On Wings of the Morning (17 page)

“Good evening, sir,” the M.P. said.

“Good evening, sergeant,” Otto returned, and made his way to his hut. He got ready for bed and read a little Shakespeare. He kept thinking of Alice and hoped he would see her again soon. He turned out the light and was fast asleep when Donovan and Frederick came in.

Otto was flying. He held the stick of the J-2 he had learned on, high above the autumn Wisconsin fields. He flew toward the sun, and all was golden—the air, the fields, the sun low on the dawn horizon. He smiled, completely relaxed as the little engine pulled him along.

He felt a hand on his shoulder, which didn’t make sense because he was flying solo. A voice came to him: “Wake up sir. Time to get up.”

Otto opened his eyes not to a golden morning but the dimly lit interior of his hut. Mission time. It was the real thing this time.

He went to the ablution hut and stumbled through the 4 A.M. darkness with other shadowy forms. He couldn’t tell who anyone was until they got inside the lit interior of the hut. He saw Donovan just ahead of him. “Bob! When did you get in?”

Donovan rubbed his eyes. “About 2 A.M. Too late. Christ, I feel like hell.”

“Can you fly?”

“Oh, yeah, I can fly.”

He and Donovan washed and shaved at a long line of sinks where other airmen were doing the same thing. No one spoke.

Otto finished and went back, dressed and headed for the mess hall, Donovan walking silently beside him. They came into the warm steamy space of the mess hall and loaded up their plates. One thing, Otto thought, we’ll fly with full stomachs. The mission would take about five hours, and they would have sandwiches but he wanted to load up before they left. He hoped he wouldn’t lose it all from nerves.

He and Donovan ate quickly and then headed for the ops building where they would receive their briefing. About 200 officers filed into the wooden structure and took seats on wooden benches. Precisely at 0500 hours, Colonel Rackham strode on stage, followed by his aides. The officers sprang to attention. Rackham gave them a dismissive wave of his hand. “At ease. Be seated.”

“Today’s mission,” he began, “should be an easy one. It’s right over in France and we expect minimal flak and fighters. You’ll be targeting a rail yard. Good luck and good flying.”

Navigators stayed for weather briefing while the rest of the officers went outside to take a brief break. Many of them lit cigarettes and stood around in small groups. Otto noticed once again there was very little conversation.

Donovan said quietly, “There’s the rest of the crew.” They were standing about thirty yards off, smoking and stamping their feet to ward off the early chill.

Otto and Donovan walked over. “Good morning, guys,” Otto said and was greeted by a variety of responses, including grunts and lifted hands. “Ready to fly?”

This time the crew mumbled assent. “Do you think this is going to be as easy as they say it will, Lieutenant?”

“I hear the intel on that’s pretty good, but we’ll have to be sharp anyhow.”

The navigators started coming out of the briefing room. King joined them and they walked over to their jeep. Somehow they managed to cram ten men onto one jeep. Otto took the passenger seat; Donovan drove. “You know how to drive this thing, Bob?” he asked.

“It’s only got one engine and it doesn’t get off the ground. Piece of cake.” Donovan threw the jeep into gear, and they lurched forward, the men on the back holding on for dear life.

The flight line was shrouded in mist, but it lifted quickly as the sun came up. Donovan stopped in front of the
Mata Maria.
The crew climbed out and, one by one, took their stations in the aircraft. Otto signed off with the crew chief and pulled himself through the hatch. Donovan was already strapped in the left seat, looking over the checklist. Otto slid into the right seat.

“Let’s do it,” he said. He and Donovan ran through the checklist.

Donovan called each item and Otto answered in a kind of litany.

“Form 1 A?”

“CHECKED!”

“Controls and Seats?”

“CHECKED!”

“Fuel Transfer Valves and Switch?”

“OFF!”

“Intercoolers?”

“Cold!”

And so on down through the items on the list. Donovan called, “Preflight?”

“Complete!” Otto answered, and
pushed his throat mike. “All right, crew, engine start is coming up. Preflight stations, everyone.” The replies came back:

“Nav, here.”

“Nose, check.”

“Flight, yeah.”

“Radio, roger.”

“Waist one, I’m here.”

“Waist two, likewise.”

“Ball here.”

“Tail present and accounted for, sir!”

Otto sighed. Why did he have a bunch of clowns for a crew? Still, they were a good one, and he supposed that he had to expect some monkeying around.

Donovan fired up the inboard engines. The aircraft next to them pulled forward and turned onto the taxiway. They followed and held as the Fort in front of them turned onto the runway, held, ran up each engine and started its takeoff roll.

“We’re next,” Otto said, thinking, could I say anything more obvious?
Mata Maria
surged with the power of the four Wright engines. Bob and Otto ran them up, studying their instruments.

“Engineer here, everything looks good. Let’s roll,” came Frederick’s voice through the intercom.

“Crew, prepare for takeoff!” Otto called as he advanced the throttles and released the brakes. Fully loaded,
Mata Maria
started her takeoff roll slowly, then more and more quickly as the broken white center line disappeared with growing rapidity under the nose.

“Rotate!” called Donovan at ninety-five knots, and Otto pulled back on the wheel. They were airborne.

Otto climbed out, following the previous bomber to the holding area where they would join up. The sky was a perfect blue, and the yellow sun hung low over the horizon. It would have been a great day for flying were it not for a few flak cannons and fighters who were aching to spoil it for them.

Otto realized he was concentrating on the mission too much to be nervous.
Mata Maria
joined the other planes in formation. When they were all assembled, the flight of twenty “boxes” of ten planes each headed for the coast, not far away. They crossed the Channel at 20,000 feet and climbed to their operational altitude of 30,000. Otto had ordered the crew on oxygen at 10,000 and had the gunners test their weapons. Even with a mask on, he could smell the reek of cordite as the chatter of machine guns echoed through the ship. The guns fell silent and the armada of aircraft droned on to the coast.

“Stay alert, crew,” Otto said into the intercom. “We’re feet dry and that’s enemy territory down there.” Again stating the obvious, he thought.

“Waist one, I’ve got a few puffs of flak off to starboard.” Otto and Donovan looked off to the right, but the bursts were too far aft for them to see.

“Tail here, wish you guys could see this. The whole sky is filled with aircraft. Wow!”

“Wonder where our escort is,” Donovan said.

“Top, little friends incoming, six o’clock high.”

“There’s your answer,” Otto said.

The Mustangs wove over the formation, since they were faster than the lumbering heavies. The escorts would go all the way to the target with them since it wasn’t that far into France.

“Top, I’ve got a couple of bandits circling out of range, nine o’clock low.”

“Keep an eye on them, top. Sing out if they make a move,” Otto cautioned.

“Top, wilco. Stay where you are, you stinkin’ Huns.”

Otto started to chide Marx for extraneous chatter but decided to let it go. They were all keyed up.

An hour later, King called, “Navigator, we’re two minutes from the I.P.”

“Bombardier, got it,” came Detwiler’s reply.

Otto flew straight and level. He could see the marshalling yards ahead with the lead bombers already dropping their loads. A few random clouds of flak exploded off to the right. His stomach tightened.

“Navigator, we’re at the I.P.”

“Bombardier--I have the aircraft.”

Otto and Donovan took their hands off the controls. Detwiler would fly the Fort during the bombing run from his Norden bombsight.

The
Mata Maria
continued straight and level for what seemed like an eternity but which in reality was about five minutes. The aircraft lurched as Detwiler called “Bombs away!” Otto and Donovan grasped the wheels and put the plane into a turning dive to port. All the formation flying practice paid off as the aircraft in the box moved as one, making a 180 and streaking for home.

“Whew,” exclaimed Donovan. “Glad that was easy.”

“We’re not done yet,” Otto reminded him, and, on the intercom, “Stay alert on the way back, crew.”

“Top, little friends coming in again.”

“That’s good news,” Otto said.

The formation flew through the clear late morning air. The Channel soon came into view as they let down past 10,000 feet. Otto could see the base as the bombers moved into their holding pattern. When it was their turn, Donovan racked the aircraft around and followed the plane in front of them onto the runway. They taxied back to the hardstand.

“Anyone see any flares?” Otto called to the crew. These would indicate wounded aboard the airplane.

A chorus of negatives came back through the intercom.

“All right, then. We’ll be parked in a minute, and we’re just in time for lunch.”

A chorus of cheers greeted this announcement.

Donovan swung the bomber around, set the brakes and cut the engines. The crew assembled outside the aircraft, shaking hands and smiling. Otto noticed that their faces looked strained and thought, we have to do twenty-four more of these. I hope they’re all this easy.

“C’mon,” Briscoe said. “Let’s go eat!”

“Well, that’s one,” Donovan said as they walked to the mess hall. “Hope they’re all this easy.”

“My thoughts exactly,” Otto told him.

“
Otto,” called Donovan. “You going to the dance?”

Otto looked up from his book. They didn’t have a mission the next day, so it was a nice chance to relax and read. They would fly mission number three in a couple of days. So far, so good—they had come through without a scratch. But it was early to assume it would always be that way.

“What dance?” he asked absently.

Donovan sat on the edge of the bed. “The USO dance! They’re bringing in Glenn Miller!”

“Who’s Glenn Miller?”

“My friend, you spent entirely too much time with the cows on the farm. Glenn Miller is the heppest jive cat around. His sounds are over the moon. You know, ‘Moonlight Serenade’ and ‘In the Mood.’”

“Sometimes I think you don’t speak English, Donovan. I have heard of those songs.” He and Betty had danced to them, but he hadn’t paid much attention to the orchestra. “I’d rather read.”

Donovan pulled the book out of Otto’s hands and held it out of his reach. “C’mon, son, you need to get out some. All you do is fly and read.”

Otto grabbed unsuccessfully for the book. “I like flying and reading.”

“Well, now you’ll like this. There are going to be Red Cross girls there.”

Otto perked up. “British or American?”

“What does it matter? They’re
women!
Hubba hubba!”

“Tell you what, Donovan, I’ll go if you stop using strange language.”

“You got it, my man. Let’s go.”

It seemed as if everyone on the base was headed for the hangar where the band had set up. Some were watching and listening; some had chosen partners from the women scattered through the crowd and were lindy hopping to “In the Mood.” Otto scanned the crowd. The ratio of men to women was about ten to one.

“Hey there, lieutenant, care to dance?

Otto turned around and there stood Alice, resplendent in a blue dress. He momentarily couldn’t speak. After a few seconds, he found his voice as she studied him with those brilliant green eyes.

“Alice! Aren’t I the one who’s supposed to ask
you
to dance?”

She bowed her head slightly. “Ask away.”

“May I have this dance?”

“You may, leftenant.”

Just then the orchestra went into “Moonlight Serenade.” Otto took Alice by the hand and led her to the small dance floor in front of the band. She slipped into his arms and they moved as if they had been dancing together all their lives.

“Where have you been?” Otto asked her.

“Oh, around. I’ve been here.”

“I haven’t seen you.”

“Maybe you didn’t look hard enough. So, have you gotten lost any more?”

“No—I have a navigator to show me the way.”

She laughed. “You looked pretty desperate the first time I met you the other night. I felt sorry for you.”

I don’t feel sorry for me right now, Otto thought.

“Do you live in town?”

“Yes. I live with my dad and mum not too far from the base. We’ve lived here for generations. It was a nice little town until the war came and brought all you Americans in.”

“Do all British girls have sharp tongues like yours?”

She laughed again. “We just tell the truth. We don’t skirt around it like you Americans do.”

“All right, truce then. Let’s not fight the War of 1812 all over again.”

“Agreed,” she said, and they danced in silence for a while, listening to the strains of the music. The song finished and they parted and applauded. The band went into “The White Cliffs of Dover.”

Alice moved back into a clinch with Otto. They had danced a few steps when Otto felt a tap on his shoulder. A huge lieutenant towered over both of them. “Cutting in,” he said.

Alice looked at him calmly. “Maybe later, buster. Not now.” The lieutenant walked off.

“Why’d you do that?” Otto asked.

“Because I want to dance with
you
,” she said, wrinkling her nose. They danced on.

The show went on for about an hour. Otto and Alice danced every dance. At the end, the orchestra reprised “White Cliffs of Dover.”