On Wings of the Morning (16 page)

The ten men gathered their gear and walked to the flight line where the
Mata Maria
stood covered with frost. The ground crew had brought a warmer in under each engine. Otto signed off on the crew chief’s form. “We got the roughness out of number four,” the chief told him.

“Thank you, sergeant,” Otto told him and climbed up to his takeoff position. The engines started readily and Otto thanked God once again that they had not been posted to the Aleutians.
Mata Maria
rolled to the end of the runway, held while Bob ran the engines up and then, with a word from the control tower, took off into the morning sun, headed for England, 1865 miles and eight hours away.

King’s precise navigation put them exactly where they wanted to be, at the airfield in Valley, Wales. From there, they loaded on a train for London and then were driven from there seventy-five miles to the home field of the 34
th
Bomb Group in Mendlesham, on the northeast coast of East Anglia, a few miles from the English Channel and less than 100 miles from the continent. They were finally where they could do what they had trained for. Still, Otto couldn’t keep a whole flock of butterflies from inhabiting his stomach. Training was one thing, practice missions were one thing, but soon they would encounter the real thing. He hoped they were up to the challenge.

***

The crew jumped out of the truck that had brought them up from London. The air base was strangely quiet. There were no aircraft on the ground, none in the air. A group of senior officers was standing on the second story of the wooden control tower, binoculars in hand, scanning the skies to the east.

“They’re waiting for a mission to come back. From the time of day, it must have been one to Germany,” Donovan offered. The ten men stood there, waiting with the rest of the base.

Finally, they heard a faint hum from the east. Then, one by one, the black bombers in trail appeared, one after another. Some appeared to be completely undamaged; others were missing parts of their wing or tail plane. Occasionally an engine would be feathered, although the Fortress could fly on two.

Several ships shot off red flares, meaning they had injured aboard. They landed first, and fire trucks and ambulances rushed out to meet them. The rest of the bombers came in one by one. Otto didn’t know how many had gone out, so he had no idea of how many were lost. His stomach tightened at the thought that soon he and his crew would be on one of those bombers, either making their way back, perhaps undamaged, perhaps torn up but still flying…or they could be one of those shot down, either parachuting to capture and imprisonment or not escaping the Fort’s death spiral or sudden explosion. There were so many possibilities, and he grew dizzy thinking about them.

Well, nothing to be done but find out where they would be billeted. Otto picked up his B bag and led his crew over to operations. It would probably be a while until the operations officer showed up, but they could wait. The Army was all about waiting.

Dear Mata,

Well, we’ve been here for three weeks, and it has been training, training and more training. We must be the best-trained air force in the world, but I suppose it’s for our own good. We’re eager to get into the fight, but watching the bombers come back torn up or realizing that some have not come back at all tempers that eagerness somewhat. Still, this is what we have trained (there’s that word again!) for.

I haven’t said much about our living arrangements. About 3000 people are housed on the base, 500 of them airmen. The enlisted men live in barracks, about thirty-two to a unit, while the officers live in Nissen huts, which are rounded metal structures about thirty feet long and sixteen feet wide. Donovan and I are in a hut with four other officers, so it’s not so bad. We have a coal stove in the center of the hut, and each of us has a space with a cot, underneath which we put our foot locker, and a place above the cot to hang our uniforms.

We have an ablution hut for daily bathing needs and, further away, a shower hut which we visit once a week.

I’m writing this in the ready room while the rest of the troops are out on a mission. It’s so tense to wait for them to come back, to hear the first sounds of engines and then to count them as they come in one by one. Some of the ships are badly shot up. Some have wounded. Some don’t come back. That’s the hardest of all, not knowing what happened to them unless someone saw the aircraft explode or go down without parachutes appearing.

I don’t mean to upset you. It’s just the way things are here. Soon we will be joining that flight of bombers and I pray that I will always come back, and that I will, God willing, come back to you and Mama and Papa.

About time for lunch so I’ll close.

Your brother,

Otto

Otto held the
Mata Maria
in a hard left turn, keeping in position with the Fort ahead of and above him. The little thirty-ship formation cruised through a spotless English sky. They were on another formation practice mission. Their instructors stressed the importance of staying in formation as a life saver. In formation, one ship could protect others. Alone, the big bombers were easy prey for German fighters. Otto prayed that he would never fall behind the formation or get separated out somehow.

This should be about the last training mission, he thought, and he in fact was itching for some real action. The formation began the long descent into the air base. One by one the bombers peeled off and landed. Otto was next to last and he brought the
Mata Maria
in for a smooth landing, taxied to the hardstand and chopped the engines.

“Next time for real,” Donovan said.

“That’s what I hear,” Otto replied, flipping the switches as indicated on the shutdown checklist.

“You want to go with us tonight? We’re going to a pub to sample British hospitality and celebrate going on combat status.”

“I don’t know, Bob,” Otto demurred. “I need to write some letters and finish my book.”

“Ah, you can do that any time. Your crew needs you.”

“Well…all right.”

“There’s a bus leaving at 2000 hours. We’ll see you then.”

Donovan dropped down into the hatch. Otto as the captain of the ship was the last to leave. He walked back to their hut from the flight line. He really didn’t want to go to a pub. Although the Brits were their allies, there was tension between them and the Americans. The British attitude was somewhat warranted, he thought. Some American troops acted in an arrogant manner not calculated to win friends and influence allies. But he needed to support his crew. He’d go for one drink and then turn in early. Four AM would come soon enough when they were awakened for their first combat mission.

***

Otto climbed aboard the olive drab bus precisely at 2000 hours. His crew was already in place, with a seat saved for him. The rest of the bus was overfilled, with three men crowded onto a seat meant for two. The sergeant who drove the bus got on, started the engine, and put it into gear. They started for town.

The bus made stops at several pubs. Donovan and Frederick had conducted reconnaissance, as they called it, and told the rest of the crew to get off at a seedy-looking pub called the King’s Head Inn. Donovan called. “This is it, fellas! Drink up.”

The crew filed through the door into the dimly lit interior. They stood for a moment waiting for their eyes to adjust to the darkness. Otto became aware the pub was populated by about a dozen rough-looking Englishmen. Donovan moved forward to the bar. “I’d like a Guinness,” he said.

The bartender didn’t move from the other end of the bar. Men that Otto assumed were regulars moved away from them, leaving the Americans standing in an open space.

“I said, ‘I’d like a Guinness,’ ” Donovan called in a louder voice.

The barkeeper answered, “I suppose you would.”

Donovan slapped some bills on the bar. “Does this change your mind?”

The bartender looked at the money and then at Donovan. “It does about the drink. It doesn’t change my mind about you Yanks.”

Otto stepped up. “We don’t want to change your mind, friend. We just want to have a drink or two.”

One of the men standing by the wall spoke up. “Why don’t you leave and then have your drink?” The rest of the Brits laughed.

Visibly irritated, Donovan growled, “What’s your problem?” He was asking everyone and no one.

“Our problem is that you Yanks are here.”

“We’re here to help.”

“Yeah, and there are just three problems with that; you’re oversexed, overpaid and over here.”

“That’s clever,” Otto said. “I hadn’t heard that before. Bet you had to think all day to come up with that.” He thought, we’ve worked too hard to be here to put up with this.

“You calling me stupid?”

“You said it: I didn’t.”

The fliers instinctively moved into a ring, facing out and raised their fists.

“Look, we don’t want any trouble,” Otto said, feeling the situation escalating out of control.

“Well, leave.”

“We will,” Donovan said. “You don’t deserve being saved from the Germans.”

“Go have some tea,” one of the regulars called.

“Kiss my ass!” shouted Briscoe, and then they were through the door onto the street.

“Let’s find another place,” Donovan told the group.

“I’m going to walk back to base,” Otto said. “I’ve lost my thirst. You guys be careful and I’ll see you in the morning.”

The crew walked off down the street. Otto turned in the direction of the base. He normally had a good sense of direction and walked slowly down the wet streets. The cobblestones were hard to see with the blackout, but his eyes soon adjusted to the surface. He thought of all he and the crew had been through to get to this point. It was a slap in the face to be rejected by those they had come to help. But he had heard of some pretty big fights between hot-headed G.I.’s and equally hot-headed natives, and they certainly didn’t need that.

As he walked on, he thought about Mata and Mama and Papa. It would be about 3 o’clock in the afternoon at home, and they would be ready to start afternoon chores. Suddenly he thought of Betty and wondered what she was doing. Probably sitting at her teller station at the bank. He thought he had handled their last meeting poorly and had started to write her several times, but thought better of it and never did.

Lost in thought, he looked up and realized he had no idea where he was. The labyrinth of old streets, in the dark, had turned him around, and he had lost his orientation. He kept walking, thinking he would find someone to ask directions from. But the streets were deserted.

Otto wandered around for half an hour, thinking he would come across something familiar, but he had not been off base and had not paid attention to the bus route. Then, far down a street, he saw the bus pull through a cross street. “Hey!” he shouted, trying to run on the uneven cobbles to catch up. The bus went on without stopping. Otto slowed to a walk and then stood there.

“You shouldn’t run on cobbles, you know. You’re likely to stumble.”

He turned toward the voice and saw a young woman in a British Red Cross uniform. “Are you lost?” she asked.

“Yes, ma’am, I am. I’m trying to get back to the air base.”

“First of all, don’t call me ‘ma’am’: it makes me feel old. And secondly, you’re headed away from the base. I’ll show you how to go.”

“I would appreciate that, M—Miss—?”

She put out a tiny hand. “Dodgson. Alice Dodgson, Red Cross volunteer. And you are?”

Otto shook her hand, feeling its coolness. “Otto Kerchner, second lieutenant, Eighth Air Force.”

“Pleased to meet you, lieutenant.”

“Likewise.”

“Let’s be off, then. Do you have a mission in the morning?”

“Yes.”

“All the more reason to proceed with dispatch.”

As he walked with her, Otto could see well enough to tell that Alice was a beautiful woman with the clear skin possessed by many British women, and regular features. The top of her head came up to his shoulder, and she wore her brown hair in a fashionably short cut.

“So, what’s a girl like you doing wandering around at this time of night?”

“I could very well ask you the same thing.”

“I went with some buddies to a pub and we received a less than hospitable welcome so I left to walk back.”

“And I got off duty and am going home.”

“Doesn’t it worry you to walk alone through here?”

Alice laughed, a melodious silvery laugh. “I’ve lived here all my life. I know practically everyone, so there’s no problem.”

“I see. Hey, it just occurred to me that your last name is the same as Lewis Carroll’s real name. If he had married Alice, her name would have been yours.”

“Well, fancy that! An American who knows British literature. We’re distantly related to Mr. Dodgson, although he never married, as you probably know.”

“Yes.
Alice in Wonderland
is one of my favorite books.”

“Mine, too.”

They walked on in silence for a while.

“Are you a reader, Alice?”

“Yes, anything I can get my hands on. You?”

“Same thing.”

“Look,” she said. “We’re coming up to the base.” Otto saw that they were approaching the flight line. “Well, I’ll leave you here. I’m sure you know where you are now.”

“I’ll be fine. Thank you for your help.”

“It was nothing. Glad to help an ally.”

Alice offered her hand. Otto shook it and she started to walk away, saying “Ta ta for now.”

“Good-bye, Alice.” Otto stood there wishing he had asked if he could see her again. She was attractive and a good conversationalist. He could tell.

“In the words of the song, ‘we’ll meet again.’ You’ll see me at some point, I’m sure,” she called back over her shoulder.

He walked around the flight line area to reach the road that separated it from the living and administrative buildings. He crossed the road easily with its light traffic and presented his ID to the M.P. at the gate.