried to clear his throat. “Hello? Is anyone there?”
He rested his head back on his pillow and tried to listen. Somewhere a radio cackled though he couldn’t make out what was being said—or what language. Just then, the door opened wide.
“Ah, you are awake, Lieutenant?”
Danny watched the man approaching his bed. He looked about six feet tall, his wiry salt and pepper hair sticking out from beneath a faded, worn cap. His deep set eyes seemed kind enough, feathered by lots of wrinkles on his weathered, gaunt face.
“Can you tell me where I am?”
“Ja, you are in The Netherlands in a village just outside of Enschede.”
“I don’t know—”
“We found you in the woods. You fell from the sky, no?”
Danny tried to read his expression, unsure how much he should say. “I don’t remember.” It seemed the safest answer.
“No, I doubt you do. You are American?”
Danny looked away, wondering who this man was. “Yes, American.”
“Then we are friends.”
He looked back at the man, finding a wide smile on his face. “How so?”
The smile faded a bit. He turned, then took a seat in a chair beside the bed. “Your uniform. You are American pilot, ja?”
“But how—”
“Your tags there.”
Danny felt the dog tags against his c
hest.
“And this.” The man slowly held up Danny’s wallet. But Danny knew it contained no personal identification. He’d turned those over to the corporal before his mission. Just pictures of his mom and dad, one of him and Joey when they were kids, a few others. He waited, knowing there would be more questions.
“We are friends, Lieutenant, because your country fights with our Allies to stop the Germans. That makes us friends. The Nazis have tried to destroy our country. They have occupied our homeland for many years now, but never have we given up. When America joined the Allies, we knew it was just a matter of time before we are free again.”
Danny felt his heart rate soar. “The war is over?”
“No, not yet. But soon, I think. Very soon.”
Danny wondered how much he could trust this Dutchman. If he was, in fact, Dutch? “You speak English. Do all Dutch speak English as well as you?”
“Ja, I speak English. Before the war, I was a school teacher. Years ago, when I was studying at university, I took English because I was curious about the culture of our neighbors across the Channel. It has served me well.” He paused for a second. “But never so much as now.”
Danny waited then asked, “Why now?”
“These are things we shall talk about later,” he said, standing again. “For now, I shall leave you and have one of our women prepare you something to eat.” He turned as if to leave, then stopped. He opened Danny’s wallet and pulled something from inside it as he returned to Danny’s side. “Before I go, I wonder if you could tell me why you carry this picture?”
Danny reached for the faded photograph. His hand trembled as he stared into the faces of Reverend and Mrs. Versteeg, their son Hans, and little Anya. He looked up and found the man’s eyes trained on him, all traces of friendliness vanished.
45
“These are childhood friends of mine. Nothing more,” Danny answered, stalling as he tried to gather his thoughts.
