by C T Glatte
Once secure, she lunged forward and looked over the edge. “Hold on Dan, hold on.”
Rex couldn’t help noticing the concern in her voice. It was strictly forbidden to speak names or even to divulge them. He had no idea what anyone’s real name was, but now he knew the man dangling beneath him was named, Dan.
Rex strained to pull himself back onto the platform. He needed Five-sixteen’s help. A loudspeaker from the ground belched. “Helping a recruit is forbidden. Release him or be cut from training, Five-twenty.”
Rex couldn’t believe his ears. He couldn’t release the man, he’d never be able to look at himself in the mirror again. He’d be a murderer, no better than the cadre sons-of-bitches.
Dan looked up at him and pleaded, “Don’t drop me, please.”
“No way,” he gasped but his grip was slipping and he doubted he could hold him much longer.
The girl was suddenly gripping his feet again, pulling. The loudspeaker again, “That goes for you too, Five-sixteen.”
She lashed out, her voice vicious and full of venom, “Fuck you!” She braced her heels into the slats of the platform and pulled. Rex thought he’d be pulled apart, but slowly she pulled him back until only his arms were over the side, holding the terrified young man. Rex shouted, “Jam my toes into the slats, I’m gonna swing him.”
She pushed down on his right foot and he felt it jam and wedge into the floor-slat, painfully. His left foot was still firmly wrapped around the railing. He gasped, “I’m gonna swing him. You need to catch him. Ready?”
She let go of his boot and moved to the edge of the platform and looked down. “Ready,” she said. “You can do it, my love,” she implored.
“Three swings, Dan.” With all his remaining strength Rex swung him: one, two, three. On the third swing, he gave it everything he had. Dan released, flew weightless for an instant and gained the edge of the platform with his fingertips, but it wasn’t enough. His muscles were too tired, he had nothing left.
Five-sixteen reached for his hand, but couldn’t hold on. Her fingernails scraped down the back of his hand leaving bright red scrape marks and deposited curling skin beneath her fingernails. “No!” She wailed as Dan fell.
Dan’s eyes never left hers as he silently fell before finally smashing into the ground at the stunned recruit’s feet. A pall of dust spread from his body and the recruits turned away from the grisly sight.
Rex woke in a dark room. For a moment he didn’t remember what happened and he looked around in a panic. There was a heavy steel door with a tiny slat, letting in a sliver of light. Along the wall was a rusted metal bench. In the center of the room there was a hole which appeared to be a drain system. By the smell, he figured it was also the urinal.
Then he remembered. After Dan had fallen to his death, two cadre used the ladder to ascend the tower and forced himself and Five-sixteen to descend, where they were met with more sneering cadre holding billy clubs. The rest of the trainees were moved back and the cadre surrounded him and five-sixteen. They moved in and beat them. Rex covered himself as best he could but they were relentless and soon his head was knocked and everything went dark.
He had no idea how long he’d been passed out on the dank floor. He shivered uncontrollably. He stood on shaky legs and walked around the small room, looking for some weak point, but there were no windows and the door looked stout.
He went to the slat and peered out. The light was coming from a dim, bare bulb hanging from the ceiling. Across the narrow hall he saw another door similar to his own. He strained to see down the narrow hallway, but the slat wasn’t big enough.
He put his mouth to the slat and called, “Hey. Is anyone there?” No response. “Hello?” he tried again.
He put his eyes back to the slot. Suddenly the space was filled with bloodshot, angry eyes. “Shut the fuck up, Five-twenty.”
Rex reeled away, startled. He recovered and asked, “What’s going to happen to me? How long have I been in here?”
He was answered with a metal rod jabbing through the slot. It barely missed piercing his eyeball but dug into his cheek. He fell back holding his cheek cursing. “You son-of-a-bitch, I’ll kill you, you asshole.” Blood dripped into his mouth.
He saw the eyes peering in. They showed amusement. He sprang from the floor and spit a stream of bloody mucus through the slot and was satisfied to see it splatter on the guard’s face. The guard roared and jabbed the rod in again probing for Rex.
Rex reacted instantly. He punched from the side and gripped the metal rod. The sideways force ripped it from the guard’s hand and Rex yanked it inside. He heard the guard cussing and screaming in pain.
Rex inspected the end of the rod and saw blood on the squared off metal handle. He must have cut the guard’s hand when he tore it from his grasp. He figured it was about three feet long and reminded him of a poker used to stoke a fireplace. He whipped it through the air getting the feel of it. He doubted it would help much, but it felt good to have a weapon. Perhaps he could get one or two licks in before he was taken to the gallows.
After the scuffle with the guard, nothing happened for a long time. He didn’t know how long exactly, time seemed to move slower in the cell, but he figured at least two hours passed. He sat on the metal bench and tapped the rod into the ground, thinking how he’d use it to attack whoever entered.
He wondered if perhaps they’d simply leave him there to die. It would be easier than confronting him and the results would be the same. He wondered how it would feel to die of dehydration and starvation. He doubted it would be pleasant.
Finally the light from the slat dimmed as something, or someone, stepped in front. Rex sprang up and pressed himself against the wall beside the door. He wouldn’t make this easy for them. He gripped the metal rod like a baseball bat.
The image brought the memory of his son to mind. He was a gifted baseball player. He wondered if he was even alive. What did these sadistic bastards tell him? Did his son believe him to be a traitor? What of Miriam? How would she survive without him? He’d been told his official funeral was this week. They’d delayed it, to make it seem like he’d had a fair and thorough trial and was found guilty. The thought made him grip the rod tighter. I’ll make them pay.
A booming voice through the slat made him jump. “Put the rod through this slot. If you don’t comply in ten seconds we’ll come back in a month to burn your putrefied bones. The count starts now: One, two, three…”
Rex’s mind reeled. Was it a trick? Would they leave him there anyway? The count got to eight. He made his decision. “Okay, okay. Here it is.” He thrust the rod through the slot, hoping it skewered someone. He heard it clatter on the stone floor. He put his mouth to the slot, “You gonna let me out of here?”
There was a minute of silence and he wondered if he’d been played. Finally the same monotone voice. “Step to the back wall and stand with your hands on your head, fingers laced. Do it now.”
Rex was so used to reacting to the commanding voices of the cadre, he immediately complied. He saw eyes look in, then the latch on the door thunked and the heavy metal door screeched on ancient hinges as it opened.
The light from the bare bulb made Rex’s eyes burn but he dared not remove his hands from his head to cover them. He squinted and watched a large figure fill the door-space. Rex saw he was aiming a large pistol, the likes of which, he’d never seen. Fear and rage competed in his head. The cadre sneered an evil grin and his eyes were wide with pleasure. The pistol fired and Rex felt needles enter his body. An instant later his world turned to pain as every muscle seemed to contract violently. His world went dark and he crumpled to the floor.
6
Field Marshall Rommel stood on the expansive bridge of the super-carrier, ‘Siegfried’, and observed the busy flight deck. Sailors dressed in bright colored shirts and helmets hustled around in what seemed like random chaos, but was in fact, orchestrated perfection. The deck was filled with BF 109 Messerschmitts.
Rommel
could see the pilots sitting in their cockpits. They paid close attention to the brightly colored sailors as they directed them with lighted sticks and flags. Though the flight deck was immense, it was still small for as many aircraft as it held, so their careful movements were vital to avoid accidents.
Captain Steig, the carrier’s commander pointed at the lead Messerschmitt. “The first aircraft is ready to launch, Field Marshall.”
Rommel nodded and saw the lead Messerschmitt aimed down the runway. The huge carrier was pointed into the wind, which was a substantial twenty-knots from the North. A red-clad sailor held two fluttering red flags over his head. They were crossed above his goggled eyes, awaiting the signal from the bridge to launch.
Rommel nodded, “Give the command, Captain. She’s your ship.”
“Yes, Field Marshall.” He couldn’t keep the excitement from his voice. He lifted the hand mic and ordered. “Launch, launch, launch.”
The sailor saw the signal flag change and immediately dropped the flags, saluted the pilot, ducked to the side and pointed the flags into the wind. The Messerschmitt’s engine roared as the pilot went to full power and released the brakes. The lithe fighter shot forward and the twenty-knot head-wind combined with the ten-knots from the ship allowed him to lift off within fifty feet.
To Rommel it appeared the plane was barely moving as it cleared the bow and angled skyward. The next plane was already in place and the process repeated. Soon the flight deck was nearly empty and the broken overcast sky was dotted with planes as they circled above the armada of ships.
Captain Stieg pointed to more dots in the distance. “You can see the other squadrons from ‘Von Grif’ and ‘Faust’ forming up, Field Marshall.”
Rommel nodded, “When will the bombers launch?”
Captain Stieg pointed at the flight deck, which now had gaping sections dropping to lower levels. “The elevators are bringing them up now, sir.”
Rommel watched the huge slabs of flight deck ascending from the lower levels. Each contained two Junkers JU-88s, medium range bombers. He knew each plane carried one-thousand kilograms of bombs, which would be dropped on strategic points along the United States’ East Coast. Along with the two other super-carriers, there were thirty bombers, an insignificant amount, however their targets were strategic and their destruction would go a long way toward a successful invasion.
Even with the Korth enhanced dual engines, the bombers were still heavy for carrier operations. These specially designed JU-88s were lighter and had fewer defensive guns, one in the nose and one in the rear. There were four crew members: a single gunner that spent his time between the nose and rear guns depending on the situation, a pilot, copilot and bombardier/navigator. The aircrews had extensive carrier training and were confident in their ability to complete their mission and return to their floating home.
Rommel watched the first bomber line up on the flight line and with the brakes set, push the throttles to full power. Even through the thick glass of the bridge, he could hear the intense thunder of the engines. The red-clad sailor saluted and stepped aside. The bomber shuddered, then rolled forward, seemingly in slow motion. It lifted with plenty of flight deck remaining, and ascended. Compared to the fighters, it looked like a lumbering giant.
Rommel smiled and nodded at Captain Stieg. “They will have the honor of striking the first blow against the East Coast mainland.”
Stieg nodded, “Yes, sir. The fighters will keep any allied fighters off them long enough to complete their missions.”
Rommel looked to the sky. “The weather is perfect. It’s as though God is on our side.”
Stieg was momentarily stunned. God, and Religion in general, were frowned upon by the Korth. They found the notion wholly ridiculous and merely a distraction from reality. It wasn’t outlawed, but over the years there were less and less churches and places of worship, as the humans tried to stay on the good-side of their Korth overlords. “Yes, sir,” he muttered.
Rommel touched the small green button on his neck as if remembering. He nodded, “Everything is moving along perfectly. The Korth’s weather forecasts are perfect. The next seven days are forecast to be broken overcast with light winds. For this time of year, that’s very unusual. When they predicted this weather and we left the British Isles, I was skeptical, but now I’m a believer. We’ll be able to launch our landing crafts, as well as our airborne units and have the luxury of constant air-support.”
Stieg was uncomfortable but nodded, “Yes, we couldn’t have asked for a better patch of weather. Even with the successful attacks on the US Naval ships yesterday, the Americans won’t have enough time to realize the full danger until our airborne units are descending upon their cities.”
Rommel nodded and briefly thought of his youngest son who’d be leading a platoon of elite 1st Parachute Division soldiers onto Long Island in a matter of hours. Ricker had always been the defiant one of the family, eschewing the armored corps, which his famous father held so dear. Instead, he’d volunteered for the Fallschirmjäger, the paratroopers.
Despite Rommels initial displeasure, he was proud of him. The Fallschirmjäger were elite troops and despite Ricker’s last name, he had to earn the right to be there just as any soldier from the lowest strata had to prove himself. Being an officer was an even tougher task, for he had to not only pass every rigorous test, but also be able to lead hard, tough men into battle. From all accounts, his son had performed marvelously and was a respected lieutenant.
His two older sons, Hans and Sebastian would both be leading a company of Panzers during the invasion, but they would land a full day after their brother. Sebastian, who commanded a company of heavy Tigers, would land in support of his younger brother. Hans would lead a company of light Panzer IIIs further south and would be in support of the main landing forces.
Captain Clancy McDermott was reading the paper when the unfamiliar sound of a siren interrupted the article he was reading. He looked around the ready room in annoyance, finally centering his attention on the speaker. When he realized what it meant, he dropped the paper and shot to his feet. “That’s the air raid siren,” he shouted.
A second later the speaker hissed with an incoming message, “Multiple radar contacts approaching. Scramble, scramble, scramble.”
McDermott was out the ready room door, dodging other pilots filtering in from neighboring rooms. He lifted his helmet off the rack, put it on and snapped the chin guard.
Lieutenant Jim Thorpe was beside him. He was five-foot-six and felt like a dwarf beside the six-two, squadron commander. “Is this another drill, Captain?” He asked hopefully.
McDermott shrugged, “It sure wasn’t on the docket. You know as much as I do at this point. Mount up, Lieutenant and stay sharp. Hopefully it’s just another large flock of Canadian Geese.” Thorpe nodded but didn’t look convinced. McDermott didn’t believe it himself. This felt real.
He trotted to his P-47 Thunderbolt, which was already cranked up and spitting smoke from the exhaust. His flight mechanic, Sergeant Wifford, hopped out when he saw him coming and stepped onto the wing. He yelled over the roar of engines. “She’s running smooth, Captain. We dropped the external tanks, so she’ll fly like a dream.”
McDermott nodded, climbed into the seat and adjusted his parachute. He crammed in his long legs as Sergeant Wifford clicked him into the six-point restraint system. “Thanks, Sergeant,” he grunted as Wifford gave the belt a sharp tug. Wifford stepped back and saluted then dropped off the wing and absorbed the drop with a deep knee bend.
McDermott activated the radio as he checked his instrument panel for any anomalies. “Thalacker Tower, this is flight lead, ready for takeoff on three-two.” He caught Sergeant Wifford looking at him expectantly off to the side and slightly in front of the four spinning blades of the propeller.
“Flight lead, Thalacker Tower. You’re cleared for take-off on three-two with a right hand turn.”
McDermott gave Sergeant Wifford the thumbs-up signal and
the sergeant darted in and pulled the wheel chocks. When McDermott saw him safely away, he added throttle and felt the big fighter trundle and bounce forward. He crossed to the active runway, lined up on center line and pushed to full military power. Without wing tanks or bombs and rockets, the fighter was in the air soon after and once the wheels were up and locked, McDermott turned right and climbed.
The radio crackled in his ear. “Flight lead, Flight ops. Climb with all due haste and rendezvous with the rest of the squadron at fifteen thousand feet. Over.”
“Roger, flight ops. Understand all due haste to fifteen thousand.” He pushed the throttle past optimum fuel conservation speed and watched the altimeter’s dial wind round and round as he shot upward. Despite the P-47 weighing seven tons, its powerful Pratt and Whitney eighteen-cylinder engine, delivered 2300 horse power and McDermott could feel himself thrust back into the seat.
He couldn’t help grinning. He loved everything about the Thunderbolt. Sure it was unwieldy and was often referred to as a flying tank, but the eight, .50 caliber wing-mounted machine guns packed a mean punch and better yet, it could take a beating and keep on flying.
He’d yet to fly a combat mission but he’d heard how well the airframe had performed against the hopped-up fighters the Russians flew. The sexier P-51 Mustangs had more air kills, but only because the Jug, as he liked to refer to it, was used more for ground attacks and close-in infantry support and left most of the dogfighting to the tighter turning Mustangs.
He leveled off at fifteen-thousand feet and started a slow circle. More Jugs entered the airspace and split off into flights of four. When McDermott confirmed all his pilots were airborne and formed up, he squeezed his throat mic. “Flight control, Flight lead. We’re formed up and ready for instructions.”