by Diane Moody
Now, as Danny and Charlie made their way into Quincy’s, he pushed all of those thoughts aside and hoped the quaint pub would buffet his spirits, if only for a while. The pub wasn’t officially open since it was Sunday, so they were the only guests.
Sophie was the first to greet them, welcoming him with open arms. “It’s about time you came to see us!” She hugged him hard and planted a kiss on his check. “Do you know how many prayers have gone up from this place for you?”
Danny hugged her back. “I’m guessing whatever was left over from those for Charlie here.”
“Nonsense. You were gone longer. I barely even knew Lieutenant Janssen was missing.”
Charlie engulfed her in his arms. “That’s Lieutenant Janssen Darling, and don’t you forget it.”
Danny smiled as he moved toward a nearby table while the two carried on.
“Oh, now, what’s all this?” Patrick Quincy fussed, appearing from the kitchen door. “A father can’t stand by and watch his daughter get smothered with kisses by her suitor.”
“With all due respect, Mr. Quincy, I think I’m the one being smothered here.” He dug out his handkerchief to wipe the lipstick off his face.
“Oh Da, you gave your blessing, so button up.” Sophie snuggled beneath Charlie’s arm.
“Now see what you’ve done! For pity’s sakes, I didn’t even see our dear Lieutenant McClain here!” The proprietor hurried over to give Danny a hug. “Welcome home, son! Welcome, home! You had us all worried, that’s for sure. But thanks be to Almighty God for returning you to us!”
“Good to see you too, Patrick. And thanks for the prayers. I have a feeling those are the reason I’m finally back here.”
“Sit! Sit! Let me serve you up a nice plate of shepherd’s pie,” he said, making his way back to the kitchen. “Sophie made it. Fresh from the oven. I can’t offer you a pint as it’s the Lord’s Day, but I expect a nice cup of tea would taste just fine on a dreary Sunday.”
“Yes, it would, Patrick. That sounds perfect.”
“Sophie? Serve the men a pot of tea, will you, daughter?”
“Sure, Da.” She placed a quick peck on Charlie’s cheek. “I’ll be right back.”
Charlie took a seat across from Danny and looked around the pub. “Kind of nice, having the place all to ourselves, eh?”
Danny fiddled with a salt shaker, twisting it around and around. Charlie reached over and took it out of his hand.
“Take it easy there, buddy.”
Danny sat back and folded his arms. “Sorry.”
“Too bad Patrick can’t sneak us a couple of pints. Might help settle those nerves you’re fighting.”
“Not really. I’m clearly not cut out to be much of a drinker.”
Sophie returned with their tea and meals. “There you go, gentlemen.”
“Can you join us?” Charlie asked.
“I’d love to.” She took a seat beside Charlie. “Danny, Charlie told me about your time over in Holland. That must’ve been very frightening for you.”
He took a sip of his tea, pleased by the heat of it going down. “It was. But I’m thankful to be back. I keep hoping the rest of my crew shows up. Well, the ones who are still alive, that is.”
“I know.” She placed her hand on Charlie’s shoulder. “We pray every night for the other two members of Charlie’s crew who parachuted before him. As much as I tired of Lieutenant Banks’ silly accents, he’s a good and decent man. I hope they both show up soon.”
Danny noticed the slight tremble in Charlie’s hand as he lifted his teacup. He knew his friend still grieved for his lost crew. Charlie had flown a few missions since they returned to base, but each time it was with a different crew. With the war wrapping up soon, there was no need to make permanent crew assignments. Danny hadn’t flown again yet. He wondered about his own crew members who were still MIA and kept hoping they’d show up any day. He and Pendergrass still bunked in the same quarters, and the empty cots reminded them daily of their lost friends.
Danny shook off the thought and tried to change the subject. “What’s this I hear about wedding bells?”
“Quite a surprise, isn’t it?” Sophie said with a laugh. “I couldn’t believe it when Charlie here took my hand and dropped to his knee.”
Danny smiled. He loved the way Sophie pronounced her fiancé’s name—Chah-lie. He had a feeling Charlie liked it too.
“Only wish I’d had a pretty ring to place on your finger.” He placed his hand over hers on the table. “But next time I get some leave, we’ll head over to London and find one.”
“I’m not too concerned. As long as I’ve got you, I’m a happy girl.”
He looked across at Danny. “I hope it’s all right that I told Sophie about Anya.”
Danny blinked, caught by surprise. “Oh? Sure, I mean, there’s not much to tell, really.”
“Not much to tell?” Sophie said. “I think it’s terribly romantic how it all came about. What with all those love letters—”
“No, they weren’t really love letters. At least I didn’t intend them—”
“And then all those years passed, and there’s a war, and suddenly, there she is . . .” She paused with a dreamy look in her eyes. “And right there in the midst of chaos and war, you found each other. I find it all very romantic.”
Danny eyed his friend. “Sounds like someone’s embellished the story a bit?”
“Who me? I just tell it like it is, McClain.”
“And Charlie says you can think of nothing else but going back to find that dear girl.” Sophie planted her chin on her hand and gazed at him with love-filled eyes. “I think it’s the loveliest thing I’ve heard in years.”
“I thought I was the loveliest thing in your life these days?” Charlie teased, leaning close for a kiss.
Danny sighed. “Yeah, well, it’s all very ‘romantic’ right up to the part of getting over there and actually tracking her down.”
“Y’know, I’ve been giving that some thought,” Charlie said after swallowing a bite of food. “I think you should call in a favor or two.”
“Meaning?” Danny asked.
“Remember the night your crew came gasping back across the Channel sputtering on fumes?”
“Yeah. So?”
“Didn’t you tell me Colonel Moller was on the radio, personally giving you all permission to return to base?”
“Yeah. Like I said—so?”
Charlie scratched his chin. “Well, I was just thinking you could ask the Old Man for a favor.”
Danny pinned him with a glare. “Are you out of your mind?”
Charlie raised a palm. “Now, hear me out. I’m just thinking you go in there, request to see the Colonel, then remind him about that night.”
Danny stared at his friend, wondering where on earth such a lame brain idea came from. “First of all, he would never remember that night. Who knows why he answered the call anyway? It’s insignificant.”
“But you never know—”
“Second, I would never ‘ask’ our Commanding Officer for any favor, much less for permission to hop across the Pond when this is all over to find her. He’s our Commanding Officer, Charlie—not some resident flunky playing Cupid.”
Charlie laughed. “Well, I guess I see your point.”
Sophie used Charlie’s fork to steal a bite of the meaty pie on his plate. “I must say, it’s a rather charming notion to think that the man I loved would do whatever it took to come and save me. A knight on a white horse and all that.”
Danny pushed his empty plate back. “Look, I appreciate your interest, but I’m sure there’s some way to work it out. I just haven’t figured it out yet.”
“You will, Danny.” Sophie patted his hand. “You will.”
The pub door flew open as a couple of MPs entered. “There they are,” one of them said pointing to Danny and Charlie.
“Sirs,” the MPs saluted.
Danny and Charlie stood and returned their salute. “What
is it, Sergeant?” Charlie asked.
“Special called briefing on base at 1300 hours. All 3rd Air Division officers are required to attend by order of Colonel Moller. We’re rounding up everyone who’s off-base. Just now spotted your Jeep outside.”
Charlie checked his watch. “At 1300? That’s thirty minutes from now. We better move out.”
The MPs saluted then quickly departed.
“What was that all about?” Patrick asked, wiping his hands on his bib apron.
“Meeting on base. Gotta run,” Danny said, putting his flight jacket back on.
“Sorry, sweetheart,” Charlie said, pulling Sophie close to his side. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
“TEN-HUT!”
“At ease.”
The usual shuffling filled the room as the 390th officers took their seats. Up on the platform, Colonel Moller stood at the podium as Colonel Waltz took a seat.
“Gentlemen, as you know, our combat missions have concluded with the imminent fall of Germany. We expect that to occur any day now. And while we have not yet declared victory in the European Theater, we are standing down from any further missions—”
A rowdy cheer broke out as the men cheered and whistled.
When the celebratory noise settled down, he added, “—except for one last mission.”
A communal groan waved through the room.
“However, this mission is like no other. This is a mission of mercy. At the directive of General Eisenhower in cooperation with our English Allies, food drops will commence today in the occupied western portion of The Netherlands to aid more than three million Dutch who are starving, thanks to their German occupiers.”
Charlie elbowed him as Danny sat up straighter. A food drop in Holland?
“As you know, in retaliation for Holland’s part in last September’s Operation Market-Garden, the Germans cut off all shipments into Holland. The resulting ‘Hunger Winter’ that followed led to extreme hardships on the Dutch, including widespread starvation. Even aid coming in from Sweden’s Red Cross was primarily hoarded by the German occupiers. Meaning, many of the Dutch have no food, no electricity, no fuel, and no hope unless we intervene.”
Danny didn’t need to hear Colonel Moller’s assessment of the situation. He’d been there. He remembered the old lady at the Enschede safe house who had eaten his leftovers. He’d tasted the onion-like tulip bulbs and remembered well the symbolism of such a desperate thing. And he remembered the feel of Anya in his arms—her thin, fragile body without an ounce of fat, the feel of her cheekbone against his palm as he caressed her face. His hands fisted at the thought of all she and everyone in her country had endured.
Moller continued. “The situation is now so critical, General Eisenhower has ordered us to proceed immediately instead of waiting for the official end of the war, however close that may be. Apparently the remaining German divisions in western Holland have no intention of surrendering and as a final desperate effort, they have cut off all remaining supply lines by blowing up dikes, mining the canals, and flooding the lowlands. Our only recourse is by air.
“Several heavy bomber groups of the RAF will take part in these missions, primarily the Lancasters. They have dubbed this Operation Manna. As for the Eighth Air Force, the entire 3rd Air Division comprised of ten bomber units will participate. For our part, we have named this mission Operation Chowhound.
“The British began flying their mercy missions today. Due to our dense ground fog here, we are not able to join them. God willing, we’ll be wheels up first thing tomorrow morning. And now Colonel Waltz will detail the missions you will be flying.”
As Moller traded places with Waltz, the latter stepped up to the podium. “Gentlemen, in compliance of the agreement, the drops will be made in specified locations during daylight hours. You will fly at one-thousand feet or lower, dropping your cargo on white crosses which will be laid out at specified locations.
“After negotiations with Reichskommissar Seyss-Inquart, it has been agreed upon that Allied planes taking part in the drops will not be fired upon.”
“Might as well put a target on our bellies,” Charlie mumbled. “Jerry’s not about to miss an easy shot like that.” Others made similar comments under their breath.
As if reading their thoughts, Colonel Waltz continued. “Of course, no one takes Seyss-Inquart at his word. That is why extreme measures are in place through the agreement prohibiting all participating aircraft from being fired upon while flying to and from these drop zones—most of which are in abandoned airfields or open field areas.”
Danny tried to imagine such a thing. The huge Flying Fortresses, flying so low to the ground, unleashing all manner of food to be rained down on the ground. Even at low altitude, how would such cargo not be destroyed on impact? He thought of all those starving Dutch people and imagined them running out as the food dropped from their planes. With German soldiers standing around?
“The Reichskommissar has been told in no uncertain terms that Germany will be wiped off the face of the earth if they do not comply.”
Danny blinked, wondering how the colonel seemed to know his thoughts.
“Since these will be our last missions in the European Theater, General Doolittle has authorized our flights to include ground personnel as passengers to allow these hard working men to get a first-hand look at what they’ve been a part of. Assignments will be listed and posted at Operations.
“Finally, gentlemen, I would ask you to understand this operation for what it is. The aircraft you fly were built as vehicles of destruction, a means to fight a war against unspeakable atrocities committed on innocent lives. Now you will have the opportunity to use these same vehicles to deliver a message of hope, good-will, and in some cases, life itself. Do not dismiss the significance of what you do. Those are real people down there—men, women, and children—who will go on to live their lives because you made a final gesture of benevolence on their behalf.
“Godspeed. That is all.”
61
02 May 1945
Word of the successful Manna missions by the British had inspired the men of the 390th, but such reports also made them anxious to get across the Pond and do their part. Tales of the Lancasters, some flying as low as fifty feet from the ground at drop points, spoke of the powerful British planes barely skimming tree tops before dropping their precious loads. Such thoughts should have made him nervous, but Danny just wanted to get up in the air and take his turn. Unfortunately he had to wait a few days.
The ever-dependable soupy skies over Framlingham kept the B-17s of the 390th grounded for two full days. Located so close to the coast, their base was socked in where many of the others, including those of the Brits, had clear skies.
At Charlie’s request, Danny was assigned to his crew for the Chowhound missions. With his foot healed up enough to carry out his duties as co-pilot, Danny couldn’t wait to get back in the cockpit. Especially for a cause so near and dear to his heart. He had only to think of Anya to put a face on the despair of the Dutch which Colonel Waltz had so poignantly described.
When the weather finally cooperated on May first, four hundred planes from the Eighth Air Force took part in Operation Chowhound, but Charlie and Danny’s crew was still not included. Charlie tried to calm him down, reminding him they’d get their chance soon enough. There were only so many flights per day, and they’d just have to wait their turn.
With each passing hour, Danny grew more agitated, his imagination driving him crazy. It was bad enough, worrying about Anya before all this talk of the food drops. Now each hour filled him with an intense longing to fly over her country and help relieve the misery. When he recognized his feelings as outright jealousy toward those already making the food drops, he knew he was bordering some kind of ridiculous outrage. Good thing I’m not a drinking man or I’d be three sheets in the wind by now.
Not that he would or could. With missions pending on each early morning weather call, the red light blared brightly
at the Officer’s Club on base making alcohol unavailable.
Instead, Danny used the time to write his family again. He’d received one letter from his mother since his return, pages filled with relief and joy and thanksgiving to know he was alive and back on base. He’d choked up reading her letter, remembering how often he’d thought of her praying for him. He knew those prayers were the reason he’d survived. He’d lost count of how many times he read her letter, feeling such a profound homesickness and at the same time, such a bittersweet conflict of emotions. Yes, he wanted to go home. He couldn’t wait to see them all again, to bury himself in their hugs. To sit at the dining room table and eat real food again. To see Sophie dance in celebration at his return—and tell her of Sweet Sophie and the secret joke he’d played on his crew.
How he longed to spend time with Joey—lots of time—talking about his experiences and how much Joey had inspired him.
And Dad. He wondered how his father would react at his homecoming. Would he be proud? Would he be emotional? He’d often thought of his father’s awkward but meaningful embrace after driving him to the train station when he first reported for duty. His dad would forever remain a mystery to him, but deep in his heart, more than anything he wanted to make his father proud.
He grabbed his paper and pen and headed over to the Officer’s Club. Writing a letter while sitting alone in his quarters would tempt the depression which seemed to nip at his heels. At least at the Club, he could enjoy a cup of coffee and a warm fire.
He’d written three pages when someone sat down across from him.
“Mind if I join you?”
Danny looked up and immediately flew out of his chair and threw a salute. “Colonel Moller, sir, yes, sir! It would be a privilege, sir!”
The Commanding Officer took a seat in the wingback chair across from him. Danny tried to imagine how on earth he could have missed the commotion when the colonel had arrived. He felt his face heat, wondering if everyone else but him had failed to salute the Old Man when he entered.
“At ease, Lieutenant. Please, have a seat.”
