“Looks like we nailed it,” Sorey said.
“Concur,” Al responded. He spotted something in the distance. “Hey, look. Target of opportunity, ten o’clock on the horizon.”
Sorey spotted it, too. “Oh, no, sir. Don’t even think about it.” He shot Al a wide-eyed glance. One that said, Let’s not press our luck.
“Naw, come on. How about a low-level pass, waggle the wings in celebration?” A string of camels attended by a weary-looking Bedouin tribe plodded across the rolling dunes ahead of the bomber.
“Sir, we can’t come back with camel hair stuck in the paint scratches.”
Al radioed Colonel Baker. “Sir, how about a victory flyby? We got some spectators at ten o’clock.”
“See ’em. Sure, but we’ll do it at five hundred feet, not fifty.”
Al decided his commander knew him all too well.
“Yes, sir. Lead the way.”
Hell’s Wench banked slightly left. The remainder of the bombers followed, three waves, falling into V formations like migrating geese. They waggled their wings as they zoomed over the startled nomads, who struggled to control their animals that suddenly had become bucking broncos. The camels leapt into the air, kicking and twisting and shedding their cargos as the Liberators powered overhead.
“Raghead friends forever,” Al said.
“Looks like the Pendleton Roundup down there,” Sorey said.
“Ever been?”
“No. You?”
“Nope.”
“After the war then, let’s make it a point, Pops. You and me. Pendleton Roundup. We’ll remember our bombing runs in the desert.”
“Deal.”
After they landed back at Benghazi, Al strolled with Colonel Baker toward the operations hut.
“Good job today, Captain,” Baker said. “Tight formation, bombs on target.”
“Thank you, sir. I think we’re ready.”
“I hope so. We’ll find out for sure Wednesday and Thursday.”
“Full dress rehearsals, right?”
“Thursday with live bombs.”
Baker placed his hand on Al’s arm, bringing him to a halt. “Captain, there are a couple of things I need to tell you.” He pinched his lips together in a fleeting frown of concern.
“Sir?”
“We haven’t been able to verify it yet, but a Romanian pilot we captured a few days ago claims Ploesti is the most heavily defended target in Europe.”
“That wouldn’t surprise me, sir. The guys have kinda been thinking the same thing, that the intel guys are full of shit. As usual.”
Baker chuckled. “Okay, we’re singing from the same sheet of music then. I think it’s only right to pass on to my senior pilots the same info we’re getting. I’m trying to minimize any surprises, and I know there’ll be plenty. The point here is, the flak over Ploesti could be a hell of a lot more intense than the official intel summaries are suggesting.”
“Colonel, I’m a believer in the old adage that a plan begins to come apart the instant it’s launched. I know things aren’t going to go smoothly, but I think we can handle whatever’s thrown at us.”
Baker nodded, but a flash of concern flickered in his eyes. It caused Al to wonder if they really would be able to handle “whatever is thrown at them.”
“So, the other thing is,” Baker said, “I want you on my wing when we attack. En route, we’ll fly in boxes of six with each box having two V formations of three. I want you in the lead box with me. Lieutenant Colonel Brown, my deputy, will be in the second box. Other than Colonel Brown, you’ve got as much experience as any of my guys. That’s why I want you and Oregon Grinder up front. You jake with that?”
“Yes, sir.”
“See you Wednesday.”
After Wednesday’s run over the practice target with the full attack force, but still with wooden bombs, all that remained was the following day’s big show with live five-hundred pounders. On Thursday, under a searing North African sun, one hundred and fifty-four Liberators lifted off from the five airstrips that comprised the Benghazi complex.
Oregon Grinder circled just offshore out over the Mediterranean, waiting for the additional planes belonging to the Circus to join up. Planes from the other bomb groups—the Liberandos, the Pyramiders, the Flying Eight Balls, the Sky Scorpions—did the same.
Al had heard that more planes would likely join the force for the actual raid. But that would depend on the mechanics who had been working non-stop through the desert heat and dust to get more ships battleworthy. Particularly hard hit had been Killer Kane’s Pyramiders, badly beat up from operating in the desert for over a year, first in Palestine, then Egypt, now Libya.
In a discussion with a ground crew sergeant, Al had learned that the Pratt & Whitney engines powering the Liberators had a normal lifespan of about three hundred hours between major rebuilds. In the wind-driven grit of the desert, the engines of the Pyramiders could make it through only sixty. Now the mechanics under Colonel Kane’s command labored around the clock to get more of his B-24s fit for battle. Reportedly, thirty-two of them had been deemed unfit for combat just a week ago.
The planes continued orbiting while the groups formed up. After a long wait, the attack force leader, Colonel Compton, gave the signal to head for the replica refineries. In keeping with the name of the operation, a tidal wave of B-24s surged toward the targets.
Al glanced at Sorey as Oregon Grinder skimmed over the desert, its shadow racing along the ground in tandem with it, as though an appendage of the thundering bomber.
“You okay, Sorey? You’ve been kind of quiet this morning.”
“Just tired, Pops. Need a little more sleep.”
“We’ll have a couple of days off before the attack. We’ll all be able to catch up on our Zs
then.”
“Looking forward to it.”
Al turned his attention to the bombardier in the aircraft’s nose. “Ready to blow our sand-castle refinery to kingdom come, Kenny?”
“Roger that. Take me there.”
“Ten minutes.”
The Liberators spread out into attack formation, a five-mile-wide force of heavy bombers roaring over the Libyan desert barely above the tops of the dunes. The prop washes of the planes kicked up truncated rooster tails of tan sand. An impressive sight, Al thought. Would it have any damn relevance three days from now over Romania?
“Target coming up,” he announced.
The bomb bay doors of the wave of attackers in front of him yawned open.
“Two minutes.”
Al and Sorey held the big bomber steady, fighting the thermals bubbling up from the desert.
“One minute.”
The lead wave had already reached the facsimile target, and their bombs, on delayed fuses, smashed into the sand.
Then Oregon Grinder thundered over the faux refinery.
“Bombs away,” Kenny announced, serene as ever.
Two more waves of attackers quickly followed.
Al turned to look behind him. The desert as far as he could see to either side erupted in red and orange fireballs, explosions of billowing black smoke, and towering geysers of sand. The mock-up refineries disappeared.
“Woo hoo,” he yelled into the interphone.
Various other cheers reverberated through the system.
Arriving back at Benghazi, the bomb groups celebrated by making unauthorized low-level passes of the complex, clipping the tops of palms and ripping up tents. They knew they wouldn’t be disciplined.
On the ground, vigorous handshakes, lots of back slapping, and shouts of triumph replaced the miasma of doubt and apprehension that had hung over the men since learning of their mission. A sudden optimism flooded Benghazi.
Al joined in the celebratory atmosphere, although a shadow of doubt—cast by what Colonel Baker had told him about the Ploesti defenses—still hovered over him.
He spotted Sorey walking slowly.
“Hey, Lieutenant,” he called, “get some
sack time. Nice job today, by the way.”
Sorey nodded.
Al looked more closely at his copilot. Peaked and red-eyed.
“Maybe you’d better let the docs look you over.”
“I’ll be fine. Just need the rest.”
Al hoped. The last thing he needed would be to lose his copilot, especially with additional aircraft poised to come on-line. Competition for crew members would become intense, especially with dysentery still rampant. It seemed not beyond the realm of possibility there could be more planes than healthy airmen come Sunday.
Colonel Baker approached Al. “Good flying today, Captain.”
“Thank you, sir.”
“Two minutes. That’s all it took us to destroy the targets. Two minutes. Can you believe that? If we can do that in Ploesti, and if we can maintain the element of surprise and stay in tight formation, I don’t care how much ack-ack and how many Messerschmitts they throw at us, they won’t get very damned many of us.”
Al grinned; he couldn’t help it. “We’ve got a chance, sir.” Did they?
“One more thing,” Baker said, “the Pentagon, or more specifically, General Arnold, has just ordered two more of our top officers in addition to Colonel Timberlake not to fly on the raid. General Brereton and Colonel Smart. They know too many secrets. Bad business if they were to get shot down and captured.”
Al knew both men. They’d been heavily involved in planning Tidal Wave, especially Jacob Smart, the prime architect.
Baker continued. “So there’ll be some crew shuffling. Among other things, General Ent will take Brereton’s place in Colonel Compton’s command ship, Teggie Ann. He’ll be riding in the jump seat.”
“Any changes in my crew?”
“No. Keep ’em healthy and on a short leash. Don’t let some other aircraft commander Shanghai any of them. There may be a lot of that going on in the last few hours before takeoff.”
“I’ll lock ’em up if I have to, sir.”
“Do what you have to, Captain. Just don’t tell me about it.” Baker gave Al a squinty-eyed once-over and departed for the ops building
Al strolled to the mess tent to grab a late lunch. He found Vivian, decked out in khaki slacks and a white blouse, sitting alone, sipping coffee that looked blacker than the inside of a cave at midnight.
He sat beside her. “I hear they use that stuff for motor oil.”
She examined the coffee closely, shook her head. “No way. Too damned sludgy. It’d destroy a good engine.” She flashed a quick smile. “I heard it went well today.”
“It did.” He wondered if she had any idea what it was. She probably did. With nothing to do but sit around and listen to guys chatter and brag and show off, she had to have a pretty good notion of what the attack force was going after and how they were going to do it. Which, of course, dictated her quarantine.
“Listen,” she said, “I’ve been thinking—”
“Uh-oh,” Al muttered. He had a pretty good inkling of what the thrust of her next words would be.
“Hey, hey, give me a chance. Look, I know you guys are up to something big—daring and dangerous. How about you let me ride along as a nurse?”
“A nurse? Come on, Viv, you’re a pilot, not a nurse.”
“I could pack some bandages and morphine. I might be able to help. Really.”
He rolled his eyes.
“I’m serious,” she said.
“So am I,” he growled, getting a bit miffed at her apparent cavalier attitude. “I get you’re bored, I would be too, sitting here in the desert day after day with nothing to do, but this is the real deal coming up, Viv, not war games. Planes are going to get shot down, men are going to die, so quit trivializing what’s about to happen. Women don’t go into combat. Don’t you the hell get that?”
She remained quiet, merely staring at him. Then she placed her cup on the table, stood, and stalked out of the overheated mess facility without uttering another word.
Al stood, too, and went in search of a sandwich.
Less than seventy-two hours to go.
11
Benghazi, Libya
July 31, 1943
The orb of the sun, splashing the sky in an explosion of crimson and salmon, poked above the eastern horizon. In the quiet warmth of the desert dawn, Al pushed into the infirmary tent to visit Sorey, who’d been placed there the previous day.
The tent, medium-sized and tan with a large red cross emblazoned on its exterior, housed several dozen cots. It had been oriented to allow the afternoon sea breeze to waft directly through it, promising at least the hope of a modicum of cooling. Al found Sorey near the middle of the structure. He lay on a cot with a thin sheet covering him. A small board held his left arm steady for the continuous drip of intravenous fluid that came from a bottle suspended on a pole next to his “bed.” He smiled as Al approached.
“Hey, Pops,” he said, “thanks for dropping by.”
“So the runny shits finally got you, huh?” Sorey's normally ruddy complexion had abandoned him and been replaced by the pale pink shade of a baby’s.
“Doc says I’ll be good to go, no pun intended, by the end of the day. Says it’s not a serious case. Just gotta get rehydrated.”
“I hope so, partner. You know we got a long trip planned for tomorrow. Could be airborne for twelve or fourteen hours.”
“Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’ll be in that right-hand seat even if I have to strap on a diaper.”
Al wrinkled his nose. “If it comes to that, I may switch you with the tail gunner.”
Sorey forced a dry chuckle, then said, “You know no one can fly that beast better than you and me.”
“I know that. That’s why I want you well.” Al didn’t add that somewhere deep within himself he continued to harbor gossamer doubts about his courage. The latent fear of flying a heavy bomber at tree-top height into a rampart of flak hid behind his facade of command. To assuage his concern he wanted a man he knew and trusted in the seat next to him.
“I’ll be ready,” Sorey said. “Promise.”
Al patted him on the arm. “Good. I’m counting on you. You probably heard three of our top officers have been forbidden to fly the mission. And between more and more Libs getting patched up for combat and so many guys down with dysentery, we’re skating on thin ice to have enough pilots.”
“Hey, you know what might help,” Sorey said softly.
Al leaned closer. “What?”
“Got a drag?”
“Sure.” He lit a Lucky Strike for Sorey and handed it to him.
Sorey took a long pull on the cigarette and closed his eyes.
A youngish-looking corpsman rushed up. Al thought the kid probably belonged in high school, not on a combat air base. “Sirs, I’m sorry. No smoking in here.”
Al pulled himself erect and faced the young man. “Corporal, looks like the lieutenant’s IV bottle is about empty. Why don’t you rustle up a new one for him, okay?”
The corporal’s gaze darted from the bars on Al’s shoulders, to the bottle, to the cigarette, and back to Al. “Yes, sir. But the cigarette . . .”
“I’ll take care it. Let’s take care of the patient first.”
The kid sighed and nodded and marched off.
“Put the cigarette out before he gets back,” Al said to Sorey. “I’ll check on you again this afternoon to see how you’re doing.”
“No need. I will have blown this joint by then.”
True to his word, Sorey walked into Al’s tent late that afternoon.
“See, I told you,” Sorey exclaimed, spreading his arms in a ta-da display.
Al greeted him with a hearty handshake, but remained unconvinced his copilot was fit for combat. He appeared pale and lethargic.
“I know I look like something the cat dragged in,” Sorey said, “but give me a good night’s rest, a warm English beer, and a sloppy American burger, and I’ll be ready to boogie.”
Al knew that Sorey, with his fisherman’s exp
erience doing battle with the Columbia River Bar and Pacific Ocean, could claim to be as tough as they came. He figured he probably would be “ready to boogie.”
Al glanced at his wristwatch. “Colonel Baker wants to meet with the guys in about ten minutes. I’ll cover for you. Get your beer and burger and hit the sack. Rise and shine is at oh-two-hundred tomorrow. See you then.”
“You got it, Pops.”
Lieutenant Colonel Addison Baker, bronzed and slender, stood shirtless on a raised platform beneath the relentless Libyan sun. An easel of paper maps, flapping gently in a busy breeze, stood to his immediate right. Members of the Traveling Circus, some bare-chested like their commander, most wearing pith helmets or utility caps, gathered around him.
He reviewed the essentials of the mission for the umpteenth time. Mostly he emphasized the importance of maintaining radio silence, of staying in formation as opposed to making solo runs—much easier for massed antiaircraft artillery to bring down just one target than a bunch—and of correctly identifying the IPs.
“One, two, three,” he said. “One, two, three. Pitesti, Targoviste, Floresti.” Each time he spoke a name he pointed to it on the map. “We don’t have to remember the names, just the features. Once we hit IP number one, it’s a straight shot to two and three. Two should be easy to recognize with that ancient monastery on a hill. At number three we turn and follow the railroad tracks into Ploesti.
“Quite frankly, it should all be academic, gentlemen, since Colonel Compton and his flight of Liberandos will be leading the way. They know where to go. The only thing the rest of us have to do is hold formation and follow the leader. Once we make the final turn for our bomb run, all we gotta do—well, all I gotta do—is ID the target, drop our bombs, and beat feet for home. If all goes well, we’ll be outta there in just a few minutes.”
He paused for a moment, stepped from the platform, and stood with his men. He looked at the ground and swatted away a fly circling his head before looking up again, clearing his throat, and beginning to speak softly. The men pressed forward so that they could hear him clearly. Al sensed an earnestness in Baker’s voice he hadn’t heard before, caught a determination in his gaze he hadn’t previously seen.
When Heroes Flew Page 9