No Neutral Ground: A World War II Romance (Promise for Tomorrow Book 2)

by Terri Wangard

  Military policemen checked them at the door to the briefing hall. Only officers assigned to the mission were authorized to enter. On the platform at the far end of the room stood a curtain-draped map. Rafe stared at it. “What a nice theatrical touch. The rising of the curtain will tell us our destination.”

  Cal snorted. “I’d like to know who the pilot we’re flying with is.”

  Colonel Leber, their commanding officer, strode to the platform. Someone yelled, “Ten-hut,” and they all jumped to their feet.

  “At ease.”

  At ease? As the airmen sat back down, Rafe raised his fingers to his mouth. He stopped with his mouth open. What was he planning to do, chew on his nails? He hadn’t bitten his nails since he was a young child and Mother slapped his hands away. None of the other men assembled appeared to be so afflicted.

  A staff member swept the curtain back. Loud groans filled the air.

  “Schweinfurt.” The colonel tapped the city.

  Rafe wilted in his seat. Today marked his return to Germany. After an eight-year absence, he was going home. Not to Cologne, thank goodness. He wasn’t ready for that. Schweinfurt held no special meaning for him. Still, he numbered himself among the enemy now. His former countrymen would do their level best to kill him, and he would aid in killing them. His insides were tying into knots.

  The meteorologist stood up to report favorable weather conditions. “Clouds increasing over the North Sea, but with breaks. Good visibility at the target. Navigational winds are northwest, thirty miles an hour.”

  Around him, other men scribbled notes. Rafe tried to write too, but his shaky hand created chicken scratches.

  After attending the navigators’ briefing, he joined Cal for the trek to the equipment shop for their electrically heated flying suits, fur-lined boots, oxygen masks, Mae West life preservers, parachutes and harnesses, leather helmets with built-in intercom earphones, and steel helmets.

  He nudged Cal and nodded to a sign posted over the parachute window. If it doesn’t work, we’ll replace it.

  “Wise guys,” Cal grumbled. “Their lives don’t depend on the things.”

  In addition to the general gear, Rafe had his navigator’s case. At least the thirty-pound flak suits of protective curved-steel segments waited for them at the crew chief’s tent. Wearing some of their load, and carrying some of it, they rode in another truck out to the hardstand where their B-17 awaited them.

  Dan stood outside the waist compartment door, looking anxious until he spotted them. Then his smile returned and he scrambled into the plane.

  Rafe entered Jumping Jiminy through the forward escape hatch and crouched low to enter the bomber’s nose. The plane stank of oil and, what was that? Blood? Rafe’s nose wrinkled as he settled down at the navigator’s table. He removed his log and instruments from his briefcase, arranged them on the table, and tucked the case out of the way on the floor. Folding his hands on the table, he breathed deeply. So far, everything resembled the training missions.

  The bombardier slumped at his station, morosely staring out the Plexiglas bubble window that gave the nose its greenhouse atmosphere. He didn’t appear to be the talkative sort, especially after the way he grunted when Rafe introduced himself.

  Rafe plugged in his intercom link. Maybe he’d find a little distraction by eavesdropping on anyone who was talking.

  The pilot’s voice assaulted his ears through his headphones. “Don’t touch anything unless I tell you to. Just sit there and stay out of trouble.” Rafe’s eyebrows shot up to his flying helmet. Poor Cal. Steve had given Cal plenty of flying time during their training flights. If Steve were disabled or killed, he wanted Cal ready to take over, but not this guy. Rafe smirked at Cal’s “Yes, sir.” The irony in his crewmate’s voice told him Cal wasn’t intimidated.

  He stood and poked his head up in the overhead astrodome. In the cockpit windows, the pilot looked down, probably going through his checklist on his own. Cal spotted him and grinned, offering a thumbs up. Rafe snickered and sprawled in his chair, legs stretched out, arms crossed. The knots in his stomach started to loosen.

  A white-white flare rose from the tower, signaling time to start engines. Through his headphones, the pilot was ready for the starting sequence. “Read through the checklist.”

  Really? He was going to let Cal read the list? That was proper procedure, of course, but he trusted Cal not to skip a line?

  After a brief hesitation, Cal announced, “Master switch.”

  “On.”

  “Battery switches and inverters.”

  “On and checked.”

  Of course. The guy was allowing Cal to read the sequence while he flipped the switches.

  “Parking brakes – hydraulic check.”

  “On, checked.”

  “Booster pumps – pressure.”

  “On and checked.”

  “Carburetor filters.”

  “Open.”

  “Fuel quantity.”

  Rafe hopped up to peer through the astrodome again. Cal’s head was down. He was occupied with the checklist, but his head bobbed up and down. He was keeping an eye on the pilot’s performance as per regulations. Rafe grinned. If anything went wrong, Cal wouldn’t hesitate to take over.

  A low whine announced engine one’s start. Rafe watched the propeller spin faster and faster. The other engines started in sequence. So far, nothing differed from a practice flight.

  When they trundled out to the runway, Rafe stood to watch the procession. More than a dozen bombers taxied ahead of them, looking like a bunch of prehistoric beasts. Hulking brutes performing a precisely-planned choreography.

  They were really doing this. What would it be like to see Germany again? How would he react to being shot at? What if he was shot? Could this be the last day of his life?

  Their flight to Schweinfurt proceeded smoothly. The carefully orchestrated ballet of forming up into box formations was impressive. None of the dreaded English fog obstructed the process today and he watched as each B-17 in turn slid into its designated slot. Too bad he didn’t have a camera.

  He noted their take-off time, form-up time, and time of crossing the English coast. He probably recorded more than necessary in his log, but the overbearing pilot wasn’t going to have any cause to accuse him of carelessness.

  An escorting flock of their Little Friends, identified by one of the gunners as P-38 fighters, intercepted the German Focke Wulf fighters that rose to meet them as they made landfall over The Netherlands. That year he’d spent in Amsterdam with his mother, grandparents, and siblings had been a year of upheaval and confusion. They’d been taken in, but it hadn’t been home.

  He noted the event in his log, and watched the small, occupied country recede below. With no need to fire the machine gun mounted alongside his desk, Rafe stared down at Germany, looking peaceful and inviting from twenty-five thousand feet. The sight of the Rhine River transported him back to that last happy day sailing with his Naval Hitler Youth friends.

  #

  The Rhine’s swift current that day in May, 1936, had brought their sailboat closer and closer to a collision with a river barge laden with cargo and incapable of quick maneuvering. “Traffic dead ahead,” Herr Schultz yelled. “Come about!”

  Bertil’s frenzied effort to bring the boom in line failed when he stumbled on a coil of rope. Ludwig grabbed for the boom’s line and missed. It swung wildly to starboard, sweeping up Bertil across his midsection and eliciting a startled “Oof.” Rolf failed to hold back a chuckle as his friend clung to the boom, gasping for help as it wobbled over the Rhine River. He joined the other boys in hauling the boom back. Herr Schultz pushed them aside as he manned the tiller. The sailboat labored to port, missing the oncoming barge by a handbreadth.

  “All right, boys, time to head back to Cologne. Think we can manage that without further mishap?”

  “Have no fear, Herr Schultz.” Johan knocked off Bertil’s cap. “As long as everyone stays in the boat.”

&
nbsp; Rolf scooped up the now-wet cap from the sailboat’s floor and handed it to Bertil. His friend had no natural sailing instinct. With his mechanical aptitude, he should have opted for the motorized units division, if not the regular Hitler Youth.

  #

  An explosion rocked the Flying Fortress. Rafe’s reverie shattered as black smoke engulfed the Plexiglas nose.

  Over Schweinfurt, Germany

  Friday, March 24, 1944

  The mission’s apparent ease evaporated upon arrival over Schweinfurt. The German anti-aircraft defenders zeroed in on their altitude, and bursts from their fliegerabwehrkanonen exploded all around the formation. The resultant flak of the anti-aircraft shells blossomed in black clouds that looked harmless enough.

  Rafe’s jaw dropped as the lead plane in the element ahead of them took a direct hit in the gas tanks and burst into flames. The fire soared fifty feet above the wings and engulfed the entire plane.

  The flames on the damaged plane streamed backward, enveloping the lead plane in his own element. The tail gunner of the second plane bailed out through the rear escape hatch. Why in the world did he do that? Did he think his plane was on fire?

  Rafe looked ahead. The stricken plane continued flying in formation as a body tumbled out, flailing and on fire. It had to be an inferno in there. Then the plane banked down into a spin. After two rotations, it exploded into tiny, unidentifiable fragments, buffeting Jumping Jiminy with the blast. He swallowed hard.

  Dan needed to be warned to always be sure any flames he saw really came from their own plane, and not from a nearby plane, before bailing out.

  Seconds after the bombardier released their bomb load, a flak burst pummeled Jumping Jiminy, spraying it with shrapnel. The pilot yelled, “I’m hit!” and the plane lurched to the right before wrenching back into place. Rafe’s head jerked up at the pilot’s next words. “Fire! Everyone out!”

  The bombardier grabbed his parachute and barreled past Rafe to disappear out the forward escape hatch. Rafe picked up his own parachute, but hesitated to snap it onto his harness. Jumping Jiminy maintained level flight.

  Through the intercom, someone yelled, “Bring up that fire extinguisher.”

  Apparently not everyone was leaving. A burst of static filled his ears, then silence. His headphone was dead.

  A moment of indecision passed. If there was a chance he didn’t need to bail out over Germany, he didn’t intend to. The Germans may have rejected him, but if he were captured, they’d consider him a traitor. Better a quick death in the crash of the bomber than a slow death at the hands of the Gestapo.

  Rafe jumped up to the window. The left inboard engine propeller stood still, the blades edgewise to the wind. That engine had been properly feathered to avoid drag. If the pilot had jumped, Cal must still be here, flying the airplane like nobody’s business. He craned his neck. No fuel leaks in sight. A parachute blossomed, followed by another. He banged his head against the window trying to get a closer look. More men had just jumped out. He scrambled through the narrow passageway up into the cockpit.

  His crewmate wrestled with the controls. Adrenaline tingled Rafe’s fingers and toes. He plugged in his communication wires to ask what was going on. Cal didn’t give him a chance.

  “Rafe! Get yourself in the pilot’s seat!”

  He wedged himself into the vacated left seat, banging his knee on the throttle handles between the seats. A hole by his leg let in a draft. That’s how the pilot got hit. Rafe plugged in his heated suit cable and grabbed the pilot’s abandoned oxygen line.

  “Get your hands on the control wheel. This wounded bird is bucking like a bronco.” Even with the frigid air whistling through flak holes, sweat glistened on Cal’s face above his oxygen mask.

  “What happened?” Rafe tightened his grip when the control column nearly yanked itself out of his grasp.

  “Watching that flying crematory spooked everyone is my guess, especially after their experience yesterday. The engineer said their copilot was decapitated. That had to be a sickening sight.”

  Cal’s gaze swept across the flight instruments. “Anyway, the pilot took a slug in the leg and jumped up. We nearly went into a spin before I got the controls properly positioned. Then he spots the fire in the radio room, yells to bail out, and takes off, with the engineer on his heels. The radio guy and one of the gunners put out the fire. I smelled gas and shut off a cross-feed and that seemed to take care of the leak.”

  He paused as he monitored their position with the plane on their right. “I needed help keeping the ship trim, so I waved for the guys to come up and assist, but I guess they misunderstood. They jumped out. I started thinking I’d have to bail too, when you popped up.”

  The engine rumble changed in pitch and Cal swore. “We’re gonna lose number three.” He adjusted the throttle controls. “Number two is already gone. If three quits, we won’t be able to keep up. Where are we?”

  “Still over Germany, last I checked.”

  With the loss of the flying coffin, other planes in their element had tightened up. The men in the plane now on their left gestured at them. Why? They had no fire. The instruments indicated no leaks. Did they question why they stayed after so many chutes came out? He waved back at them.

  Peering down at the passing landscape, he spotted a large inland sea. “Good news. We’re over The Netherlands.”

  He nearly jumped out of his seat when a hand landed on his shoulder.

  “Where is everybody?”

  “Dan! I wondered if you’d jumped, but couldn’t spare Rafe to check on you. Keep an eye on the gauges, will you? Engine three is unhappy.” Cal seemed invigorated now that he had both of his crewmates to help fly the ailing plane.

  Rafe twisted around to face their tail gunner. “Did you see any problems on your way up from the tail?”

  “Just an abandoned ship. I saw the waist door open and thought I’d better get out too, except the plane seemed to be flying okay, so I decided to wait. I’d rather go back to England to sleep tonight.”

  “Yeah, us too.” Cal took a deep breath. “We’ve got an indicator of deployed landing gear. It’s not or we’d feel the drag, but we may have lost hydraulics. Be ready to crank the wheels down.”

  “I can do that.” Dan set aside his walk-around oxygen bottle and plugged into the engineer’s station. He caught Rafe’s eye and his eyes crinkled in humor. With the immediate danger past, and no enemy fighters harassing them, euphoria must be buoying them. They would survive their first mission.

  Cheers filled the cockpit when England appeared on the horizon. After being airborne for seven hours in the frigid, unpressurized aircraft, Ridgewell’s Quonset huts would seem palatial. True to Cal’s prediction, the landing gear required hand cranking and Dan proved capable of getting them down in speedy fashion. They peeled out of formation in turn and queued up to land. Cal switched from the intercom to the Command radio frequency in time to hear a puzzling radio transmission.

  “42-4013, identify who’s flying the aircraft.”

  The three exchanged glances before Cal double-checked their plane’s serial number and cued his mike. “The copilot is flying the aircraft with the able assistance of his navigator and tail gunner.”

  “State your aircraft’s condition.”

  To Rafe, Cal said, “Coming in on two wings and a prayer,” referring to a popular song. He switched back to Command. “Ah, one engine is out and another is on borrowed time.”

  No sooner had Cal transmitted his report than number three sputtered and shot sparks. He slapped at the controls to shut it down. “If they’re worried about our status, I’m not giving them a chance to wave us off. We’ve got two good outboard engines.”

  Most likely, the squadron leader had tried to contact them after the other crew members jumped. Normally the pilot monitored the Command radio, and would have responded. Maybe that’s why the other crews had been waving at them. They were trying to raise them on the radio. Rafe grimaced. He should have thought
of that.

  Cal landed short, giving them the full length of the runway. Jumping Jiminy’s brakes squealed and groaned like a wounded thing, but by the time they reached the far end, Cal managed a graceful turn onto the perimeter track and proceeded around to the hardstands. They hadn’t gone far when he cleared his throat. “Say, ah, do either of you know which hardstand we should aim for?”

  Rafe snickered. He glanced back at Dan. “He flies through German air space with the greatest of ease, but can’t find his own parking place back in England.”

  Dan guffawed and raised a hand as though to slap Cal on the back before thinking better of it.

  Rafe slid open the side window and yelled to the nearest ground crew as they passed by. “Excuse me. Do you know where this plane belongs?”

  The men stared at them open-mouthed, causing Dan to giggle like a schoolgirl. One mechanic waved for them to continue, holding up four fingers.

  “I think we’re on the right path. Try four spots ahead.” Rafe pointed forward, adding, “That guy’s yelling to someone in the next pit, and he’s yelling on down the line. The news of our arrival is going through the grapevine.” They trundled on.

  All three laughed themselves silly when a couple of mechanics ran up to the taxi way, waving their arms. Rafe gasped, “They do a good imitation of wind milling propellers.”

  “Hey, Lieutenant,” Dan wheezed, “I think they want you to hand over the airplane. They probably think the guys who bailed out picked up some hitchhikers. And lookee there. The rest of our crew.”

  Cal executed a sharp turn and eased the big plane into its proper resting position. The three tumbled out of the bomber, still laughing, and laughed harder at the dumbfounded looks on the faces of the ground crew and their own crewmates.