“I didn’t bed him if that’s what you’re implying, which I’m sure you are. And I don’t give a damn about your brother. What could he do for me? If I were going to bed anybody, it would be Major Stanley.”
“Stanley? That fat major at the party?”
“That’s right. He’s the one who’s setting it up.”
“But why me? Why are you spending your time with me?”
She sighed as though any explanation would be useless. “You’ve certainly got lousy self-esteem,” she said.
She was right about that, he thought. His ego had never been world-class, and events the last couple of years had severely altered what little self-confidence he had been able to generate. Now it was difficult for him to believe that this lovely, popular girl could like him for himself. Still, men lived on hope, and he was more than willing to give her the benefit of the doubt.
“Okay,” he said. “I was wrong.”
She turned so that she was almost facing him. “There is one other reason.”
Suspicion edged back into Hal’s voice. “What is that?”
She took a small note pad and a pencil from her pocket. “You’re a bombardier. I’d like to be prepared before I go on the mission.”
“Prepared?”
“Right. For instance, I don’t understand how you Americans are able to achieve such pinpoint bombing accuracy. Can your Norden bombsight be so good?”
Hal stared at her. “Are you sure you’re not a spy?”
“I don’t want particulars. I’d just like a little background information.”
Like most bombardiers, Hal was proud of the remarkable bombsight and of his ability to use it. No one had ever shown any interest in the difficulties of his job, and his suspicion began to fade. “Well,” he said. “It isn’t just the bombsight. It’s only as good as the bombardier.”
“How do you mean? I thought it was all in the bombsight. All you have to do is put the cross-hairs on the target.”
“Not exactly. You see, when a bomb is dropped, its course is influenced by its shape and weight, by its time in the air, by wind resistance, the speed of the aircraft, crosswinds on the way down, and the temperatures the bomb has to pass through. We generally drop from around four miles up, so it has to pass through zones where a lot of those factors will change. The bombardier has to enter all that data into the bombsight. A mistake in calculating any one of the factors would result in a huge miss. The bombardier then uses the bombsight to maneuver the ship, so it’s flying a straight course exactly the right distance upwind of the target.”
“I thought the bombs were too heavy to be affected by crosswinds.”
“Oh, no. During their time in the air, a stiff crosswind can blow them hundreds of feet. That distance is called ‘cross trail.’ And wind resistance causes the bombs to trail behind the airplane. That distance is called ‘trail.’ The bombardier and the bombsight take into account all this data to determine the exact point where the bombs should be released, usually hundreds of feet from the actual target. All of this takes time. It isn’t just a question of putting the crosshairs on the target.”
“But isn’t your autopilot flying the aircraft?”
“The bombardier flies the aircraft left or right by means of the autopilot and the bombsight. It’s up to the pilot to maintain a constant speed and altitude. And the bombardier has to have fantastic hand-eye coordination to keep the crosshairs riding on target despite changes in wind or rough weather so that the bombsight can do its work.”
“But whatever made you believe you could conduct daylight bombing without frightful losses? The RAF tried it, if you remember. The losses to German fighters were unacceptable.”
She was referring to the time when the American and British fighters did not have the necessary range to protect the bombers to their target, so they were on their own against the best of the German fighters. The losses had been so alarming that the British had switched to safer but less accurate night bombing.
“Your bombers don’t have the firepower of a B-17.” Hal went on to explain that the theory was that by flying a tight formation, the B-17s could put out an impenetrable wall of fire from their 50-caliber machine guns. “In a tight formation, we can put fire from almost three hundred guns on a single target.”
At first, he explained, the tactic was a success. German fighter pilots did not relish the idea of making a side or tail attack on a tight formation of B-17s where they could run into a wall of fire. As a result, they tried various tactics to break up the formations, such as flying above a formation and dropping bomblets into the group. But the bomblets proved ineffective, and the practice was discontinued. In another tactic, German fighter pilots would lay back out of range of the bomber’s 50-caliber guns and lob high explosive rockets into the formation. But this, too, proved to have little effect. The German pilots tried long-range shooting with their 20mm cannons, but since the cannons were forward-firing, the aircraft had to drive toward the bombers to bring their guns to bear, and the follow-through carried them within range of the devastating firepower of the bomber formation.
Then the Germans discovered that the old B-17-Fs had little forward firepower, and the life expectancy of a bomber crew was considerably shortened.
The German fighters would hide high in the glare of the sun until the approaching formation was in the right position. Then, queuing up either singly or in formations of two or three, the German fighters would plunge on the bomber formation in a long sweeping curve for a head-on attack. The last view of many a B-17 bombardier and pilot was of knife-winged fighters closing on them at fantastic closing speed with pinpoints of light sparkling from the muzzles of the fighters’ cannons and machine guns. The German fighters would drive directly through the formation, sometimes slow-rolling insultingly as they knifed past the lumbering giants, leaving a wake of destruction. Then the Germans would whip their agile fighters back up into the sun ahead of the bombers and flash down for another head-on pass.
But despite the terrible pounding, not once did the Americans ever break ranks or turn back! There were missions in which every bomber in a squadron was shot out of the group, but never did the surviving members of the group turn and run. Nothing stopped the Americans, not flak, not rockets, not fighters. It was this relentless boring ahead in the face of countless attacks, in the face of overwhelming odds, that sometimes drove the German pilots into a berserk fury, and they would hurl themselves at the bombers like sharks in a feeding frenzy.
But they paid dearly for their blood lust. The massed guns of the bombers took a steady and heavy toll of the German fighters.
Then, in 1943, the new B-17G, armed with a chin turret, put twin .50 caliber machine guns in the hands of the bombardier. It was a decided shock to the first German pilots making their customary head-on attack when they were met by withering fire from the highly maneuverable chin turrets.
Late in 1943, the Americans introduced long-range P-38, P-47, and P-51 fighters. These fighters could escort the bombers to their targets, so again the Germans had to change their tactics.
“With the stream of bombers stretched out for more than a hundred miles, our fighters can’t cover every group all the time. The German pilots pick a group that’s momentarily without fighter protection. They’ll hit that group hard and fast, then get out before the American fighters can come to help.”
In this way, Hal went on, the German’s continued to take a heavy toll of the bombers, but they paid a high price, losing hundreds of their best pilots and aircraft. And this, too, was part of the Allied strategy in preparation for D-day.
It had been made all too clear at Dunkirk in 1940 and Dieppe in 1942 that before a successful invasion of Festung Europe could be made, the Allies must have air superiority. This was the reason why in the early days so many strategic targets had been aircraft manufacturing plants and
fuel refineries. By stopping aircraft production on the ground, and at the same time exacting steady attrition of machines and pilots in the air, the Allies were confident that they could eliminate the Luftwaffe as a threat before the eventual D-Day invasion.
“As you know, it worked,” Hal said. “On D-Day, we had total command of the air. Without air superiority, the invasion would have been a disaster.”
By the time they left the bus at Trafalgar Square Hal had explained the method the group used to establish their formation and how each group found its place in the long column of up to 2,000 bombers and how many missions each crewman was expected to fly and all the myriad details of mission flying that she couldn’t get out of books and reports.
His loquaciousness came as a surprise to Hal. He was careful not to tell her anything that would be of use to a real spy. He retained that much sense. But he couldn’t recall ever opening up this way to anyone. There hadn’t been much to tell. During training in Fairview, nothing in his life had been secret. Except his dreams. And a year ago they weren’t all that clear to him. He’d decided that it wasn’t enough just to have a dream; it had to be a worthwhile dream. Then Susan McGinnis and Luke had shattered the dreams he had so carefully formed.
He had promised himself that he would never go through that again. Now, taking to Betty, he was getting that old feeling, and he had to remind himself to back off.
Even so, it was almost 1300 when they stopped for lunch at a small restaurant on The South Bank. As she picked at a small salad that consisted primarily of greenish tomatoes, Betty ask, “You’re from California, aren’t you?”
“That’s right. A little town called Fairview. I’m one of the few California natives.”
“What kind of town is it?”
For a moment, Hal was stuck for an answer. He had never given much thought to Fairview. It was just there, like air or water. And how did one describe a small California town to someone who had probably never seen a building that was less than two hundred years old or a field that was not perpetually green?
“Typical California,” he said. “Not much like London. Wide streets. Almost all straight. Low buildings. None of them more than fifty years old. Lots of color. Kind of garish: signs, buildings. The whole place is sort of rural. Lots of farms and vineyards.”
“You lived on a farm?”
“No. My dad had an air conditioning and heating company. We lived in town. Or what I called town. The whole place was only about a mile square.”
“Rather isolated from the war.”
“Yes and no. Once Pearl Harbor was bombed, we felt like we were all part of it. Luke was already in the service.”
“Luke? Oh. The major.”
Hal could have kicked himself for bringing his brother into the conversation. “Yes. He’d joined the Army Air Corps a couple of years before.”
“Did your parents approve of your leaving the university?”
“My dad sure did. He’d been in the Navy in World War I. He wanted to join up himself, but they wouldn’t take him. Almost broke his heart.”
“My dad was in the Navy too. And my grandfather. We lost him at the Battle of Jutland.”
“Your dad?”
“No, silly. My grandfather. Do I look that old?”
How old was she? She had to be in her early twenties. About his age. But unlike him, her dreams were already well on their way to fulfillment. The war couldn’t last much longer, and she was in a good position to stay with the BBC.
“After the war, what are you going to do?” he asked.
“I’m not sure. Go back to the university, I guess.”
“And be what?”
“Well, I wanted to be a teacher, an educator. But I’m not sure I can do that anymore.”
The words send a shock of recognition through Hal. Where had he recently heard that phrase? Bucky Adel. He had said he couldn’t be a butcher anymore. The war might not have cost Hal a leg, but it had changed his perspective, and his values, just as surely as it had changed Adel’s. And he was still changing. He knew that. There was no telling how many jobs he would not be able to stomach after the war.
“I know,” she said. “This war is taking its toll on all of our lives. It’s going to be hard to remember what we were like before.”
“Remember? That’s the difference between us, I guess. You want to remember. And I want to forget.”
“But you’re wrong. We won’t stop the next war by forgetting. We won’t even win this one.”
“If remembering is so important,” Hal said slowly, “why do so many girls help those men forget.”
“Because some men can’t live with constant fear.”
“You mean me. That’s the real reason why you picked me, isn’t it? You think I’m a coward.”
“No, that isn’t it.” Her voice was flat, impersonal. “I liked you when we met at your airbase party. Then when I saw you at the R.P., it was the same. If there’s anything else, it’s . . . in your mind.”
She was right about that. Anything else had to be only in his mind. And that’s where it was going to stay. He glanced at his watch. “I’ve got to get going.”
“Oh, yes. Your Saturday night party.” She looked at him and cocked her head. “Will you invite me?”
There it was. His wish come true. She wanted to be with him. The thought made him warm with pleasure. He was about to tell her yes when it occurred to him that he could be wrong. Maybe Colonel Sutton was avoiding her, and she wanted to use him to get to the colonel. More likely, she didn’t trust him. She wanted to keep an eye on him to make sure he really would do his job. The thought brought a bitter resentment. She and Luke. Didn’t anybody think he had any guts?
When he didn’t answer immediately, she searched his face, and something happened in her eyes. “Thank you for a lovely day,” she said, and her voice showed her hurt and disappointment.
She walked away, and Hal knew that his stupid habit of examining every side of a question had once again cost him something precious, and it was too late to get it back.
CHAPTER 14
The “Mongrel House’s” four officers got back to the base in time for evening mess. Some of the crewmen who had just returned from the day’s mission were already eating, and their raucous comments about the mission imparted a devil-may-care atmosphere. But the shrillness of some voices and the trembling hands gave a lie to the illusion.
O’Reilly’s crew looked out of place in their dress greens and pinks as they walked down the center aisle, but as usual, O’Reilly and Fox were greeted by shouts and slaps on the back and ribald questions about nightlife in London. Everybody knew them, even the men from the other squadrons, and they acknowledged the tributes with majestic waves.
They worked their way through the mess line and found places at the table with Luke and a few men from other crews.
“How were things in London?” Luke asked O’Reilly with a sly grin. “Did you see more than the ceiling of a hotel room?”
“You misjudge me, fearless leader, sir,” O’Reilly said. “I was very intellectual on this particular excursion.”
“That means the girl he went to bed with had an IQ of a hundred,” Luke said, and everyone at the table laughed.
“Nope,” O’Reilly answered, shaking his head. “Any girl that smart won’t have anything to do with horny Americans. So, I had to find two girls with IQ’s of fifty.”
When the laughter died, O’Reilly continued, “Fox didn’t have much luck, though. He could only find one with an IQ of ten.” He paused to glance around at the anticipating faces, then added, “So he made her ten times.”
“That’s bullshit,” Fox countered. “She only had an IQ of one. Boy, am I tired!”
Luke turned to Hal. “How about it, kid? How did you make out?”
His
brother’s question was innocent, and only Hal detected the imperceptible sarcasm in Luke’s voice. Luke had never understood Hal’s views toward life in general and women in particular. Luke had his ideas about why women were put on this earth, and he was suspicious of anyone who did not share his wisdom. Hal knew he could easily bring a leer to Luke’s face by simply telling him that he had spent his time in London with a beautiful redhead. Luke would laugh with delight when he found out it was Colonel Sutton’s girlfriend.
Except that Hal didn’t want to tell Luke about Betty. He could imagine Luke’s ribald remarks as well as the snide comments from Fox and the others. So, he grinned ruefully and shook his head. “Not so good,” he said. “I just took in the sights.”
Luke was smiling, but there was little humor in his voice as he asked, “What’s the matter? You didn’t like the commandos?”
Hal smiled. “I prefer being attacked by something I can whip.”
“He’s right,” Cossel cut in. “If they had those witches on the front line, the war’d be over.”
“Yeah,” Fox agreed with a laugh. “It might take ’em longer, but they’d kill ’em.”
O’Reilly had been studying Hal and Luke as though sensing the undercurrent behind their oblique exchange. Now he interjected, “Speaking of winning the war, mon capitaine, what have you got lined up for us tomorrow?”
“Your crew’ll be flying lead, low squadron. That includes you, Fox. They’ll probably have you drop on the group lead, but whatever way, I want it to be a good job.”
“Tomorrow?” Fox said. “What about the party tonight?”
“It won’t bother you,” Cossel told him. “You’ve been in training for three days.”
Luke laughed, but his voice was glass hard as he said, “You’d better take it easy at that party. I don’t want any heads up and locked tomorrow.” He turned his eyes on Hal. “That goes for you, too. You know what I told you the other day. You’d better remember it.”
The others at the table sat silently, waiting for Hal’s answer.
Rush to Glory Page 20