A Distant Melody

by Sarah Sundin

  After the briefing, the men went to the locker room to get their flight gear and rations. Then Walt stood in line to turn in his personal effects to the intelligence officer. If they were shot down, the enemy could gather information from letters, diaries, even pictures. Walt only had his wallet and his Bible, in case he had five minutes to read—which he didn’t.

  He pulled Allie’s photograph from his Bible for one more look. He’d sent his service portrait a while back, and she’d responded with her graduation picture. Seemed more respectful to have her portrait in his Bible than that cheesecake snapshot.

  He closed his eyes. Thank you, Lord, for strengthening Allie, for giving her a church, work, and friends.

  Louis nudged him from behind. “Give her a kiss and move it.”

  Walt laughed and kissed Allie’s picture. He tucked it in the Bible and gave his stuff to the intelligence officer. Now he only carried two written items—his dog tags and a Scripture verse on a slip of paper in the pocket of his heavy flight jacket.

  “We’ve got Jerry in our sights now,” Louis said when he climbed into the truck that took the crews to the planes. “Abe’s Norden bombsight.” Abe had already left to carry the top secret bombsight to the plane and install it under armed guard.

  Walt hoisted himself into the truck, his parachute slung over his shoulder. “We’ll put those bombs in the pickle barrel today.” That was the claim of the Norden. The bombardier dialed in altitude, airspeed, wind speed, and direction for precision bombing. Let the RAF carpet bomb under cover of darkness. With the Norden, the U.S. could inflict strategic damage with minimal civilian casualties.

  The truck pulled up to Flossie’s hardstand in the dim morning light. The bombs had been loaded in the middle of the night, but the ground crew still scurried about, making sure “their” plane was in top shape.

  Al Worley hopped out of the truck first. “Still can’t believe we have to fly in a plane named after a cow.” But he grinned at Walt.

  He smiled back. “My girlfriend gave me a tough time about Flossie. She said it’s wrong to dress a cow in leather.” The crew’s laughter smoothed out the wrinkle of guilt when he called Allie his girlfriend. Besides, Frank was right—no one questioned Walt’s manhood anymore or bugged him about going out to pick up girls. And Allie’s frequent and lengthy letters made this story easy to tell.

  While the gunners installed their machine guns in the mounts with help from the armorers, Walt and Sergeant Reilly, the ground crew chief, filled out Form 1A and walked through the preflight inspection. At quarter to seven, Walt gathered the men by the nose hatch. After he ran through the mission once more, he burrowed under his Mae West life preserver and parachute harness and into the pocket of his flight jacket. He had misgivings about reading Scripture to the men, but God gave him no choice.

  “First mission, men. We’ve got a great crew and a mighty good plane, but we can’t put our trust in machines or ourselves— only in God. The eighteenth Psalm reads, ‘I will love thee, O Lord, my strength. The Lord is my rock, and my fortress, and my deliverer; my God, my strength, in whom I will trust; my buckler, and the horn of my salvation, and my high tower. I will call upon the Lord, who is worthy to be praised: so shall I be saved from mine enemies.’”

  Cracker’s mouth contorted, but before he could make a wisecrack, Bill Perkins sang out, “A mighty fortress is our God, a bulwark never failing.”

  Wow. The man could sing. Walt wanted to join in, but Bill had a soloist’s voice.

  After Bill finished, Louis clapped Walt on the back. “Say, Preach, you’ve got yourself a choir director.”

  Walt laughed and checked his watch. Seven o’clock. “Okay, to your stations.”

  With the ancient hymn playing in his head, Walt settled in the cockpit, strapped on his throat mike, and put on his headset.

  A green flare sprang from the control tower, and his heart lurched. This was it.

  He started each of the four engines, which sputtered to roaring life. The final checks of engine performance looked good, and he stuck his hand out the window to signal the ground crew to remove the wheel chocks. He taxied from the hardstand to the perimeter track around Thurleigh’s three intersecting runways. Twenty-four bombers rolled in a rumbling line. Their propwash flattened the grass and buffeted Flossie, forcing Walt to keep firm pressure on the rudder pedals under his feet. His eagerness flared into full excitement at the power of the sight.

  Overacker’s plane sped down the main runway at 0732, and the other planes followed. Flossie was heavy from ten 500-pound general purpose bombs in the bomb bay, but takeoff was smooth. Cracker’s hangover made him useless. Good thing J.P. was dependable.

  The 306th orbited the field, and the Forts slipped into formation. First they formed three-plane elements in a V, then lined up three elements abreast. Frank’s plane, My Eileen, flew to Walt’s left, his nose lined up with Walt’s tail.

  He checked the altimeter—ten thousand feet. “Okay, men, put out those cigarettes. Time to go on oxygen.” He turned to Cracker. “I need you now. Oxygen checks every fifteen minutes.”

  He nodded. He looked like a bug with his bloodshot eyes and the black rubber mask hanging off his face. Walt strapped on his own mask, heavy and clammy.

  Once over the Channel, the gunners entered their turrets and tested their guns. The .50-caliber machine guns in the top turret, ball turret, waist, and tail, and the two .30s in the nose chattered in short bursts.

  The promised escort of RAF Spitfires never came, but neither did the Luftwaffe. Walt climbed to the bombing altitude of 22,000 feet, and soon he saw a wavy white line far below. The blue gray Atlantic gave way to France’s brown and green patchwork. Little black clouds appeared before them. Flak.

  Hard to believe he was over France, and on the ground were the real, live, Hitler-saluting, goose-stepping Nazis he saw in newsreels. The flak proved it. Behind each black puff stood a Jerry with an antiaircraft gun trained on a B-17.

  “Tail?” Cracker said to make sure no one had oxygen problems. A man could pass out in a few minutes without oxygen and could die in less than twenty minutes.

  “Check,” Mario said.

  “Waist?”

  “Check,” Harry said.

  “Ball?”

  “Check,” Al said from the ball turret, which hung like an udder below Flossie’s fuselage. “But it’s right cold. Could you send some heat down here?”

  A black burst at one o’clock low rocked the plane, and Walt steadied her. Shrapnel pinged the underside of the fuselage. The Germans really did want to kill them. Well, of course they did. But this was the real thing. This was war.

  Al cussed. “That’s not the kind of heat I meant.”

  Walt laughed, muffled in his mask. Felt good, took the edge off. “Okay, men. Fun’s over. Intercom discipline, please. Keep your eyes peeled for fighters.”

  The flak lessened past the coast, still no sign of the Luft-waffe, and the group appeared intact. Overacker dropped from the lead, number two engine down, its propeller blades feathered—turned parallel to the wind to lessen drag.

  “We’re at the IP,” Louis said from the navigator’s desk in the nose.

  The Initial Point, start of the bomb run. “Okay, Abe, aim for that pickle barrel.”

  Abe and Walt worked together on the bomb run. The Norden bombsight was connected to the Pilot’s Directional Indicator on Walt’s instrument panel. As Abe lined up the target, the PDI showed Walt how to maneuver the plane. He was glad the Eighth Air Force didn’t use the Automatic Flight Control Equipment, which allowed the bombardier to fly the aircraft through the autopilot. Walt wanted to control his own plane.

  Flak picked up again when they neared Lille. Walt sensed his grip on the wheel was too tight. He relaxed his hold to keep his feel of the plane.

  “Okay,” Abe said. “I’ve got it. Take that, Hitler. Bombs—”

  An explosion overrode the thunder of engines. The left wing lifted, and Walt fought to right Flossie.
“Any damage?” The gauges for engines one and two looked fine.

  “Clear.” J.P. stood on a platform in the back of the cockpit, his head in the Plexiglas top turret.

  “Clear,” Harry said from the waist.

  “Looks okay. Some dings,” Al said from the ball turret. Only he could see under the wing.

  Too close. Walt felt sweat on his upper lip, or was it condensation from the oxygen mask? He peeled off the target with his squadron and increased airspeed.

  “We missed,” Mario said from the tail. “Our bombs fell too far north.”

  Walt sighed. The flak burst must have thrown off the aim at bomb release.

  “Uh-oh.” J.P. spun his turret around. “Fighters. Three of them. Two o’clock high.”

  “I see ’em,” Harry said.

  “A little closer, and I can get them,” Abe said, his bombsight exchanged for the right nose gun.

  Walt watched with dread and fascination. The famous Luftwaffe swooped down in Focke-Wulf 190s, among the finest fighter planes in the world. Long, yellow noses identified them as Goering’s best “Abbeville Kids,” named after their home airfield in France.

  White flashes zipped toward Walt. Three of Flossie’s machine guns opened up. The cockpit filled with the cough of J.P.’s gun and the clatter of bullet casings on the metal floor. The Fw 190s rolled to their left, following their prop torque. Walt nudged the wheel slightly left to evade.

  Cracker yanked his wheel. Flossie careened to the left. J.P. cried out. Walt heard a crack and a thud behind him.

  They were going to collide with My Eileen. Walt tugged his wheel right to counteract Cracker. “What are you doing?”

  “Evasive maneuvers.”

  “Not like that! Not in formation.” He glanced over his left shoulder. No sign of Frank. “Mario, where’s My Eileen?”

  “She’s out of formation,” Mario said. “Turned to avoid us—just missed—caught our propwash, fell back.”

  Out of formation. Most dangerous place to be. Sitting duck for the Luftwaffe. “Come on, Frank. Get back in formation.”

  “She’s coming back,” Mario said.

  “Hey, what do you think you’re doing up there, Preach?” Harry said. “Had those Krauts in my sights till you knocked me down.”

  “Our copilot’s idea of evasion.” He looked behind him. J.P. sat on the turret platform, forehead in his hands. Blood oozed between his gloved fingers. “J.P.! You hit?”

  “No. Cracked my head when I fell. I’m okay.”

  “One bogie at five o’clock low,” Mario said.

  Walt fixed a glare on Cracker. “Keep your hands off that wheel.”

  “You’ll get us all killed, you—”

  The words he used burned Walt’s ears. “Hands off. That’s an order.”

  Sharp pops under the fuselage. “I got him,” Mario cried. “I got him. Smoke off his engine.”

  “Ah! I’m hit! I’m hit! Blood! Blood all over.”

  Al in the ball turret. Walt craned his neck, though he couldn’t possibly see anything. “Harry, get him out of there.”

  The fighters left to pick on another squadron. Walt worked the wheel between his fingers as if he were milking a cow. “Come on, Harry. Get him out.”

  “I got him.” Harry swore, and Al screamed. “A lot of blood. Can’t find the wound. Where were you hit, Worley? Come on, show me.”

  “I’ve got the first aid kit. I’ll go back, give him some morphine,” Bill said from the radio room. “Oh no. The syringe— it’s frozen.”

  Lord God in heaven, help him. We’re still an hour from base.

  “Um, Preach? We found the wound,” Harry said, laughter in the background.

  Laughter?

  “Al wasn’t hit. A hydraulic line in the ball turret was. The red liquid isn’t blood—it’s hydraulic fluid.”

  Laughter had never felt so good, never in his life, not even with Allie. He couldn’t wait to tell her this story.

  When they landed at Thurleigh, Walt and Sergeant Reilly inspected the plane and finished Form 1A. Other than the broken hydraulic line and a few dings, Flossie looked great. Only Cracker dimmed Walt’s mood.

  A sick feeling churned his stomach as he watched the copilot swagger around, slapping backs and ruffling hair. During debriefing, he’d have to report Cracker’s poor judgment and insubordination. At this rate Cracker would never exchange his gold second lieutenant’s bars for silver first lieutenant’s bars as Walt had. But he couldn’t leave Cracker’s discipline to the squadron commander. No. To prove his leadership to the brass, to the crew, and to Cracker, he’d have to confront the man, and now.

  The crew stood on Flossie’s right, shrugging off flight gear and recounting the mission in loud voices to the ground crew. Walt caught Cracker’s eye and motioned him over in front of the left wing.

  Walt ran his hand down the smooth edge of a propeller on engine one. “I’ve put this off too long. It’s time we had a talk.”

  “In private, huh?” Cracker peeled off his flight helmet and smoothed his blond hair. “I don’t appreciate this. When you chewed me out, you did it in front of the men, but when it’s time for you to eat crow, you want to do it in private.”

  Walt gripped the propeller tip so hard he was amazed it didn’t snap off. The man’s pride knew no end. “I’m not eating any crow.”

  “You’re not? Well, then, you’re wasting my time. I’ve got logs to fill out.” He looked over Walt’s head and moved to step around him.

  Walt raised an arm to block him. “This is the problem— your arrogance and your incompetence. I can’t decide which is more dangerous.”

  “Incompetence?” Cracker jutted his chin out. “I saved your tail today.”

  “Saved?” Walt moved closer. It’d feel good to put a fist in that smirking face, but that wasn’t how officers solved problems. “You think you saved my life? That’s the arrogance I’m talking about. You almost got us killed—twice now. That’s plain incompetence. You don’t know the ship, you don’t know her limits, and you don’t know the regulations.”

  “Regulations?” Cracker’s chin stuck out more, right in Walt’s face. “Regulations are for cowards who can’t think on their feet.”

  For the first time in years, Walt itched for a fight, but he wouldn’t give Cracker the satisfaction. “Regulations are common sense. You don’t make evasive maneuvers—”

  “You’re just afraid to admit my actions—not yours—saved the day.” He jabbed Walt in the chest. “You’re afraid to admit I’m the better leader.”

  “Arrogant, incompetent, and deluded.” Walt thrust a finger in Cracker’s face. “Like it or not, I’m in charge. I’m responsible for the success of our mission, for the safety of the plane, and for the lives of these men. I will not let you interfere. Now, this is an order. You do your job, you stay out of my way, and don’t you ever show up with a hangover again or—I don’t care who your family is—I’ll—”

  Footsteps thumped beside him.

  “You want to kill me, Novak? Do it man to man.” Frank stormed up and shoved him.

  He stumbled to the side. “Whoa, buddy, not what you think.” He gestured to Cracker, who snickered and sauntered toward a truck.

  “I swear. That jerk.” Frank ran over and spun Cracker around. “What on earth do you think you’re doing? Nine men on my plane. I’ve got a wife and four kids at home. No room in this squadron for idiots like you.”

  “Hey, back off!” Cracker pushed him away.

  Frank threw a wild punch, and Walt grabbed Frank’s arms from behind. As much as he’d love to see Cracker beaten to a pulp, he didn’t want Frank to get in trouble. “Come on, he’s not worth it.”

  “I’d like to break that pretty-boy nose.” Frank strained against Walt, his face redder than his hair. “You’d better apologize.”

  “Apologize? You’re crazy.”

  Walt grunted and tightened his grip on Frank’s flailing arms. Already a crowd was gathering, rooting for a fight. “
Apologize, Cracker. You owe him.”

  “You’re both crazy. We didn’t get shot up, did we? Thanks to me.” Cracker shouldered his way out of the crowd.

  If Walt hadn’t been occupied with Frank, he would have given in and thrown a punch of his own. “Arrogant fool.”

  “You said it,” Louis said, his face set hard.

  Abe nodded. “Yeah. You make a mistake, you own up to it.”

  Finally, everyone saw Cracker for who he was, but it didn’t feel as good as expected to see him overthrown—not when his blunder could have cost eighteen lives.

  Frank’s arms went limp in Walt’s hands. “My dad turned to drink after the last war. Now I know why.”

  21

  Riverside

  November 7, 1942

  Allie stepped off the bus and hugged herself against the chill. An older couple at the bus stop gave her an appreciative smile. Allie smiled back, proud of her Red Cross uniform—a gray dress with white collar and cuffs, and a white cap with a gray veil in the back. It represented Clara Barton tending the wounded on Civil War battlefields, decades of wartime aid and disaster relief, and Allie’s own small sacrifice.

  She hurried down a street in an undesirable part of town. Twilight had fallen, and no light issued from street lamps or windows. If it did, a Civil Defense warden would pounce on the perpetrator. The CD had been stricter than ever since Japanese planes dropped incendiary bombs in the Oregon forest twice in September.

  Allie squinted at house numbers and frowned at her own pride. Could she even call her work a sacrifice? She read to the men, helped them write letters, served coffee, and played the piano in the recreation room. She never broke a sweat or dirtied her hands, much less placed herself in mortal danger like Walt, Jim Carlisle, or Louise Morgan’s husband, Larry. The closest she’d come to danger was in her dreams. Twice she’d dreamed of Walt flying under fire. She’d written him about the first dream and regretted it as soon as the envelope tipped down into the mailbox. How improper to tell a man she dreamed about him.