Chapter 12

Bremen, Saturday 17th April 1943

‘I ’ ve got a bad feeling about this run, and I don’t like it one bit.’ Wilson glanced at Mac, his face pale, his eyes tired.

Mac had noticed Wilson had started drinking more than usual. When they ran through the pre-flight checks earlier, he’d made a few mistakes, but then Mac figured they were all tired. ‘I hear you. Don’t think about it. It’s just another run, and we do everything the same.’

Bremen, a heavily defended city, was anything but another run. A deep sense of foreboding engulfed him, descending like a black, dense cloud. Fatigue had reached a whole new level. As they flew out across the Channel, Mac surveyed the armada of bombers around them. One hundred and fifteen Flying Fortresses stretched out above and below.

The thunderous roar of the engines throbbed beneath his feet and flowed up through his body, and his head pounded with the vibration. Then a sudden thought had him reaching up to his neck and grappling with his dog tags. Where was it? His heart sank as he remembered. The St Christopher lay on his bedside table. His heart kicked his ribcage as Bill’s face slipped into his mind. Bill and his crew. Burning. He had to block it out; he had to focus.

He fixed his gaze on Stella’s picture as he rapidly sucked in oxygen. The warmth of her silken hand in his, the fall of her wavy hair on her shoulders. The softness of her body in his arms, the curve of her hips, and the ache of wanting inside him that had taken every ounce of restraint he’d had to hold himself back. And then after he’d bared his soul, she pushed him away, hitting him right in the gut. And she’d be with that other guy today. What if he’d lost her? He shouldn’t have walked out like that.

‘We’re gonna hit them with one hell of a surprise today, each Fort dropping five thousand pounds of bombs on that Focke-Wulf Factory. I sure am glad I’ll be up in the clouds and not boots on the ground,’ Wilson said, adjusting his throat mic.

Mac tore his gaze from Stella, and his heart ached. He needed her now more than ever.

‘Yeah, a few more Krauts out of the way and a blow to Hitler’s war machine,’ Wilson said. ‘We get to see the fourth of July a little early.’

They headed further east towards the island of Juist at the northern tip of Germany, where the flak was moderate, with black smoky wisps that barely reached them.

‘Navigator to pilot. We’re over the West Frisian Islands.’

‘Thanks, Will. Pilot to crew. Check in. Make sure your oxygen’s working.’ Mac turned to Wilson. ‘See anything down there?’

‘Nope. Ten-tenths cloud.’ Wilson looked straight ahead as something caught his eye. ‘What the hell is that goon doing? Lucky Star’s weaving around all over the place. Rookies.’ He rolled his eyes.

As they reached Juist Island, they banked, heading south, and crossed the German coast, straight for Bremen. Below, ragged breaks in the cloud revealed sparkling sunlight on the Weser River which cut through the land, a shimmering snake luring them all the way to the target. The flak here was more intense, and Mac strained his eyes at black specks up ahead, closing in fast.

‘Fighters, twelve o’clock high!’ Tex fired short bursts from the top turret.

‘I see them, Tex. There must be about twenty of ’em.’ Bud’s voice.

Two Messerschmitt Bf 109s hurtled towards them with a flash of yellow noses and gun ports glinting silver before they veered off left and right.

‘Keep her in tight, dammit!’ Mac yelled. ‘You’re drifting out.’ He watched as Wilson wrestled with the control wheel, easing the throttles to move her back in, sweat slipping down his forehead, rolling over his oxygen mask, his eyes wide. ‘Easy on the throttle.’ Mac glanced out at the low formation below. ‘I’ll take her for a while.’ He grabbed the control wheel. They were taking a beating out there as the wolves picked them off, one by one. One ship took a direct hit on both right engines and now trailed smoke. They soon fell back, God help them. Mac gritted his teeth and narrowed his eyes at the sight of the gathering swarm ahead. Icy claws dug into his shoulders and pinned him against his seat. ‘Fighters, twelve o’clock high!’

The anti-aircraft fire intensified, and the Texas Rose took a few direct hits as pieces of red-hot metal ripped her skin wide open. The air inside the cockpit filled with the haze of smoke from the guns.

‘Fighters one o’clock high.’ Tex’s voice.

Bud and Irv fired while yelling obscenities. No doubt they’d be an inch deep in spent shell cases by now, skating on marbles in the waist. The German fighters kept on coming, and fresh swarms arrived to replace those low on fuel. It seemed the Mighty Eighth was to be plagued all the way in and all the way out.

‘Coming about, three o’clock high.’ Bud’s voice.

The Luftwaffe flew and circled like hornets, returning for more, thinking nothing of flying through their own flak to rip the armada apart. Another ship in the low formation trailed smoke after a direct hit from a Focke-Wulf. Mac watched as flames erupted from one engine. There was no time to dwell on the fate of those ten men as up ahead, wave after wave of enemy fighters kept on coming. He focused on the bomber in front while watching those above and below in case they strayed a little too close.

‘Pilot to navigator. How long to the IP?’

‘Navigator to pilot. Four minutes.’

‘Bombardier, how’s it looking down there?’

‘Fair visibility, so far.’

Mac checked his watch. Twelve fifty-five. Almost there. Up ahead, a fresh swarm of enemy fighters headed straight for them. At twenty-five thousand feet, the sky was a stormy sea as flak shells exploded all around every few seconds. Up ahead, the lead squadron, the 323rd released their bombs.

‘Pilot to bombardier, she’s all yours, Danny.’

‘Roger.’

Mac stiffened. Danny had the ship, and their fate was in God’s hands as the engines slowed, and they sailed and rocked over brown-black waves through a grim, smoky haze.

‘Hey, there goes another.’ Wilson craned his neck to follow the path of the flaming Fortress nosediving below them. ‘Goddam, flak’s so thick because they’re spitting it out so fast. It’s the luck of the draw which one of us makes it through.’

Mac flicked a gaze at him, and determination flowed through his veins like steel. ‘Hey, we’re gonna make it if I have to haul this ship back with my bare hands. We’ll make it.’ He took a deep breath and exhaled. His heart pounded, and beads of sweat slipped down his temples like mercury, skirting around his oxygen mask; irritating. He swiped them away.

A fighter headed straight for the Texas Rose and for a split-second, Mac froze, clenching his buttocks as the black nose was almost upon them like a bullet. Then he ducked, but the fighter veered off to their port side at the last moment, peppering the fuselage with cannon fire. The staccato sound of machine-gun fire from the gunners vibrated through the cockpit and blended with the thrum of the engines and drilled through his body.

‘I got him, hot damn!’ Irv yelled from the waist. The Focke-Wulf 190 trailed smoke and nosedived. The Perspex canopy popped open, and the pilot bailed, white plumes of silk blossoming above. ‘Would you look at that?’

‘Must be the fuel dump.’ Bud’s voice.

Mac glanced down as a massive fireball mushroomed upward.

‘Bombs gone.’ Danny’s voice.

The Texas Rose lifted, freed once more from her deathly cargo.

‘Bomb bay doors closing. Ship’s all yours, Mac.’

‘Got it, Danny.’ Job done. Now for the hard part. Mac followed the bombers in front and steered the ship in a sweeping turn north, heading towards the Frisian Islands.

‘Those fighters aren’t about to leave any time soon,’ Mac said. ‘Keep sharp back there.’

‘Here they come again.’ Danny’s voice.

Mac watched, transfixed, as a Focke-Wulf approached from twelve o’clock high. Short bursts of tracer fire hailed from the nose below him, but the swift fighter darted away beneath them. Another Fortress sailed down in flames while others were under heavy attack from the relentless swarm in the air. They were still within range of the anti-aircraft gunners below as they flew back through the barrage of flak, fighters, and cannon fire. The Texas Rose shuddered, and Mac lurched forward in his seat as an audible clunk reverberated from the waist section.

Wilson swivelled around; eyes bulging. ‘Are we hit?’

‘Not me,’ Mac said. ‘Here they come again.’

‘Two more cutting in at three o’clock high.’ Tex’s voice.

‘Come to papa.’ Irv’s voice. ‘Come on, a little closer.’

As the gunners fired short bursts, orange tracer fire lashed the sky. Two of the fighters peeled away while another belched out black smoke before exploding into flames. ‘Pilot to crew, check in.’

One by one they called in, except for Birdie. ‘Pilot to tail. You okay?’ Still nothing. ‘Irv, go aft and check on tail gun.’

‘Sure thing.’

Mac had a bad feeling. Space was really tight back there, and he knew Irv would struggle to squeeze past everything, especially with that huge metal toolbox in the way.

‘What’s happening, Irv?’

‘He’s out cold, slumped over his guns. Man, the tail’s riddled with holes, and there’s a huge chunk ripped out the side. It’s a tornado in here.’

Mac clenched his teeth. His throat mic dug in, crushing his windpipe, and he tugged at it.

‘He just opened his eyes and tried to speak, only he isn’t making sense. His head’s hit bad. There’s a pool of blood on the floor.’

‘Okay, Irv. Danny, go aft with the medical kit and help with tail gun.’ Mac swallowed hard. Another flak shell exploded close by, and the Texas Rose lurched and shuddered as she rode out the storm.

A few more minutes passed. ‘Mac, Birdie’s not with it. I’ve given him a shot of morphine, but his pulse is faint. Irv’s dressing the head wound.’

‘Thanks, Danny. Stay with him and send Irv back asap.’

‘Jimmy, Birdie, can you hear me?’ Irv’s voice from the tail. ‘You’re gonna be okay. We’ll be home soon, and you’ll be chasing those girls from the bakery in no time. You remember the blonde? I reckon she’s sweet on you.’

The Texas Rose lurched once more beneath a hail of cannon fire along her aluminium body. A chunk of flak ripped through the cockpit on her port side with a loud clunk, and Mac jumped, aware of the punch as it pierced its way out the starboard side. He glanced to his left, where an icy wind howled through a gaping, jagged hole in the ship’s skin, and his arms ached as he tried to keep her steady. ‘Number one engine’s hit. It’s smoking,’ he yelled. ‘Extinguishers. Feather prop one.’

Wilson wiped sweat from his eyes and quickly followed the order. As he hit the number one extinguisher button, the blades of the propeller ceased to spin. ‘Don’t worry, that bullet didn’t have your name on it.’

‘No, it said ‘To whom it may concern’.’ Mac gritted his teeth.

‘They got The Lucky Lass.’ Virg’s voice on the interphone, tense.

That made six from the 401st Squadron. Sixty men plus ships from the rest of the group. Mac sure wished he had his St Christopher. It had been a gift from his mother to keep him safe. A siren screeched in his brain and his heart as they slipped through the dead sky. All he could do now was pray.

The padre’s voice from the base rang in his ears. ‘Son, in war, in the skies, there are no atheists.’ Amen.

The Channel shimmered up ahead, and he could almost taste the sea air. Almost home. The fighters had finally given up, and as they pushed on, the sunlight glinted like diamonds on the grey waters beneath them. In a gradual descent, they dipped down to eleven thousand feet as they approached the English coast, heading for Great Yarmouth. From there it was a stone’s throw to Bassingbourn. ‘Pilot to crew. You can come off oxygen now.’ Mac pulled his mask free of his face, relishing the naked freedom. They cut in across the land and sailed over weathered houses and cobbled streets.

Wilson hit the switch for the landing gear. ‘That don’t sound right. I think one of the wheels is stuck.’ He blew out a breath and pursed his lips.

‘Bring it back up and try again.’ Mac glanced at him. That was all they needed.

‘Nope. It won’t budge. Can’t get it to retract.’

‘Tex, you’d better take a look,’ Mac said.

Tex sprang into action, but no matter how hard he tried, the landing gear was jammed solid. ‘Reckon the electronics are all shot out. I’ll do it by hand.’ He turned off the electronic switch for the landing gear and headed to the bomb bay. He’d have to manually crank the wheels in there. Within a few minutes, he returned. ‘It won’t budge.’

‘What do we do?’ Wilson looked at Mac. ‘Can’t land on one wheel, number one’s still smoking.’

‘We’ve got no other choice. Pilot to crew, prepare for a crash landing. Get in the radio room. We’re going down.’ One way or another. ‘Ernie, get out of that ball.’

‘I’m out.’

Silence prevailed over the interphone for about thirty seconds, and then Irv cut in. ‘Hey, Ernie. That flak suit you’re always sitting on to protect your family jewels, well you’ve been wasting time. Might as well kiss your ass goodbye—and your jewels.’

‘Up yours, Irv, besides, you ain’t got much to boast about.’

‘Okay, guys. Can I have silence now until we land unless it’s real urgent?’ Mac needed to concentrate. He’d never had a situation like this before. Sure, he’d belly-landed once, and that had been hair-raising enough. If you go down too fast and too hard, you risk starting a fire. That same risk went with a one- wheel landing. He tried to remember everything he knew about emergency landings.

While he fought to clear his mind, images of Stella and his family slipped in, and he recalled flying over the Montana plains, and how the old Curtiss ‘Jenny’ handled in his control. Light, responsive, almost like a part of him. His father’s words before every flight. Make her sing, boy. It was Mac’s mantra, his good luck charm.

‘Make her sing,’ he muttered as he focused on the movement of the ship and the feel of her in his hands; a sensation that flowed through his body and mind as if she were whispering in his ear.

As they descended, a patchwork of green, yellow, and brown fields, bordered by hedgerows and winding grey lanes, flashed beneath them. His heart swelled at the sight of King’s College Chapel, its spires reaching up toward the sky like a promise.

He was still wearing his flak suit, and he sure regretted it now as it bore down on him, making his shoulders and neck ache with a relentless persistence. His thoughts flicked back to the crew. No doubt Bud was gripping his rosary tight, whispering a prayer.

Wilson peered out of the cockpit window. ‘Runway coming up.’ He glanced over at Tex. ‘Signal ahead.’

Tex grabbed the flare gun and fired from the upper turret; two streaks of red sailed into the blue. Mac gripped the control wheel so determinedly that his hands slid inside his flight gloves. He flicked a gaze at Stella’s picture and heaved in a breath as the blood pulsed through his body. He was going to see her just as sure as he was going to land this ship, and then he’d apologise and hope for forgiveness. ‘Here we go, hold on tight.’ Below them, the dark silhouette of the Texas Rose raced across English soil, keeping pace as the gap between the two closed.

‘Our Father, which art in heaven. Hallowed be thy name.’ Bud’s voice filtered through the interphone.

Lower, lower they came as the concrete runway rushed up beneath them.

‘But deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom.’

The control wheel now shuddered so violently, the vibrations juddering through Mac’s arms and torso as he bounced in his seat, and they jolted as they touched down hard with a squeal of rubber. The ship immediately bounced back up before coming down hard with the single wheel now firmly on the ground, screeching in delight. Mac kept the Texas Rose upright for several seconds before she gracefully tilted over to the other side, her wingtip gouging concrete, orange sparks fizzing into the air like hundreds of fireflies glowing at dusk. He applied the brakes, but nothing happened. As the runway ran out, they rode across the rutted field at speed. Mac glimpsed the meat wagon in pursuit, the blood-red cross on its olive-green roof. Still traveling at around fifty miles per hour, Mac stared ahead as the end of the airfield approached, the boundary hedgerows rushing forward to greet them, and then the wing clipped a concrete building, sending Mac lurching forward as they spun around in an arc and finally came to a standstill. The number one engine belched out black smoke, and the sharp smell of high-octane fuel reeked in the air.

For a few seconds, Mac sat stunned, and then a flicker of orange flashed from the corner of his eye. He glanced at the engine where flames now leapt, lashing the wing. ‘Fire! Everybody out!’ He unclipped his belt. Wilson rushed ahead of him and jumped through the nose hatch, closely followed by Tex. Mac charged through the ship. The radio room was empty. Just as he entered the waist, a loud explosion knocked him off his feet and everything went silent.

His face stung, and something wet slipped down his cheek and neck, but the fire was spreading fast, and he had to reach the tail. He jumped out of the waist door and ran to the rear of the ship. The tail door was still shut. He opened it and found Danny unconscious on the floor. ‘Hey, Tex. Give me a hand. Danny’s out cold.’ Mac jumped inside, despite the stifling intensity of the flames. Tongues of orange red lashed the waist, sweeping towards them. Tex climbed in and between the two of them they half dragged, half carried Danny to the awaiting medics, while the flames licked at their heels.

‘Come on, Mac. The whole ship’s burning. There’s nothing more you can do.’

‘I’m not leaving Birdie in there to burn.’ He darted back inside. The smoke, thick and black, caught in his throat and he coughed, gasping for breath. One side of his face prickled as the searing heat intensified. Every breath was a fight, and his nose and throat seared as the flames devoured the oxygen. He grabbed Birdie by his arms and dragged him towards the door, but another explosion rocked him, and his knees buckled as he dropped to the floor. The portable oxygen cylinders in the tail must have gone up. This was it. He was burning to death. He swallowed and closed his eyes for a second, as his family and Stella flashed through his mind. Then, a surge of adrenaline flooded his body like a raging torrent, and he hauled himself up and cried out as the fire reached him, lashing his lower legs as he dragged Birdie to the exit.

‘Jesus Christ, Mac! You’re burning.’ Wilson, standing waiting by the door, pulled the injured gunner out and let his body drop to the ground, where he rolled him and threw his jacket over him to beat out the flames. Mac staggered out and fell onto the grass, which was now soaked with water from the fire hoses. A medic threw a blanket over his legs to smother the flames, and the wet ground soaked into him. Intense pain radiated through his legs, his hands, and face, and a wave of nausea swelled in his gut. As he lay sprawled on the ground, his limbs began to shake and his teeth chattered, but he fixed his gaze on the medic now attending to Birdie.

‘Get back, clear the area.’ The firemen stepped back, still pointing hoses at the B-17, as the greedy flames raged, blackening her skin, tearing it from her frame, devouring her whole.

A second medic draped a blanket over Birdie’s body and dragged it up over his face. Mac glanced at his crew who looked on, stunned, and Virg stood, wide-eyed, wiping his eyes with gloved hands.

Mac’s heart lurched, and his chest heaved. ‘No!’ He twisted to one side and retched. Then, like lightning, sharp, stabbing pain seared through both hands. He held one out in front of him. The flight glove was crispy, blackened and partially melted. He tried to remove it, then a searing pain plunged through his hand, and he cried out.

‘Don’t do that, Lieutenant, I’ll see to those for you.’ The medic shouted to his colleague. ‘I need another stretcher over here.’ They carried Mac to the awaiting field ambulance.

‘He can’t be dead.’ Mac’s voice quavered. The acrid smell of smoke drifted in the air, but a stranger, nauseating odour filtered in, pungent, foul, like burned meat. He swallowed.

‘He’s gone, the poor kid. You did everything you could.’ Wilson took out a cigarette and lit it, his hands trembling. ‘Looks like he got hit pretty bad. Nothing anyone could have done, Mac.’

Mac lay back on the stretcher and gazed at the sky. Milky blue with white cloud, the perfect day for flying in the old Curtiss. Maybe dad was up there right now putting her through her paces. His heart suddenly ached for home.

‘I’m just going to give you a shot of morphine, Lieutenant.’

There was a sharp sting in his right arm and within a few minutes, Mac relaxed and floated on a warm, hazy cloud. ‘So tired,’ he mumbled, as he sailed into the fog. ‘So darn tired.’ His eyes closed as the pain subsided, embracing the darkness which somehow seemed reassuring.