by Bill Walker
Thorley felt a hot flash of anger at the man’s impersonal reference, but forced himself to calm down. He was past the personal at this point. Only the mission and its successful outcome mattered now.
“Quite,” MacIlvey replied. “You have the flight plan?”
The pilot looked off into the distance, as if gauging some unseen menace. “Bloody Göring’s got twice as many 110’s up tonight. From the reports we’ve heard over the radio, it’ll be the deuce getting over the Bay of Biscay.”
MacIlvey stared at the man, a vein in his temple throbbing. “Sounds like you’ll be earning your pay, then.”
The pilot sighed, a world-weary expression passing over his face. “No rest for the wicked, eh what?”
“Just make sure you get him there in one piece.”
“We always do.”
MacIlvey turned to Thorley and thrust out his meaty hand. Thorley took it, feeling the small bones of his hand grind against each other. “You’re in good hands with Flight Lieutenant Mullins,” MacIlvey said, nodding toward the pilot. “Just make sure you bring back the truth. I don’t trust the bloody Hun, not since the last war.”
“I’ll do my best, sir,” Thorley said, feeling silly, as if he were being packed off to boarding school. But the look in the older man’s eyes snapped him back to reality.
“Whatever the truth is, I’ll find it.”
MacIlvey smiled. “Good show.”
The copilot leaned out the side window. “We’ve got to leave now, Flight, there’s a front moving in.”
The pilot nodded, then twirled his hand. The copilot disappeared back inside the cockpit and a moment later the plane’s two Bristol-Hercules engines fired up with a gut-shaking rumble. Prop wash buffeted them, making it difficult for Thorley to stand. MacIlvey mouthed something that was lost in the clamor, then tried repeating it. He gave up with a shrug, saluted, and walked back to the Humber, which had discreetly moved from its spot by the blockhouse. A moment later, it accelerated away, retracing its route back toward the trees and the city.
Thorley suddenly felt very alone, as if he’d been abandoned by his last friend. He spotted the pilot standing by the open hatch, beckoning him with an impatient wave.
There was no turning back now, nowhere else to go.
Holding his cap to his head, Thorley ran to the hatchway and stopped. The pilot thrust his face next to Thorley’s ear and shouted. “You’ve got to pull yourself inside, sir!”
Thorley nodded, reached up and grabbed the rim of the hatch with both hands, then jumped to give himself the necessary momentum to carry him up into the plane. He made it halfway, and instantly two pairs of hands grabbed him under the arms and hauled him inside.
The two men belonging to those hands, both pilot officers, dressed in flight gear and wearing parachutes, smiled at him. “Welcome aboard, sir,” they said, saluting.
Thorley returned the salute, feeling foolish.
The pilot followed him in, closed and battened the hatch, then turned to the two other officers. “Gibby, you take the tail tonight, and bloody well keep your eyes peeled. We’re carrying enough extra fuel to roast us to cinders.”
Gibby nodded. “Yes, sir,” he said, turning and running off down the narrow catwalk, the rubber soles of his sheepskin-lined boots silent on the latticed steel. He disappeared behind the bomb bay, now occupied by a special long-range fuel tank instead of the usual complement of five-hundred-pound explosives. The pilot faced the other pilot officer, a fresh-faced boy with tousled blond hair and mischievous grin. “Once we’re aloft, Hildy, you’re to lay in a course for Lisbon, and keep us over water this time.” He then turned and climbed into the cockpit, which was separated from the rest of the cabin by steel meshing. The copilot nodded to Thorley, then turned his attention back to his gauges.
Hildy pointed to a spot next to the navigator/radioman’s chair, where a spare parachute lay. “I’m sorry we don’t have a seat for you, sir,” he said. “But the lady here wasn’t designed for comfort.”
“Quite all right....”
“Sims, Major, Pilot Officer Hildy Sims.”
“Carry on, Sims.”
Thorley sat on the parachute, deciding that if he really needed it he’d put it on at the appropriate time. Chances were good, however, that the pilot was correct. With all the extra fuel in that large tank in the bomb bay, they’d never have the chance to get out. Pushing that unpleasant thought from his mind, he leaned his back against the bulkhead, feeling the vibration of the engines. Hildy sat down in the fold-down jump seat, turned on the radio and put on his headset, then pulled out his charts and began plotting the course that would take them out over the Atlantic and then south over the Bay of Biscay to neutral Portugal.
A moment later, the engines throttled up and the rumbling idle became a full-throated roar. He felt the brakes ease off and the Wellington move forward, rapidly picking up speed. As they approached take-off speed, wind howled through the open gun ports adding to the cacophony and further jangling his nerves. He felt the wheels jounce once as the plane lifted off the earth. He was thirty-five years old, heading off into God only knew what, and this was his first time in the air. Turning his eyes heavenward, he beseeched whatever deity might be listening that he sincerely hoped it wouldn’t be his last.
The plane banked sharply, turned south first, then due west. A few downdrafts jolted the plane, making Thorley’s stomach twist and his knuckles turn white. His hands ached as he gripped a piece of the plane’s superstructure. Looking toward the cockpit, he saw the copilot pointing at one of the Perspex windows. “Our escort has arrived,” he said.
It was too dark to see from where he was sitting, but Thorley knew the copilot referred to a fighter escort, no doubt two of the highly maneuverable Spitfires. Instead of making him feel better, this only increased his anxiety.
“Good show,” the pilot replied, his eyes on the altimeter. “Leveling off at fifteen thousand feet.” He put his hands to his throat mike. “This is Red Leader…do you copy Little Friends? Over.”
A crackling of static.
“We copy loud and clear, Red Leader. What are your orders? Over.”
“Stay with us until the far beacon. We should be all right after that, over.”
“Roger, Red Leader, we’re with you all the way to Tipperary. Over and out.”
The pilot smiled at the fighter escort’s joke, and was about to offer a comment to the copilot when the plane dropped two hundred feet and began to vibrate as if shaken in a giant paint mixer. Alarmed and thinking the worst, Thorley grabbed onto a stanchion and grit his teeth. And then, as quickly as it all began, the shaking ceased and the plane flew on, steady as a watchmaker’s hand. Thorley uncoiled himself from the stanchion and sank back against the bulkhead. The pilots grinned at each other.
“Your first time up, Major?” the copilot asked, a devilish gleam in his eye.
Thorley ignored the man.
“Don’t worry, sir,” the pilot offered, “we’ve never lost one to turbulence yet. It’s only Göring’s goons you have to worry about.”
Thorley stared back at the man, his gaze level and calm. “How long is the flight, Flight Lieutenant?”
“About six hours, sir.”
“Good, then keep it buttoned until then.”
The pilot’s eyebrows shot up. He gave the copilot a nervous shrug, then returned his attention to the plane.
Nothing happened until they passed near the French coast. Out of nowhere, two Messerschmitt Bf 110s dove from the clouds, their 20mm cannons and 7.92mm machine guns blazing. One moment it was quiet, the next it was pandemonium with tracer bullet accompaniment.
The pilot wrenched the yoke and the Wellington dove to the left. The radio blared: “Red Leader, Red Leader, Messerschmitt on your tail! Bank right!”
Immediately, the Wellington rolled over to the right. Thorley heard the chatter of the Wellington’s nose guns and saw the red streaks of tracers arcing out into the night.
The radio blared again: “Red Leader, Dive, dive, dive!”
But before the pilot could react, a fusillade of bullets ripped through the side of the plane, tearing up the instrument panel and nailing the copilot in the head. It exploded like a ripe melon, spattering blood against Thorley’s face. As horrified as he was, what really scared him was that the nose guns had fallen silent.
Next to him, Hildy threw off his headset and grabbed Thorley by the arm. “Do you know how to operate a three-o-three?”
“N—no.”
Hildy pulled him to his feet. “No time like the present. Come on.”
Thorley tried to stay on his feet while the Wellington maneuvered to avoid the Messerschmitt’s relentless cannon fire, which thwacked against the fuselage with sickening regularity. Passing the bomb bay, they came upon two flexible .303 calibre belt-fed machine guns on swivels mounted to the deck, each aiming out one side of the plane. Farther aft, Thorley heard the rear-gunner’s .303 clattering in staccato bursts, punctuated by Gibby’s gleeful cursing.
“You hear that?” Hildy shouted, pointing to the tail. “Fire it only when you’ve got them in your sights. You’ve only got five thousand rounds, and these babies will chew them up faster than you can imagine.”
A Spitfire streaked by the open port chasing one of the Messerschmitts, dark blurs against a darker sky. The Wellington rolled, forcing Thorley and Hildy to brace themselves until it leveled out. “How the hell can I see them, much less get them in my bleeding sights?”
“Watch the tracers. Then aim a little farther back from the source of the fire. That’s your target.”
Hildy pushed him toward the .303 on the starboard side and Thorley grabbed the handles and pushed the trigger.
Nothing.
The bolt, you idiot, pull the bloody bolt back.
Hildy’s gun began firing behind him, the horrendous chattering adding to the already deafening clamor. Thorley searched frantically for the bolt, his fingers fumbling over unfamiliar territory. He found it to the side, grabbed it and yanked it back, feeling it slide smoothly along its oiled track. Focusing on the sky outside the plane, he squinted, trying to distinguish one of the Messerschmitts from out of the gloom. A dark shape whooshed by, making him jump, which was just as well as the bullets that slammed through the skin of the Wellington missed him by fractions.
“Shoot the bloody bastards, damn you!” Hildy screamed.
And that was all it took. He grabbed for the handles, his untrained fingers accidentally pressing the trigger. The gun spat out five bullets in the blink of an eye, and he watched them fly away from the Wellington, the phosphorus in their tails burning bright red arcs into the sky. Suddenly, tracers of a different color, a blazing yellow streamed back toward him, as if out of nowhere. A Messerschmitt.
Resisting the urge to duck his head, he placed the source of the tracers right in the crosshairs of the sight and fired. Empty shell casings clattered about his feet as the .303 spat tracers at the German plane. Thorley tried to follow it as it flew by but the swivel had a very short arc.
A split second later, the Messerschmitt streaked back around for another pass. This time, Thorley remembered what Hildy said and aimed the .303 slightly aft of the source of the fire, then pressed the trigger. The gun rattled and he saw some of his tracers hit home, sending up a shower of debris from the German plane.
And then the Messerschmitt exploded in a ball of orange flame that lit up the inside of the Wellington. He watched the fiery wreckage spiral down in lazy circles until it was lost from sight.
“Bloody good show!” Hildy screamed over his shoulder, still firing.
But Thorley saw very little good in it. In spite of the fact that the pilot of the Messerschmitt had been shooting at him—had tried to kill him—he was just doing his duty, like Thorley. No, there was no good in that; just a dirty job that left one feeling turned inside out. And that was nothing to celebrate. Except for the fact that he was still alive.
Returning his attention to the night sky, Thorley saw the remaining Messerschmitt make one last pass, its tracers missing the Wellington by a wide margin. Then, as if sensing that its moment had passed, it turned tail and headed back toward the French coast, its nose bloodied.
Drained, Thorley let go of the .303 and collapsed against the bulkhead, his head throbbing and his ears ringing.
“You all right, mate—sir?” Hildy asked.
“I suppose, but I never thought it could be....”
His voice trailed off when he saw the blood on Hildy’s arm.
“Christ, you’re hit!” he said, scrambling to his feet.
“It’s nothing, passed right though. Just a nick, really.”
“To hell with that. Let me look.”
“It’ll wait. We’ve got to check on Gibby.”
Thorley nodded and the two of them headed to the tail. Hildy crouched down and banged on the door leading into the tiny cramped quarters of the rear gunner.
“You all right, Gibby?” Hildy said.
The door swung open and young man’s cherubic face smiled out at them. “We damn well gave it to Jerry! Was that bloody wizard, or what?”
Hildy smiled, but his eyes held a weary expression. “Wizard, all right. Need anything?”
“A pint and a bit of slap and tickle will put me as right as rain. Everybody all right?”
“Farley bought it,” Hildy said, his face clouding.
“Oh, Christ.” Gibby shifted his gaze to Thorley. “This mission had better be bloody damned important. Farley was a good man.”
“It’s more important than you can imagine,” Thorley replied, knowing that it offered nothing in the way of solace.
“Ease up, Gibby,” Hildy said. “Farley knew what it was all about. So do you.”
Gibby nodded, his anger dissipating. “Sorry, Major.”
“It’s okay,” he said, feeling awkward.
He wanted to say something else, anything to make it all right. But, of course, there was nothing he could say that would change a blessed thing. Farley would still be dead.
Hildy tugged on his sleeve. “Come on. I’ve got to get back and plot us a new course.”
Hildy pulled out his sextant, aimed it at Polaris, and made a few calculations on his flight computer, a small round plastic device similar to a slide rule. After double-checking his figures and taking into account the depletion of fuel during the dogfight, he gave the Flight Lieutenant their new heading. Amazingly, after all their evasive maneuvers, they were only off their original course by five degrees.
Then came the grim work. Both the nose gunner, a man whose name Thorley never knew, and Farley had been killed. Flight Lieutenant Mullins had them wrap the bodies in tarpaulins and place them next to the bomb bay. It took considerable effort for Thorley not to throw up, especially when he caught a glimpse of the ruin that had been Farley’s head.
With the bodies stowed and the spent shell casings swept up, Thorley curled up on his parachute and tried to nap. But sleep refused to come. Adrenaline from the dogfight still pumped through his body, making his heart pound, his hands tremble, and his mind reel. He couldn’t rid his thoughts of Gibby’s accusations, especially the unspoken ones that blazed from a young flier’s eyes grown old before their time.
For the remainder of the flight Thorley sat in silence staring at the wrapped bundles that had once been living men, praying that he would never have to join them.
Chapter Seven
It was nearly dawn when the Vickers-Wellington made its final approach into Lisbon’s Lisboa Aeroporto. An early morning fog blew in off the ocean, spreading ghostly tendrils through the city and into the surrounding hills. Though low on fuel, the Wellington had to make one circular pass before being allowed to land on the single oil-streaked runway.
When it taxied to a stop in front of the civilian terminal, Thorley watched as a cadre of Portuguese troops frog-marched out of the building and surrounded the plane. Flight Lieutenant Mullins powered down, appraised the
bullet-smashed cockpit and the blood splashes on the instruments with a sad shake of his head, then climbed out of his seat and opened the hatch. Warm, sultry air wafted up through the hole, smelling of dead fish and aviation fuel. About to drop through, Flight Lieutenant Mullins hesitated, then turned to Thorley, eyeing him coolly.
“Ordinarily, I’d wish you luck, Major, like I do for all the others I’ve put down on foreign soil,” he said, his voice tight with anger. “Lord knows, it’s a tough, bloody war. But something about this mission has smelled to high heaven from the very start. Whatever it is you’re supposed to find, I hope you find it...and bloody well choke on it.” And then he dropped through the hatchway and was gone.
Thorley stood, smoothed out his uniform, and followed the pilot out of the aircraft in time to see him disappear into the terminal, escorted by two Portuguese soldiers. He couldn’t blame the man for his anger; he’d lost two good men, men for whom he cared deeply. Still, Thorley couldn’t hold back his own anger. After all, as Hildy had said, they all knew the risks when they signed up. So, what did the Flight mean when he said something about the mission smelled?
He was about to go after him to demand an explanation then decided against it. No doubt the man would refuse to speak to him, and besides, the Portuguese soldiers didn’t look as if they would let him pass. Suddenly tired, Thorley leaned against the skin of the Wellington and used the moment to scan his surroundings.
The plane sat fifty yards out from the terminal, a squat two-storey Mediterranean style building with stucco walls and red tile roof. Except for the equipment that would identify it as part of an airport, it looked like someone’s ramshackle villa. Beyond the terminal lay a chain-link fence and Lisbon proper. The city consisted of mostly low-profile Spanish-style buildings, radiating outward toward the hills where expensive homes sat perched on the hillsides. It seemed that every square block contained a church, for bells were ringing all over the city, calling the faithful to morning mass.
