Somewhere Over England (35 page)

Ed spoke into the intercom. ‘OK, you guys, keep your eyes on the skies. You don’t get a second bite at this cherry. Sam, you keep your eyes swivelling good, OK?’

He knew Sam, his tail gunner, would. His was the most important defensive position in the whole plane. He couldn’t afford to foul up; he knew that, everyone knew that.

‘Marco, you make sure you’ve got a fix for getting back,’ Ed called and Marco replied, ‘Sure, skip.’

The boys would be cold, Ed knew that. It was OK here in the cockpit but Sam’s sinuses would give him hell again tonight. He checked with the gunners on the intercom. Steve in the top turret was fine, so too was Ross in the nose. Those in the waist section would be getting back the feel of their guns, bumping into each other, talking of last night’s crap game.

They were out over the sea now with the Dutch coast in sight. The P-47s had picked them up now but they were only short-range protection. Ed sighed, easing his back. They would be in the air eight hours at least, and his feet would get cold, his back would ache, and he would get tired, but maybe he would get them back alive and he was hardly thinking of Helen any more.

He looked to either side. The flak was coming up over the coast but they stayed in tight formation because those crapheads at the top of the heap thought that formation was all the real defence that was needed. Ed would have liked one in
the pilot’s seat now, assing on about having a thousand miles of coastline to choose from so casualties should not be so goddamn high. Try telling that to the men, Ed grunted, looking always to left and right, up and down.

The enemy planes would come, but when? Probably when their short-range fighter cover had run for home. He felt bulky, the bomber jacket, flying helmet, flak vest, Mae West and the oxygen masks were like some pantomime. The radio operator was flicking switches with a gloved hand. They drummed on for hours and Joe talked to Ed of his girl back home and his girl in the town but all the time they looked and suddenly the enemy was there, to the left.

Sam called, ‘Hey, skip, we got friends visiting.’

‘How many?’ Ed’s voice was sharp and the sweat of fear burst on his forehead. Jesus Christ.

‘Four I think.’

‘More up here,’ from the top turret.

‘Jeeze there’s six here.’

The intercom was alive with shouts and Ed said, ‘Cut it out. Keep calm, keep looking.’ And to himself he said, Keep calm, keep calm. But knots of fear and panic screwed up in his body. He looked ahead, above, to the sides. Where the goddamn hell were they?

The
Emma B
’s guns were firing now and Ed kept on going, drawing up tighter, knowing that if he fell out of formation he’d be picked off sooner. Again and again they came but they’d been in the air nearly four hours, they had to be close to the target. His head was aching from the noise, the flashes, the fear which was still sour in his mouth, and he thought of Chris’s raven but then pushed it away because it was black and death was black.

There was a burst of light in front and he jerked his head back, holding the
Emma B
on course as the
Mary Rose
burst into flames in front of them and dropped from the sky and Ed thought of nothing but drawing up into her place; keeping up, for Christ’s sake keep up. Push the
Mary Rose
out of your goddamn head, push the flames away and the screams he could not hear, but he couldn’t. He could only push it to one side but it kept creeping back and he could see Don’s face in the bar last night. Was he screaming now?

The firing and the babbling went on and on and now he spoke, feeling the vibration of the ship beneath his hands.

‘Give me a fix, navigator.’ His voice was calm. How could it be?

‘Five minutes to target. We’re at 25,000 feet.’

‘We OK for gas, Ed?’ Joe asked.

‘Look for yourself for Christ’s sake. That’s your job.’ Steady, steady. Don’t let it show. Don’t let the fear show.

The firing was still going on and now the first of the Fortresses were making their run and Ed wished he had not shouted. He was always shouting now. What the hell was the matter with him?

‘OK, you guys, we’re going in, then we’re going home.’

Ed kept his eyes on his instruments, listening to Marco, the navigator, listening to the gunners, still firing, knowing that their guns would be hot, knowing that so far, none had been hit because he recognised all their voices.

He looked across at Joe and winked and saw him smile in spite of his fear before turning to the front again.

‘Keep it up, kid, we’re almost there.’ Then he heard the crack and the shattered windscreen blew into his lap and across his hands but he held on and saw the fighter go down in flames, hit by shells from the waist gunners, but it was too late for Joe whose blood was splashed all over what remained of his Mae West, all over Ed. It was sticky on his face. Christ, wet and sticky and Joe’s, but the bombardier was aiming again so he must keep steady. He held on to the controls, seeing the glass in his gloves, feeling it in his hands.

The bombardier called, ‘The beauties have gone, let’s get out of here, skip.’

They did but it wasn’t over. The ME 109s were still waiting for them and stabbed and fired and sent Fortresses spinning from the group, down to the ground in flames, but not them yet, not them, but the blood was still all over his face, and the poor little kid was dead.

‘Marco, you make sure you get us home,’ Ed said, and laughed when Marco said, ‘You’re such an old spoilsport, skip. I thought we could drop in on Hitler for a decent glass of beer.’

Ed didn’t look at Joe, at the blood which had run from the corner of his mouth, the blood which had spurted from his gaping chest. He mustn’t look or he would crack. He knew he would crack, because he had never flown with a dead man before, a man whose blood was on his face, drying on his skin
and lips in the wind from the broken screen. But he mustn’t think of it, must he? He had to get the boys back so he pushed Joe to the side of his mind with the
Mary Rose
but he too kept sliding back.

They had two hours to go still and his arms ached and his hands hurt but the 109s had gone for now. He spoke into the intercom, checking with them all, but Eric in the waist section had been hurt.

‘And he’s hurt bad, skip. Got shell fragments in his shoulder but it’s too cold to bleed much.’

‘Get some pressure on it, Mart, when we finish the run and come in to land. He’ll bleed then. And keep a grip of yourself too. Keep your eyes open, we’re not home yet.’

The wind was icy in the cabin, streaming in through the broken windscreen, and his face was numb with cold. His hands were bleeding from the glass which had penetrated his gloves. He could feel them sticky against the leather but they didn’t hurt now. He rubbed his face on his shoulder, wanting to scrape off Joe’s dried blood but he couldn’t. Push it back, just push it back.

He spoke into the intercom again. ‘How’s it going, Martin? Is Eric hanging on?’

‘He’s still with us, skip.’

The 109s came again then.

‘Six above,’ called Steve but then his voice choked and stopped and there was no firing from his gun. Ed held the plane steady, sweat on his face in spite of the cold.

‘Jesus, where are the escorts?’ he murmured. ‘Where are the damned escorts?’

He craned his head round, seeing the 109 come down at them, guns firing, before turning away from the waist gunners’ fire and then there was another and another and he did not know how the
Emma B
could survive. The men’s ammunition was low and their top gunner was out.

He crept up tighter into formation, gripping the controls, holding her steady, hearing the waist guns firing again but then they were hit and the starboard outer engine sparked and flames belched. Christ! Feather, for God’s sake feather it, he shouted to himself and his hands shook as he did so. Now there were three engines and his speed dropped and his mind cleared, ice cool in the blasting wind.

He could still get the
Emma B
home if she was a good kind lady but he was dropping back from the formation which was half the size it had been at the start of the mission. He talked to his ship, not listening to the battle which was raging, telling her that it was only one hour, one snitch of an hour she had to hang in, she had to stay up with the others. But she couldn’t and he knew she couldn’t and that they were as good as dead. The formation was out of sight.

But then the P-47s came and the 109s peeled away with the American fighters firing and hounding and he kept his voice level as he spoke to the crew.

‘This is one kind of a cute lady, fellas, she’ll get us back.’

They laughed but there was still the flak and he pulled on the controls, weaving, dodging, unable to gain height to rise above it, and they still had the sea to cross.

Ed looked down as the coast eased away. He could see the white foam of the waves but still the
Emma B
held up. His arms were so tired now. His eyes were raw from the cold wind. They churned on until they reached the Norfolk coast and then they were over neat hedged fields and another group of Fortresses was with them now.

‘Eric’s not looking too good, skip.’

‘OK, we’re nearly back.’

Marco called, ‘Five minutes, skip.’

But Ed knew because he could see the runway lights, gleaming through the mist, and he peeled off from the new group, putting his own lights on, ordering the red flare to be set off to indicate that they had injured on board. He turned in and landed, seeing the ambulance roaring up and heard Marco saying, ‘Let’s get him to the meat wagon.’

But Joe wouldn’t need one, ever again, and neither, they discovered, would Steve.

Ed taxied on to the hard stand when he had counted his men out. He left her with the maintenance crew who would work all night under tarpaulins to get the ship ready again after they had hosed down the top turret and the cockpit.

He debriefed and his voice was level when he told of Joe’s death although he had been only twenty-two and he had shouted at him. It was level even when he described the
Mary Rose
which had been piloted by his friend Don from Milwaukee who was thirty with three children. His voice was level when he
told them that it was murder to send out bombers without long-range escorts. It was just plain murder.

He had his hands dressed in the infirmary and he didn’t shake or moan.

He walked back to his room and took the Scotch bottle down from the locker and tipped back his head, drinking down the harsh liquid because he wanted to go to Helen and feel her arms around him while he cried for his friends but there was no place for him there. She no longer loved him. So instead he drank, and then went to the pub with his crew and laughed and sang as though they didn’t care, but they did. Oh yes, they did.

Only half the planes had returned today and more than fifty of their friends had died and it could not go on, for God’s sake. They had to have protection or this daylight bombing was just a pointless massacre.

The farm kept Helen on through the winter and so she did no have to sweat beneath the smell of beet but instead milked the cows, leaning her head against their warmth, feeling the twitching of their skin, seeing the steam rise from the bucket because 1944 came in hard and cold.

She wore extra socks inside her boots because the airmen’s had worn through and, of course, there would be no more. Chilblains came and in the evening she rubbed on wintergreen, pressing it hard into her swollen toes, preferring the pain to the itching. With Chris each morning she fed Laura’s chickens and Helen and Heine, then threw a few logs into the basket before cycling along lanes shiny with ice but happiness had gone with the hot summer days. She did not look up as the planes flew from the base but she ached for him.

In January British and American troops landed at Anzio and the bombing of Berlin and Germany by the Allies continued. They were cold in the village but reserved their fuel for the kitchen only, as the rest of the British were doing as shortages increased. In January the Russians broke through the siege line at Leningrad, and in February the Americans launched the Pacific assault and Claus sent through a parcel of warm clothing for Chris and tins of ham and so they shared their meals with Mrs Williams and Mr Reynolds. In March British troops entered Burma by glider power and the British began to dare to hope that soon it would be over.

But then Germany entered Hungary and Helen knew that Hitler would never give up until the Allies were at Berlin’s door, nor the Japanese until Tokyo was reached and the slaughter would continue. In that early spring Mr Reynolds’s son died in the Chin Hills and Mrs Williams’s nephew was
missing in Italy and prayers were said in the church for those in pain.

In April, as the sun broke through and warmed the budding trees, all coastal areas in Britain were banned to visitors, and large military exercises were mounted throughout southern England. Planes flew more often from the Greater Mannenham base and from all those around and Helen rode to work beneath the thunder of their passage and the shadow of their wings.

She worked in fields which had been ploughed, planting cabbages, sowing beetroots, smelling the rich soil, seeing the seagulls whirling in the air, counting the rows she worked, listening to the men, but nothing helped because each minute of each day she ached for the feel of his lips, the strength of his body, the heat of her own response, the words of love, the knowledge of his safety. But he never came.

After Easter they set the potatoes, stooping, pressing in the sprouting tubers, stepping forward, stooping, pressing. Stepping forward, stooping, pressing, and hair straggled beneath her scarf into her eyes, her mouth. The sun was out and it was warm today, warm and clear. Good bombers’ weather. Was he flying? Was he safe? She straightened up, pushing back her shoulders, easing her back.

‘Nearly time for lunch then, me old girl,’ called Ernest and Helen nodded. They finished the rows they were working on, then squatted, eating their sandwiches, drinking their tea, saying little. She looked out across the fields, sprouting and green. Ed had said that England had so many different greens in just one square mile and he was right. Montana would have been beautiful in its way, but it was too late for that.