Chapter 34

Bremen, 8 th October 1943

A s the B-17 slipped over Great Yarmouth and out across the Channel, Mac gazed at Stella’s picture above the instrument panel. Things would be different after the war, and hopefully, she’d be happy to live in Montana. His breath hitched in his throat as he remembered the St Christopher. Jeez, did he put it on? A moment’s panic seized him, and with gloved fingers, he reached for his neck. Though he couldn’t feel it, a calm washed over him as he remembered: he hadn’t removed it in days. Mac took a deep breath, his focus shifting back to the mission.

Bombers flanked them above, below, and all around. Further out over the mercurial grey sea, the gunners tested their weapons, the staccato sound juddering up through the body of the ship, flowing into the cockpit. Acrid smoke from the nose guns below drifted up to greet him. Mac pictured the trail of red on the briefing map that bled into the heart of Bremen, a place they already knew and were all too aware of the reception that awaited them. Earlier, the Colonel’s clipped tone and his pensive face had conveyed the tension aptly.

They had taken off at twelve hundred hours and sailed into a filthy grey sky. The air had been chilled on the ground and was even colder at twenty thousand feet. A few of the fingers on his right hand were growing numb already, although that had nothing to do with the cold. That morning, he’d struggled to dress, his fingers fumbling with buttons as his hands trembled, and he knew it was more than fatigue. The problem had grown steadily worse since his return, and it wasn’t so much the pain that troubled him as the transient numbness, which made his hands weak and clumsy. He blew out a breath. They had to make it through.

Slater had done a swell job with the nose art. Hell’s Fury now had her own persona, proudly displaying the image of a busty redhead in a blue dress, a trail of fire blazing behind her as she prodded a caricature of Hitler with her pitchfork.

‘Well, we’ll set the shipyards ablaze, all right.’ Wilson’s eyes were dark, but something more flashed there, and Mac guessed it probably bothered him just as it bothered the other guys. His heart weighed triple, but at least they were hitting industrial targets today.

‘Bombardier to pilot. Permission to arm the bombs?’ Val’s voice.

‘Pilot here. Granted.’ Mac stamped his feet. A couple of hours in and they were throbbing from the icy air. The P-47 fighter support zipped around them, but they would have to turn around pretty soon as they didn’t have enough fuel to make target and back again. The enemy fighters were just biding their time. He glanced at the unnamed Fortress on his port side, and the waist gunner flashed him a thumbs up. There was something to be said for safety in numbers and here, packed into a tight, defensive combat box, a tiny orb glowed inside of him, but it wasn’t quite warm enough to thaw the ice.

All too soon, their escort turned for home and Mac’s heart sank. ‘There they go.’

‘So long, little friends.’ Ivan’s voice from the tail.

They had followed the coastline past the Netherlands and further on towards Germany, and now they turned sharp south for Bremen, following the murky loose coils of the Weser River. The anti-aircraft fire kicked in as soon as they reached the coastline at Bremerhaven. Mac glanced out of the window at the swatch of green fields through a break in the cloud. Black puffs hung in the air, and the ship shook with the explosions, jolting him in his seat.

‘Weather don’t seem too good over here either,’ Wilson said.

‘No. Look at those clouds.’ Mac peered at the gathering of grey-black cumulus that was creeping in around them. He gritted his teeth.

‘Fighters, twelve o’clock high.’ Walt’s voice from the top turret.

Machine-gun fire vibrated through the ship, mixing with the thrum of the engines, and Mac’s entire body trembled in his seat, his insides shaking, his head bursting.

‘Jesus Christ, a Fort’s just exploded down in the low formation.’ Wilson stared, wide-eyed, breathing heavily.

Mac swallowed. He didn’t want to look, but he glanced down at the fireball as pieces of aircraft plummeted into the black smoky haze. Another Fort dropped away from the formation. Jeez, they were falling like flies. The fighters had bided their time, just as he’d predicted, and now attacked like wolves in packs. Their cannon fire was intense, accurate, and relentless. There was a dull clunk and Hell’s Fury shook. An icy draught hurtled across the back of Mac’s neck and Wilson turned to look.

‘Flak’s hit the port side and left a gaping hole.’ Wilson wiped sweat from his brow.

Great, as if they weren’t cold enough already. Now they were going to freeze. Mac sweated, and his back was soaked from fighting to keep the ship in formation. His hands ached and throbbed and even his face was sore where sweat pooled around the edges of his oxygen mask, which dug into his right cheek. They had to make it. They had to. He glanced at Stella’s picture and swallowed. She was expecting him home for dinner at seven.

‘Fighters, twelve o’clock high.’ Walt’s voice from the top turret.

‘Christ, they got Taylor’s ship. It’s a flamer. She’s going down.’ Val’s voice.

Mac steeled himself as black forms up ahead zoomed towards them, transforming into yellow-nosed Messerschmitt Bf 109s, cutting through the formation in a bid to break them up. Gunners from the surrounding ships shot lead out across the sky as fast as they could to fend them off.

They were almost over the target. Mac glanced down. There was some cloud and a whole lot of smoke, but there were breaks through which glows of red flashed.

‘Pilot to bombardier. How’s that target looking, Val?’

‘Almost there. I see it. Bombs gone.’

Mac gazed around at the Forts as they dropped their ladder of bombs and out of the corner of his eye, two Focke-Wulf 190s flashed towards them. ‘Fighters, eleven o’clock high.’ He took control of the ship and made a wide sweeping turn for home. Another ship dropped out of formation and headed down into hell.

‘We sure did set off some fireworks down there today,’ Wilson said.

‘Radio to pilot. Get us home.’ Red’s voice. ‘Jeez, I always wanted to join the Navy, see the world, only I get seasick. Someone said join the Air Force. Goddam fools never said anything about this.’

The ship shook and bucked her way through the shelling and jolted Mac in his seat.

‘Jesus Christ! A piece of Nazi flak just missed my head.’ Red’s voice, filled with anguish.

‘Pilot to radio operator. You okay, Red?’

‘Yeah. Just got a gale force icy blast blowing through my office.’

‘Fighter, nine o’clock high.’ Emmett’s voice from the waist.

Mac turned to look and saw the yellow nose first, then the arc of tracer fire headed towards it, no doubt coming from the waist. The Messerschmitt dived beneath them and resurfaced on the other side, firing continuously, then he zipped up ahead, banked, and came at them head-on. Cannon fire hit the Plexiglas nose, and there was a loud thud as the ship shuddered, jolting Mac forward. His heart drilled against his ribcage.

Wilson looked out at the starboard wing. ‘Number three engine’s on fire.’

Mac glanced at the plume of black smoke. ‘Extinguishers. Feather the prop.’

‘It ain’t working.’ Flames of orange flared from the engine, licking the wing.

‘We’ll have to dive. Red, get me a C wave.’ Mac waited for the radio frequency. ‘Group, it’s Captain Mackenzie. We’re dropping out of formation. Wingman, you’re lead plane now. Okay, here we go. Hang on, guys.’

Mac put Hell’s Fury into a dive, pointing her nose towards the ground, descending at an alarming rate. Seconds seemed like minutes, but as they watched, the flames gradually died, leaving a trail of grey-black smoke streaming from the engine.

‘Wilson, help me pull her up!’ Mac yelled, breathing hard. His hands were throbbing so bad they were almost numb, and he didn’t know how much longer he could hold on. The control wheel shuddered violently, sapping his strength even more, and he gritted his teeth so hard his jaw ached.

‘Pull her up, dammit!’ he yelled, flicking a glance at Wilson and then at the ground below, which hurtled towards them with trees and buildings blossoming large, fast, too fast. Just as he was certain they were going to crash, the nose lifted towards the horizon, and she gradually levelled out at six thousand feet. Mac was breathing so hard his chest grew tight and ached, and as he relaxed his grip on the control wheel, his hands hurt even more. He needed to rest up. ‘Wilson. Take over for me.’

Wilson glanced at him, nodded, and took the wheel.

Flying at this height, they had a bird’s eye view of the German countryside, but they were also a prime target for the buzzing fighters and the anti-aircraft gunners. ‘Better start climbing, get us out of here.’ Mac reached for his water canteen and took a drink. Nausea swirled in his gut, and he puffed out a breath, but man, that land was an unbelievable green.

They began to climb. ‘Pilot to nose. Damage report.’

‘Bombardier to pilot. We’re okay.’ Val’s voice. ‘The Plexiglas is all busted, cracked to hell.’

‘Okay, Val.’ They’d been lucky. They were headed towards the coast, and the ocean was in sight, but first they had to wade through the flak at Bremerhaven and flying at a lower altitude posed a far greater risk. A lone Messerschmitt Bf 109 spotted Hell’s Fury and darted across for a better look. Its pilot whipped all around the ship, careful to keep his distance as if he was inspecting her before darting up ahead.

‘He’s coming back round. Twelve o’clock high.’ Walt’s voice.

The German fighter swung his yellow nose around in a wide turn and came back for another pass, spitting sparks of cannon fire from his gun ports. He was going for the nose. Machine-gun fire hailed from around the ship and tracer fire shot out from the nose. The ship shuddered and tremors snaked up through Mac’s feet and flowed through the control wheel into his arms and body as the fighter slid beneath their wing.

‘Navigator to pilot. The Plexiglas has gone and Val’s hit.’ Jim’s voice.

‘Pilot here. Is it bad?’

‘Can’t tell. It’s the shoulder. I’ll do the best I can.’

The Messerschmitt dived below their belly and darted away just as the ship lurched and the number four engine belched out smoke.

‘I got him.’ The rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire. ‘Take that, Jerry.’ Ivan’s voice from the tail.

The Messerschmitt nosedived towards the ground as thick smoke belched out, and then a blossoming plume of white sailed through the black.

‘He’s bailed.’ Ivan’s voice, tinged with disappointment.

Mac hit the extinguisher button and kept his gaze on the propeller until it ceased to spin. The wing was peppered with holes, and several chunks had been gouged out.

‘Val’s hit pretty bad, and it’s blowing an icy gale in here.’ A brief pause. ‘Blood’s soaked clean through his flight suit.’ Jim’s voice.

‘Okay. Do what you can. Get him in the radio room.’ Mac gritted his teeth. It was all falling apart, and as he gazed through the side window, Fortresses from their group sailed on by. They couldn’t keep up, and shortly they’d be all alone.

‘Pilot here. Everyone check in.’

One by one, they checked in. Only Val had been hit. Hell’s Fury had slowed more, and the fuel gauge wasn’t looking too healthy either. The chances of them making it across the Channel looked slim. Wilson transferred fuel from both damaged engines to the remaining two. If they were going to make it, they would need every last drop.

‘Listen up, everyone. We’re flying on two engines. Fuel’s getting low, so get your chutes on and be ready to bail.’ Mac’s voice was solemn. Wilson glanced at him, a moment of understanding passing between them before grabbing his chute.

More Fortresses sailed on by, and Mac’s heart sank. His hands were half useless, and he was fighting himself just to keep on going. Wilson was going to have to pull his weight. There was a chance they could make it, although it was tight. He didn’t know what to do for the best, but ditching in the Channel was not an option, especially at this time of year. They wouldn’t stand a chance in those freezing waters. The ship lurched again, and the control wheel shook and shuddered.

‘Christ, what now?’ Wilson looked to Mac for guidance. ‘Oil pressure’s dropping on number two. I don’t fancy our chances of making it home from here, do you?’

Mac glanced at him. ‘I’m prepared to give it a darn good try if you are.’ Wilson looked real uncertain. Several ships had gone down, damaged. A number of guys had bailed out and were probably being rounded up by the Germans right now. Goddamn it, he was going home . They rocked and rolled on waves of flak as they followed the German coastline and headed towards the Netherlands.

‘Red flak.’ Carleton’s voice, then a whistle. ‘Gee, that was close!’

Mac said a silent prayer and his father’s words whispered in his head. Bring her home safe, son . Sing her home . A warm glow burst in his chest, and he smiled.

Shells exploded behind them, and the force rocked the sky and the Fort as they bounced and bucked along for a few seconds more before sailing into calm, leaving Germany behind. No more Forts passed them by. They were alone. Mac checked his watch. Already five thirty, the time they were scheduled to be back at the base. Of course, there were always some stragglers, and some who wouldn’t be returning at all. He prayed they weren’t one of them. The guys would be sweating it out at the airfield, and the Colonel would be up on the tower, his eyes glued to his binoculars, waiting, counting, hoping.

He glanced at Stella’s picture. All that time she’d worried about him, about this, and she’d been right to worry. Suddenly, a burst of machine-gun fire slammed into them like hailstones. A chorus of voices broke out at once over the interphone.

‘Bandits! Twelve o’clock high.’ Walt’s voice. Machine-gun fire hailed from his top turret and Mac stiffened as two Messerschmitt fighters headed directly for them, closing in fast, veering off left and right just at the last moment.

Wilson ducked out of instinct then shook his head, cussed.

The ship shuddered and bucked again, and Mac tasted a mix of cordite and rubber beneath his oxygen mask.

‘Sweet Jesus, I’m hit!’ Red’s voice.

‘Navigator to pilot. Red’s hit in the leg. It looks bad.’

Mac glanced at Wilson. ‘Do what you can, Jim. Where are those fighters?’

Wilson craned his neck to search the sky. ‘They’re coming about for another pass.’

‘Bandits, six o’clock high.’ Ivan’s voice.

The fighters flashed past them, peppering both sides of Hell’s Fury with cannon fire. Something punched Mac’s arm near the shoulder, knocking him sideways as a burning ache radiated through his arm and the side of his chest. Winded, he gasped for breath.

‘Christ.’ Wilson stared wide-eyed at a hole in the fuselage where an icy wind roared through like a hurricane.

‘That was lucky. You okay?’ Mac glanced over at him as his heart drummed.

‘Yeah. You?’

‘Fine. Let’s fly this ship home.’ That piece of Nazi shell must have torn his flight suit. Yeah, they’d been lucky. The icy wind pierced his left shoulder and burrowed into the side of his chest. Mac glanced at the fist-sized hole in the fuselage. Man, that was close. His heart hammered, and he gasped for breath.

‘Fighters have flown. Hit and run.’ Walt’s voice.

They left the Netherlands coastline and soared out across the Channel. He wasn’t bailing now. He focused on Stella and those eyes, his guiding light.

‘Pilot to crew. You can come off oxygen now. We’re at ten thousand feet. Navigator, how’re the casualties?’

‘Val’s pretty bad, but he’s steady. He’s had morphine. And Jim’s real sleepy. I’ve put a tourniquet on the leg and dressed the wound, but it’s soaked through again. I can’t do much else.’

‘Mac, can you take her for a while? I just need to use the pee tube.’ Wilson flicked an awkward glance at him.

Mac nodded and took the control wheel. Great. Trust him to need a pee at the wrong time. He glanced at the instrument panel. The oil pressure was stable; fuel had dropped a little more, but it looked as though they’d have enough to get back. It was going to be real close. He glanced at the murky waters below. The sun hovered on the horizon, a ball of fire with streaks of orange caressing the sapphire sky as night waited to fall.

‘Pilot to navigator. Jim, I need you to be on hand to help us home. You’d better come on up here.’ His head hurt and his vision suddenly blurred. He strained his eyes to focus and sucked in a breath, and a sharp jab pierced his side.

Wilson returned and sank down in his seat. ‘Hey, Mac, you okay? You don’t look so good.’

Mac closed his eyes, just for a minute. He needed to focus. ‘I’m okay.’ His voice came out slow and slurred. He puffed out a breath as his heart galloped.

‘I’ll plot the course.’ Jim placed his hand on Mac’s shoulder, and the light pressure radiated like fire, and he cried out.

‘Jim, take a look at him. I think he’s hit.’ Wilson took the controls.

Hovering over Mac, Jim scrutinised his left arm. ‘Damn, Mac! You’re hit! Hang in there, I’ll grab the medical kit.’

‘Where?’ Mac pulled at his jacket, his fingers sweeping his arm until he reached frayed cloth and a hole. He pulled his hand away and peered at glistening gloved fingertips. Damn. Stella was going to kill him now for sure. His heart swelled. He didn’t mind what she did as long as he got to see her again. ‘Can’t be that bad, there’s barely any blood.’

‘Just relax. There’s quite a pool beneath your seat, as it goes.’ Jim grabbed a dressing pack, some sulphur powder, and morphine.

‘I don’t want any morphine. Wilson might need my help to land.’

‘But you’re in pain.’

‘I’m always in pain. Makes no difference to me.’ He was, and right now his hands ached and throbbed. Maybe that was why he couldn’t feel much pain in his arm. His eyes flicked over the gauges. The oil pressure was running a little low on number one engine. All the other Forts would be back by now, and the officers on the tower roof would be going in search of hot coffee while the ground crew hung their heads, collected their bicycles, and rode away with faces that said all was lost.

The night sky deepened, the fire eclipsed. He glanced at his watch. Half past six. He closed his eyes. It was gone eleven in Montana. Dad would be out on the ranch. Mom would be making lunch for everyone like she did every day. His eyes flickered open and latched on to something dark grey, looming in the distance. ‘Is that land?’ Mac strained to see, his vision blurring.

‘Yeah, that’s the Suffolk coastline. Almost home,’ Jim said.

A sense of peace washed over him, odd yet reassuring. Stella would be waiting. His eyelids grew heavier and heavier until he couldn’t hold them up any longer. Then someone was shaking him vigorously, a hand gripping his good shoulder.

‘Mac, come on! Stay awake. I need you.’ Wilson’s voice cut through the haze. ‘Like now. Number one engine’s smoking. Oil pressure’s falling. Mac, feather the prop, now!’

Mac’s eyes flickered open. He looked at the gauge; the pressure was low. He pressed the feather button, and the strain of leaning forward sent a searing pain ricocheting through his shoulder. He glanced at the dressing—dark red and spreading.

‘We’re almost home. We’ve just cut in across the coast, and we’re making a south-westerly heading to the base. ETA around ten minutes.’ Jim’s voice.

Mac took a breath. It hurt. His chest was tight, and his breaths shallow, almost as if he couldn’t suck in enough air. ‘Landing gear.’

‘I’ve got it.’ Wilson glanced across at him. ‘Jim, give him some oxygen for Christ’s sake. He’s grey.’

Grey? Jeez, he sure felt weak.

‘The hydraulics must be shot out. It’s not coming down. Co-pilot to flight engineer. I need you to check out the landing gear.’

Mac slouched in his seat, staring into the darkness. Jim slipped the mask over his face, and he sucked in pure oxygen, cold, refreshing, even with the nauseating stench of rubber. His eyes grew wide, his gaze latching on to the sickle moon high over King’s College, and as he reached over to touch the control wheel, hard metal vibrated through his hand. What a Fort. Still breathing, still pushing on .

‘Landing gear’s trashed.’ Walt’s voice. The manual crank ain’t working either.

A firm hand gripped Mac’s good shoulder. ‘Mac, we’re gonna have to belly land. I need your help.’

Yeah, Wilson had never done it before. ‘First time for everything,’ Mac said.

‘You’re gonna have to take her down, Mac. I can’t do it.’ Wilson’s face filled with fear.

Mac had heard all about his disastrous emergency landing a short while ago, and from the look in his eyes, he was freaking out.

‘Co-pilot to crew. Get in the radio room and prepare for crash landing.’

Mac glanced at Wilson, whose eyes flashed with uncertainty. ‘Take her down, line her up for me, and then I’ll try, but you’d better be ready. You can do this.’

As Wilson brought the aircraft lower, treetops thrashed her belly. In the distance, a faint strip of lights glowed like fireflies along the runway. Peace sailed over Mac like an unknown presence, as if old friends now rested soothing hands on his shoulders, allaying all fear. The ship’s engine thrummed and flowed through his feet, travelling to his heart where whispers concurred and forged a connection. His father’s voice echoed in his mind. Make her sing . He was finally one with his aircraft.

As they descended further, treetops slapped the undercarriage. Suddenly, the last engine spluttered.

***

As darkness approached, Stella couldn’t settle. An uneasiness had drifted over her, and a nagging voice screamed in her head. She couldn’t explain it. There was no logic. Quickly, she grabbed her jacket and her cycle and headed off to the base in the dusky night.

When she reached the entrance, the guard politely informed her that she was not allowed in, however, she refused to budge and breathlessly begged him to telephone Colonel Edwards. That did the trick because he lifted the barrier and waved her through.

‘Wait here please, ma’am. Someone will come down shortly.’ He nodded, unsmiling, and ambled across to the guard post.

Stella waited, her face turned up to the sky as the drone of an aircraft grew close. It was a different sound. This one was wounded. She’d seen a few return earlier. Some had been riddled with holes, their skin peeling and jagged, while others had chunks gouged from tails and wings. One had no nose left. They were so shot up it was a miracle they’d managed to make it home at all, then she remembered Mac’s words. They’re not called Flying Fortresses for nothing . Her heart raced, and nausea surged inside her.

No. Something was wrong. A dark cruciform emerged from the night sky, descending, and the breath hitched in her throat.

***

‘Okay, Mac. Have you got her?’ Wilson kept his hands on the control wheel, ready. ‘Walt, fire the flares.’

Mac grabbed the wheel. He widened his eyes, struggling to focus, his vision blurring. ‘Just got to keep her straight and level, keep the nose up.’ They whipped the last of the trees as they descended a little too fast, and as Hell’s Fury touched down with a thud, they bounced back up before landing with a hard, determined crunch and slid along at speed.

‘Brakes.’ He must have been holding his breath as now his lips tingled, his chest ached and burned, and his head was floating, but they were down, thank God. Now all they had to do was stop. From the corner of his eye, wispy black smoke spiralled up.

‘We can’t burn.’ His voice was slow and slurred. The Texas Rose drifted into his mind, with Birdie, standing in the waist grinning at him like a Cheshire cat. They had to make it. He wouldn’t leave Stella. He shook his head, but it was no use. He gasped for air; he was floating, spinning, and he slumped over the control wheel, dissolving into the black.