Strike Force Black

by C T Glatte

  The month of September had been busy and violent. Half the squadron had been lost, but now their ranks were back to full strength, albeit with raw, green pilots.

  They were moving north, to station themselves closer to the fighting in Alaska and Canada. The Russian advance had been stopped for the moment. Harsh weather along with the arrival of ten fresh Canadian divisions had been enough to stop their advance, but neither side was able to move forward. They were calling it a stalemate, reminiscent of World War I.

  The Fighting 4th was moving to Anchorage to bolster the Canadian Air Force, which had been taking heavy losses. The trip was just over two-thousand miles which they’d break up into three legs. Weather permitting they’d be landing in Alaska in three days.

  The move worried MaryAnn. The mere mention of Alaska brought up harrowing images of heavy combat. They’d be landing on an airfield that was under constant threat of air raids. So far, her war had been brutal and violent, but she knew safety was only a couple hundred miles away, to the mainland. If she were hit, she could limp back to the states, or if she had to bail out, as happened before, she’d at least have a chance of being picked up by friendly forces. In Alaska she’d be under the constant stress of a combat zone.

  Over the radio she heard the tower. “Flight squadron, tower. Cleared for takeoff on three-two. Wind calm, ceiling’s five-thousand.”

  MaryAnn heard Captain Perkins’ calm voice answer. “Tower, flight lead. Understand cleared for takeoff on three-two.”

  MaryAnn leaned over and saw the P-51 at the head of long line move forward toward the active runway. Before heading north their planes had gotten new paint jobs to match the winter conditions they’d be fighting in. The white mottled camouflage would make them nearly invisible from above and the grayish-white bottoms invisible from below. Her chest swelled with pride, they looked deadly and beautiful all at once.

  She looked over her controls paying close attention to the oil pressure. The increased throb of a Merlin engine caught her attention. Captain Perkins was taking off. MaryAnn looked left and saw the magnificent outline of the P-51 just as it lifted off. She could see her squadron commander’s helmeted head through the plexiglass of the bubble canopy, and the faint shimmer of the two red stars signifying kills, beneath her canopy.

  Finally, it was MaryAnn’s turn. She put in right rudder to compensate for the left pull of the engine and added throttle. Soon she felt Tigress leap off the runway. The landing gear slipped into the wings and the thrumming purr of her engine carried her through the moist air of northern Washington State.

  She made a lazy right turn, gaining altitude quickly. She leaned over and looked down at the airfield she’d called home for the last few months. She’d miss the tiny town and its citizens who’d been so helpful and kind to her.

  She wondered if she’d ever enjoy another bear-claw pastry from the tiny shop on the corner with the fat old man in the filthy apron, who always seemed to be smiling. Even with the rationing, he’d always managed to find her one of the delicious delights, as though it was made just for her.

  Soon she pushed through the cloud layer and formed up with the rest of her squadron in the clear sunlight. Below, the layer of clouds spread out like a goose down quilt for as far as she could see.

  She looked to her right and left, noticing her flight of four forming up on her wings for the first leg of their long trip north. She was proud how far the new recruits had come in their proficiency. When they first arrived, they’d only had the minimum number of hours required in the P-51 and had been raw and even dangerous.

  MaryAnn and the other veteran pilots took their training seriously, drilling them relentlessly, knowing if they didn’t, they wouldn’t last long against the Russian fighters. In the few short months they had them, they’d turned them into competent fighter pilots. Despite going on countless missions patrolling the west coast, they hadn’t seen a Russian fighter since the attack on the carrier group. Now they were heading into the teeth of the Bear, and she knew they were as prepared as they could be with the short training time.

  She’d tried to distance herself from the recruits, knowing there was good chance they’d die in the coming months, but she couldn’t help getting to know them as they trained and struggled together.

  She’d been assigned three of the new recruits and they flew off her wing now. Rebecca Knipps, on her right was an Oregon girl, just like her, but from the big city of Portland.

  She was older than the others, indeed older than herself at twenty-two, but her maturity level was no better than that of a sixteen-year old. She thought her age would give her some kind of advantage, but she was quickly put in her place by the far superior flying skills MaryAnn and the other veterans displayed.

  MaryAnn didn’t particularly like the pretty city girl; too full of herself. Whenever there was an opportunity to look in a mirror, she’d take it. Somehow, she still had makeup, a commodity tough to find these days, since the factories that produced such frivolity were now putting out goods for the war effort. MaryAnn had to admit though, she’d shown marked improvement in her flying once she’d gotten her ego out of the way.

  Second Lt. Lisa Spencer was the quiet type. She hadn’t spoken a word the first few days other than to say, ‘yes sir, no sir,’ and MaryAnn thought the native Washingtonian must have something wrong with her. Once she got inside the cockpit of a P-51, however, she became a different person. It was as though the plane was a part of her and she’d impressed everyone with her ability to make the airplane perform for her like a master orchestra conductor. She even gave MaryAnn a run for her money during one-on-one mock aerial combat training.

  She was tiny, barely tall enough to qualify for flight training. Everything about her was small, but she flew the Mustang as though she were the biggest person in the sky. Despite her obvious prowess, she remained humble. In fact, when the others were boasting about this or that, she barely spoke, just smiling and nodding, knowing she could out-fly them but not crowing about it.

  The third recruit was an Idaho girl. Second Lt. Misty Flaherty grew up in the northern panhandle of Idaho. She was a cowgirl through and through, having lived on a large, rugged ranch all her life. Her hands were huge and calloused even though she hadn’t done ranch work for months. Her harsh features were more man-like than womanly. Despite her obvious athleticism, she struggled with the P-51, trying to force the controls as though it was an actual wild mustang.

  The ground crew responsible for servicing the planes complained bitterly about having to replace brake pads due to her heavy-footed taxiing methods. But, like the others, she’d eventually gotten the hang of it and was now a competent Mustang pilot. MaryAnn only hoped she’d live long enough to become a pro.

  The droning of her fighter and the unchanging view beneath her wings lulled MaryAnn into a near stupor. The squadron was on the final leg, having landed, refueled, eaten and used the restroom. She thought sure she’d piss her pants before landing, but she’d made it in the nick of time and she doubted there had ever been a more satisfying release in her entire life.

  But that had been two hours ago and she still had four more hours of droning boredom. All that time made her mind wander. She wondered how her parents were doing. She’d written many letters and received letters back assuring her they were fine and they were proud of her and to be careful.

  The letters were full of mundane town news, but they were a slice of normality she craved. She’d written her final letter the night before they left. She’d told them how they were moving again, trying to keep it vague, knowing the military censors would probably black it out anyway.

  She wanted to tell them how scared she was, how it felt to helplessly watch a friend shot out of the sky, arcing toward mother Earth in a ball of fire before finally impacting. She didn’t tell them any of this though. Indeed, she never even told them she’d been shot down. She kept her letters upbeat as though she were at summer camp instead of fighting for her life against a rele
ntless enemy.

  She doubted her parents bought the act. They knew her unit had been decorated for valor during the last battle, something you didn’t get by not being intimately involved in the killing and carnage.

  There was a sudden break in radio silence, pulling her from her thoughts. It was Second Lieutenant Spencer’s high squeaky voice. Even though she was using the plane to plane channel, she was still breaking protocol and that made MaryAnn seethe for an instant before she finally understood what she’d heard. ‘Bombers at 10’ o’clock low.’

  She looked out her left window, pressing her helmet against the canopy. The squadron was flying between fifteen and twenty-thousand feet, spread out at different levels, but all within sight. MaryAnn was in the lowest flight so the only thing that should be below her were clouds.

  She immediately saw the dark dots against the white clouds and knew they were Russian bombers. She squeezed her radio against her throat, “Flight lead, number three.”

  There was a moment when nothing happened and she was sure Captain Perkins was livid for her breaking radio silence. Her curt reply, “Three. This is flight lead, go ahead.”

  “Flight of six Russian bombers at ten o’clock low moving west at approximately six-thousand feet. Over.”

  There was a pause as Captain Perkins was no doubt trying to find the bombers. MaryAnn knew Perkins was at twenty-thousand feet and might not be able to see them. She also knew this was not the mission. The P-51s were flying light, but they all had a full load of .50 caliber bullets for their six machine-guns.

  Perkins finally replied, “I don’t see them. Any fighters with them?”

  MaryAnn had been struggling to spot any escorts but hadn’t seen any. She shook her head and replied. “Unless they’re in the cloud layer, that’s a negative, flight lead.”

  There was a long pause as Captain Perkins weighed the situation. MaryAnn knew taking on the bombers would mean breaking away from the squadron with little to no chance of catching up with them again. If they engaged, they’d be on their own the rest of the way to Anchorage.

  Perkins’ voice crackled over the radio. “Let ‘em go. I’ll radio their location try to warn whoever they’re targeting. Maintain radio silence. Over.”

  MaryAnn knew it was the correct call, but it still grated on her to see the bombers so sure of themselves they didn’t even have an escort. She longed to wing over and break them up, saving whoever was slated to be bombed, but she kept flying level fighting the urge. “Another day, Russkies,” she muttered to herself.

  Lt. Spencer’s voice again over the local radio. “Sir, Lieutenant Knipps.”

  MaryAnn saw it the same instant. Lt. Knipps’ gray mottled fighter was winging over and diving straight at the bombers. Shit. She keyed the mic. “Lieutenant Knipps get back in formation right now. We are not to engage. Over.” There was no reply. She either had her radio off or was intentionally disobeying orders. She looked up at the streaking P-51s not wanting to do what she had to do. “Flight lead, Knipps is engaging. I’m going down with her to give her a hand. Over.”

  There was a stunned silence, but MaryAnn didn’t have time to wait. She pulled the stick right and winged over, chasing her wayward pilot. She looked behind, seeing the other two in her flight following. Her radio crackled to life with an irate sounding Captain Perkins. “Dammit. Permission to engage granted. Stick together, we’ll see you in Anchorage. If she survives tell Lieutenant Knipps she’s in deep shit.”

  “Roger,” MaryAnn replied. She switched to the local channel. “Number four, we’re coming with you.” She watched the bombers growing larger as they descended upon them. “Four, go after the tail-end-Charlie. Acknowledge.”

  There was a strained curt reply, “Roger.”

  “Two and Three, take the next in line. Hit them hard and fast then dive into the cloud and break right to,” She quickly scanned her compass. “One-four-zero degrees for thirty seconds. We’ll come out of the clouds in front and make one more head-on pass, then reform at fifteen thousand.” She didn’t wait for replies. She didn’t have time.

  She edged closer to Lt. Knipps’ tail, then moved right, keeping an eye on the clouds beneath the bombers, hoping she didn’t see the flash of a Russian fighter.

  Lieutenant Knipps opened fire and MaryAnn cursed inside her oxygen mask, too soon, dammit. The bombers hadn’t noticed them, but now the streaking tracer fire pinpointed them and instantly the sky was filled with tennis ball-sized tracers spewing from the bombers as though they’d kicked a hornet nest.

  MaryAnn saw Knipps’ plane slew to the side trying to avoid the tracer rounds. She keyed her mic, “Keep it steady, Knipps keep it steady.”

  The bomber grew in her sights filling the aiming pipper. She pulled the trigger, hearing and feeling the six machine guns coming to life on her wings. She watched the bomber spark with multiple hits along the wing and one of the bomber’s two engines erupted in smoke and fire. As she flashed by, she saw the stricken plane list right and descend but lost sight of it when she entered the white abyss of the clouds.

  She pulled out of her dive and angled right until her compass showed one hundred forty degrees. She started counting in her head while scanning her instruments, making sure her wings were level and her altimeter wasn’t showing her climbing, or worse, diving.

  She glanced outside, immediately wishing she hadn’t. Her mind tried to tell her she wasn’t flying straight and level and it was all she could do to fight the urge to correct. She brought her head back into the cockpit, trust your instruments.

  She concentrated on counting and when she hit thirty-seconds, she gently pulled up, watching her instruments carefully. She hoped her recruits would come out with her or they’d be on their own the rest of the way to Anchorage.

  Suddenly the white-gray world disappeared and she flashed into the bright winter sunlight. Her eyes burned and she squinted trying to keep the tears to a minimum to avoid fogging her goggles.

  She looked around frantically for the others. She saw first one, then two P-51s emerge not far behind her. She maintained her course and speed swiveling her head trying to find the missing Mustang. She keyed her mike. “This is number one. Check in. Over.”

  “Two here.”

  “Three here.”

  There was another voice fainter and MaryAnn could hear fear in it. “I’m, I’m lost. Can’t get out of this damned cloud.”

  She recognized Second Lieutenant Knipps’s voice. “Fly your instruments Lieutenant. What’s your heading and altitude?”

  At first there was no response. Finally, the voice again, even fainter. It was full of panic. “I - I can’t get out. I can’t get out.”

  “Dammit, Knipps. Get control of yourself and your airplane. I want you to survive so I can kick your ass later. Now, give me your heading. Now!” She yelled the last word, hoping to pull her panicked pilot from the brink.

  “One-eight-zero. Oh shit, I’m - I’m diving. Redlining.”

  “Slow down. Fly the instruments. You’re fine, just fly the instruments. Don’t look outside your cockpit.”

  The voice was barely audible now. “Oh my God, I’m gonna die.” The radio crackled, there was more, but it was fading and uninterpretable.

  MaryAnn mashed the mic. “Rebeccca! Rebecca! Lieutenant Knipps, come in. Answer me, dammit.” There was no response.

  They flew in silence forgetting about the bombers, only thinking of their lost comrade. MaryAnn knew it would be hopeless to search for her. In the vastness of the sky, without the aid of ground radar, it would be like finding the tip of a needle amongst all the hay in the world.

  Lt. Knipps’ only hope would be getting control of her airplane and finding a landing strip, or hooking up with another flight, both of which were unlikely. Even if she bailed out, she’d be descending into winter with only the clothing on her back and her sidearm.

  She edged her plane upward climbing into the crisp clean air. She leveled off at fifteen-thousand feet and continued on cours
e toward Anchorage. Lt. Spencer and Flaherty never left her wings, clinging like scared puppies. She continued swiveling, hoping to see the flash of Knipps’ fighter but all she saw were clouds stretching out to infinity.

  3

  The weeks following the death of Jimmy’s best friend, Hank, on the frontlines outside Anchorage, passed like a thick layer of fog. Jimmy didn’t remember his fellow GIs having to yank Hank’s body from his grip. He didn’t remember being put on a stretcher and hauled into the Anchorage hospital, nor the concerned doctors and nurses buzzing from patient to patient, tending ugly wounds and shattered limbs, all around his bed. He didn’t remember staring at the ceiling for hours on end.

  In fact, the first thing he remembered was being told his father was dead and he needed to return home to console his mother. The stern officer looming above him looked for an instant like Hank but his mind was playing tricks on him. He focused on the face, “Wh - what did you say?”

  The officer put a consoling hand on his shoulder, which Jimmy quickly shrugged off. “I said, you need to go home and be with your mother. The rest would do you good and she needs you right now.”

  “My father’s dead?”

  He nodded, “Yes, I’m sorry. He…”

  Jimmy interrupted, “How? How’d he die? He’s not on the front, he’s a desk jockey in the Navy, not even on a ship.”

  The lieutenant who’s nametape said, Yates, hesitated, then shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t know the specifics.”

  Jimmy scowled, noticing the hesitation. “You know more than you’re saying. Spill it,” he demanded.

  The lieutenant’s face turned a shade of red. “Don’t forget who you’re talking to, soldier.” He was about to say more but his face softened and he looked around as though concerned he’d be overheard. He leaned in close, “I heard he was — well, there’s no easy way to say it — executed.” Jimmy’s eyes widened in confusion. He stood suddenly. He swayed on his feet, it was the most movement he’d done since entering the hospital. “Whoa there, soldier,” said Lt. Yates.