I hold up Cocoa’s middle, not wanting to let go even after she’s got her legs efficiently working. She has my stroke down in no time. Captain Jack brought a football, and we spread out and throw it around. In spite of her small hands, Cocoa can catch, and her strong arm makes up for her lack of know-how, the result of coming from a place where football isn’t even a memory.
For a while—an hour that stretches to two—she’s the happiest I’ve ever seen her, except maybe for her time on Big Muddy.
Pete gets a cooler from the car. We sit on the edge of the pool, soaking up the setting sun and drinking Cokes. The captain has a camera—another rule, ignored. He takes pictures of the three of us together, Cocoa and me together, Cocoa by herself, me by myself. He shows me how to use it, and I take one of the three of them. He promises he’ll get enough pictures developed for everyone.
He checks his watch. “We should get dressed for our next event.”
Next event?
Cocoa looks reluctant to leave and eager to move on at the same time.
Once changed and in the car, we start back toward the base camp but immediately take a right onto a dirt road. Judging by the positions of the mountains and setting sun, we have to be moving southwest. I can’t think of anything in that direction.
Except the bombing range.
Pete and Captain Jack are tight-lipped as we drive on. Cocoa slyly takes my hand. Her excitement infects me. Her hair is already drying, turning wispy in the breeze flowing through the windows.
We climb above the flatlands. The air smells like twilight. At a curve in the road, Pete slows and stops. We’re on a hillside with a sharp drop-off beyond the hood of the car and then miles of desert stretching out in front of us. Far away is the mountain range and much, much farther, the sun getting ready to settle in behind it, purpling a low ribbon of clouds.
We get out. “More pictures?” I ask Captain Jack.
“Only in your mind, Robert.” He’s not looking at the sunset. He’s looking north, and up. So is Pete. In a moment, we all are.
It doesn’t take long to find out why. From the distant sky comes a faint snarl that becomes a louder growl. A slender shape appears, traveling more or less toward us. A plane, of course.
It drops lower. Its path lies in front of us, across the expanse of desert that’s suddenly become a stage.
I’m spellbound. I couldn’t turn away if I wanted to. I think of Dad. Would he?
The plane is big—wide wings, four engines—and moving fast. The sound is a roar now.
“A B-29?” I ask.
“From Kirtland,” Pete says.
“It will drop bombs?” Cocoa says.
“Keep watching,” the captain says.
The B-29 thunders past us right to left, practically at eye level, a mile away at most and a few hundred feet off the ground. My heart hammers in my throat. Cocoa moves closer; I grab her hand and hold on.
The bomber accelerates as it approaches the hills. It gains altitude—slowly at first, then doubling it, then more. Something drops from its belly. Still climbing, the plane banks sharply right. The engines labor. A shaft of filtered sunlight glints off its wings. Below it, the bomb or whatever it is continues to fall.
Then, at the base of a shadowy ravine that merges two hills and the desert floor, an explosion—fire and smoke and a geyser of sand and rock and a moment later a thump. In comparison to the explosion I witnessed last month, this is hardly a firecracker. But still . . .
The B-29 levels out and circles back to the north, grows smaller, nearly disappears. The light is going out of twilight. Then it comes back, on the same trajectory—low, higher, higher, bank away. The bomb explodes. The bomber retreats. Returns again. Darkness nears. The routine continues. The plane becomes a phantom, mostly sound, the faint smell of exhaust.
“Rehearsing,” Cocoa says. She’s right. I’m only a kid with a pacifist father, but I know something about B-29s. They’re designed to drop bombs from high elevations, where ground fire and enemy fighters can’t reach them. But this B-29 isn’t practicing high-altitude bombing. This is for something special.
“For the German cave,” I say.
“Smart kids,” Pete says.
“General Groves wanted you to see this show,” Captain Jack says. “Need-to-know stuff, but he knows it’ll be safe with you.”
When we get in the car and drive off, the bomber is still at it. I wonder if all the rehearsing will be enough.
THIRTY-EIGHT
Thursday, August 16
General Groves’s outer office looks the same. But even if it had been turned inside out and upside down, I wouldn’t rely on Pete to notice. Corporal Amy is the only thing catching—and holding—his eye. She notices him right back.
Cocoa and I still don’t know why the general invited us to Kirtland; the mystery itself made the car ride exciting, even with Pete and Captain Jack arguing about the outcome of an imaginary football game between Minnesota, where we have family, and Stanford, where the captain attended school.
The captain has business elsewhere on the base. So, Pete accompanied us here, “worried” we wouldn’t be able to manage on our own, even though Cocoa has practically raised herself.
“The general will be right back, kiddos,” Corporal Amy says. She shows us into his inner office, where a metal bucket containing ice and a half dozen Cokes sits on a side table. “Make yourselves comfortable. The sodas are for you. The opener’s next to the bucket.”
She exits, trying not to look overly eager, and closes the door. Cocoa and I open Cokes and sit. Hushed voices come from the outer office. Small talk; a laugh, deep; a laugh, musical.
“Peter has a girlfriend,” Cocoa says.
“Nothing wrong with that.”
“No,” she says. “Nothing wrong with that.”
A latch clicks. Chairs scrape. More voices, male.
Cocoa and I stand when the door opens. General Groves strides in, followed by another officer, half the general’s girth. Jimmy Stewart’s body.
“Colonel Oliver,” the general says, “say hello to Cocoa and Bobby. Cocoa’s the reason you have your mission. And Bobby has been instrumental in bringing her to our attention and jogging her memory and helping her be a regular kid in spite of it all.”
We shake hands with the colonel.
“At ease, folks,” the general says, pointing to the chairs. He sits behind his desk. I open Cokes for both of them and settle next to Cocoa. The colonel discretely studies her. She’s no longer so skinny or sickly, but she also doesn’t look capable of doing what she’s done.
“I wanted you two to meet Colonel Oliver,” the general says, “although I understand you met him from a distance a couple of nights ago.” He must see our puzzlement. “He’s a B-29 pilot.”
The hint works. I know where we “met” him.
“Will you take us for a ride in your B-29 sometime, Colonel?” Cocoa says.
“I’ll be happy to, Cocoa. When this is over. Promise.”
“None of this can leave this room,” the general says. “But the colonel has unfinished business. This evening he’ll take off for far-off destinations. Soon he and his crew and a bomb called Bigger Boy are going to pay Hitler’s scientists a visit. They’re going to lob that bomb into the cave and up the pimply ass of Adolf’s atomic bomb project and win this war for us, once and for all.”
I want to cheer, but I know the general isn’t guaranteeing anything. And I’m not interested in jinxing the colonel.
Cocoa digs into her pants pocket. “You’re brave, Colonel, but you’ll need luck, too.” She uncurls her fingers. “This acorn brought me here safely. I believe it will work for you, also.”
“Really?” He takes it, rolls it around the palm of his hand. “It’s from—”
“Yes,” she says.
“Thank you, Cocoa. I’ve got just the place for it. Right up front. Best view in the sky.”
“Good,” she says.
But I’m not sure the ges
ture is all good. What if Cocoa just gave away her own luck?
THIRTY-NINE
Sunday, August 19—Germany
His buddies still call him Junior, even though he’s no longer the youngest ranger in the company. Three other seventeen-year-olds, all younger, have filled holes left by casualties. But those replacements are still green. Not ready for this mission. Not here in the German countryside, lying low by day, shadow-humping toward a mystery target by night.
When Lieutenant Wills whittled the list of volunteers down to twenty-four, only battle-tested men made the cut. For them, that was a message, and it was clear. This is big. This is crucial. No screw-ups allowed.
Daylight comes late to the thick forest, but Junior, who goes by Ernie back home in Minnesota, can make out the shapes of the soldiers in front of him now, moving along in a perpetual crouch, quiet like wolves.
The trees thin. Light plays through boughs in pollen-heavy beams. Somewhere beyond the porous border of the forest is a clearing. Open country, maybe. Meadows. Prairie. Patches of blue and white are visible above the evergreen treetops.
The lieutenant raises his hand. His men shuffle to a halt as he eyes his compass, turns to face them. He’s got something to say, and Junior and his companions have something to hear.
“Take a load off, men,” the lieutenant murmurs, gesturing for them to sit. Sweaty, blistered, worn out, they shrug off their packs, fold to the ground, swig water from their canteens.
“We’re close,” the lieutenant says. “Another half-night’s march. We’ll rest for today, get some rations in us, check our weapons and supplies and, as soon as darkness falls, push on. Staying alert. Staying invisible. The last thing we want is to bring attention to ourselves. But if we can’t avoid conflict, we’ll deal with it. Quickly. Quietly. It’s vital that we complete our task.
“Now it’s time to tell you what that task is.”
FORTY
Monday, August 20—Airborne
According to the plane’s radar and British Intelligence, this section of North Sea airspace is free of enemy aircraft. But Colonel Oliver feels more secure knowing he has Spitfires taking the point and other B-29s on his flanks. He survived ditching once, but this time ditching isn’t in the cards. This time he has to stay aloft; he has to complete the mission. Once the bomb drops they’ll have a fighting chance to survive. But nobody wanted to give them the odds.
All the planning sessions had a singular goal—stop Nazi bomb production. The colonel and his crew and his plane and Bigger Boy add up to the only hope of doing that. Every other thought in his head has been pushed aside by the one that matters: You’ve got precious cargo in the bomb bay; deliver it.
To the east, the sky is brightening, but stars are still visible. Below, the earth’s surface takes on a different look—darker, with a few pinpoints of light.
“Bruges,” Lieutenant Bell, the navigator, says.
“Belgium,” Captain Jimmy says, loud enough to show off his geography knowledge.
They’re on course, on schedule. Soon the Spitfires will have to turn back. Colonel Oliver hopes that won’t be a problem. Although Belgium is supposed to be in Allied hands, the recent German successes may have emboldened the assholes, changed who controls what. He looks for signs—flashes from the ground, tracers in the air, a glint of wing. The formation drones on.
By the time they reach the German border, darkness yields. Oliver has taken the big plane to thirty thousand feet, higher than the Luftwaffe can chase him. Fuel depleted, the Spitfires have gone home. His squadron mates peel off and fan out, heading for secondary targets but mainly providing distractions from the main offensive.
Colonel Oliver is mostly on his own.
At his side is a small wooden box. In the box is the gift from that strange, unforgettable girl, Cocoa. An acorn. It represents what’s at stake in this mission—the future.
He reaches down and rubs it for luck.
The two safest approaches are max high and max low. It’s between them where the danger peaks. It’s time to speed through that kill zone, get all the way down to where German radar will be blind.
Colonel Oliver eyeballs the shadowy terrain and its familiar features rising to meet them. Since receiving the reconnaissance photos from Allied intelligence a week ago, he’s studied them keenly, over and over. The images are mapped in his brain. If he lives to be an old man, they’ll still be there. He’ll make drawings of them for his grandchildren.
He steepens the rate of descent. No ground fire, no Luftwaffe. His instruments glow and pulse in front of him. Lieutenant Bell keeps feeding him information. They’re precisely on course, closing in. He fingers the acorn again.
He levels out the plane, following contours, skimming over forests and pastures and villages. The ground races past. He pictures Walker, the bomb expert, back in the bay with his baby. Early into the flight he reported that the bomb was armed. He sounded calm. But from the first strategy meeting on, he’s been jittery over the low-altitude approach. Has he gotten over it? Gotten drunk? Shit his pants? The colonel grins nervously at the thought.
This kind of flying, no margin for error, is nerve-wracking for everyone. But if they’re stymieing the radar, and if the rangers did their job . . .
“Target straight ahead,” Bell reports. “Twenty-nine miles. Repeat: twenty-niner miles.”
Four minutes, about. Oliver peers through the murk.
Breathe.
The terrain unveils itself. On a lumpish hillside directly ahead, an irregular oval of faint, flickering lights appears. The rangers have set their fires, marking the cave entrance.
Pray to God they’ve gotten away. Far away.
It’s time.
“Get up,” the colonel urges, finessing the controls. The big plane responds. They climb. A thousand feet. Two. Three.
The flight engineer has the plane humming. The bomb is in place and armed. The bombardier, who has already made enough calculations for ten bombing runs, just needs to complete his final instrument reading and make his final sighting and push the fucking button. And when he does he has orders to yell his ass off.
On the ground, flashes of light. Antiaircraft guns. Too late. Too inaccurate. By the time the German gunners find their range, the bomb will be on top of them.
The nose of the plane lurches up, sending a jolt through the cockpit, and immediately Colonel Oliver knows what’s happened. Simultaneously the bombardier shouts “Away!” at the top of his lungs. “Away! Away! Attention Krauts! Kiss your nuts goodbye!”
The bomb falls. “Detonate,” the colonel says as if issuing an order.
But that’s not Oliver’s only worry. He has another responsibility, and there’s no time for distractions. He levels out the big beast, gives it maximum throttle. The engines howl their complaints. The airframe shudders. Someone rattles off a string of curses.
Fuck it. He hears the doubt, but he doesn’t have to listen.
Speed equals distance. He has twenty seconds. If he goes for broke, in twenty seconds he can put another two miles between his plane and the target, and maybe another two miles will be enough to make the difference.
If not, he and his crew will be dead heroes.
FORTY-ONE
Germany
Junior’s keeping up with the others, but he’s struggling with the pace. Which is now holding at double-time, after an initial burst of triple, a tempo nobody but Schuler, the miler from Illinois, could maintain.
After waiting until the last minute to light the torches, the rangers hastily regrouped and fled the target. But not even the suspicion that a monster would soon be roaring at their heels gave them the endurance to sustain what was unsustainable.
The spirit was more than willing; it was almost desperate. But the flesh? The flesh was short on sleep and food and water—and news from home. Double-time will have to do.
According to Lieutenant Wills, they’re retracing last night’s route, but Junior has to take that on faith. There’s s
till not enough light to tell where they are. After surrendering to the intense glare of the kerosene fires, his night vision has returned, but still he’s going mostly on sound. Footfalls, labored breathing. They’re in open country—fields, an occasional stream—but the ground is lumpy and gopher-holed, perfect for twisting ankles.
“You okay, Junior?” Sanborn murmurs from a stride back. At twenty-six, he’s the oldest guy in this detail, and he likes to play big brother. Junior straightens himself, adjusts his pack. Unburdened from the load of kerosene and canisters, and with all the nonessentials back at yesterday’s bivouac spot, it’s practically weightless.
“Just like apple pie, Sarge. You?”
“À la mode.”
They go silent, saving their breath.
A new sound. At first, Junior thinks it’s his imagination. A pounding heart, fearful voices in his head. But the other men speed up. He goes with them, drawing on a surprising reserve.
A distant buzz slowly becomes something deeper, louder. Closer.
And then frantic. Screaming into the pre-dawn sky. Not far. Not far at all.
Together, they surge. Triple-time. All or nothing. The lieutenant has given them a finish line—the wooded spot they abandoned last evening—where they should be safe from what’s coming. They need to get there. Fast. And then hope he’s right.
Ahead of them, east, tall treetops show against the first hint of morning. In moments they’re back in the forest, dodging rough trunks and low limbs and undergrowth. Encouraging each other. Go! Fly! Move your pansy asses!
Overhead, birds cease their morning chatter.
Anticipation suddenly dissolves. A sheet of radiance flashes across the sky, west to east. Instant daylight. An eerie glow penetrates the tree boughs overhead.
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