by C T Glatte
There was a moment of static then the tinny voice responded. “Six of twenty-three, read you loud and clear. Over.”
“Mother, Six. Requesting permission to expend the rest of our ammunition on ground targets. Over.”
There was a brief silence and McDermott imagined the busy controller checking his radar scope. The response came a few seconds later. “Six, Mother. Request granted but be advised there’s an alien presence down there and we have multiple accounts of airborne Scalps. Over.”
The image made him break radio protocol. “Did you say there’s flying aliens down there?”
“Uh, that’s affirmative. Be careful. Over.”
Captain McDermott couldn’t believe his ears. The rest of the squadron was silent, though they’d all heard the same thing. McDermott felt fear build in his belly. It was one thing to go up against human beings but quite another to fight Korth.
Most of his adult life he’d been fearful of the Korth. Not long before, no one even knew for sure what they looked like. After the battle with the Russians in the Northern Pacific, some Korth bodies had been plucked from the sea. He’d been privy to the information only because he was a ranking officer and had a buddy in intelligence who showed him a snapshot. They were tall with four arms, but he didn’t notice any kind of wings. How were they propelled? Did they use external power or simply have the ability to fly like Superman?
He took a deep breath. “Okay boys, let’s see what’s happening on the surface. We’ll attack the beachhead low and fast, south to north. First section followed by Second. Be aware of the ships off the coast, they’ve got teeth.” He paused, “And be on the look-out for flying aliens.” The phrase sounded ridiculous even to his own ears and he couldn’t help chuckling. “If you see any, swat ‘em.” There was a series of clicks as the squadron keyed their mics.
He pushed his P-47’s nose down and felt his butt lift off the seat. He watched his altitude and made a slow turn to the right, heading south. Soon, instead of fire, smoke and ruin beneath his wings, there were green forests interspersed with farms and small towns tucked along tiny bays and ports, much like the little town he’d grown up in along the edge of the Atlantic. What was it like for those people down there? Were they still huddled inside their houses, hoping the war would pass them by? Or were they gone, evacuated? He thought about his parents sure they’d still be in their home, probably armed to the teeth, ready to fight.
The thought made him fearful, he hadn’t had time to think of them and now that he did, he had the sudden urge to connect and make sure they were okay. It would have to wait.
He turned back north, leveling off at one-thousand feet AGL. Tiny communities flashed beneath his wings. He saw some people running this way and that, looking up at his silver plane. He hoped the big blue star on the underside of his wings was visible, letting them know all was not lost. They were still fighting back.
The idyllic greens turned gray and smoky. He saw ships to his right, some on fire, victims of the bombings, but there were far more unscathed, firing and disgorging more and more troop carriers.
The beach was littered with bodies and material. He focused on a group of tanks lumbering from a large boat whose tracks had brought it up the beach, nearly to the headwall. He angled down and lined his pipper on the lead tank. He depressed the trigger, unleashing all eight .50 caliber machine guns. The tank sparked and he yawed the aircraft, spreading the armor piercing bullets. He pulled up slightly when the lead tank’s top hatch lifted and a gout of flame erupted.
He flashed past, seeing more targets, soldiers diving for cover. He angled and fired a quick burst seeing huge geysers of sand and rock erupting in their midst.
His attention was diverted when he felt and heard the hammering of his plane taking hits. The Jug was stoutly made with thick armor on the underside. It wasn’t impervious to small arms fire, but it could withstand a lot of abuse. He quickly checked his dials, nothing out of the ordinary.
He looked up in time to see something out of the corner of his eye, something relatively small to his right front. He focused and couldn’t believe his own eyes. A four-armed Scalp, wielding what he thought must be a German MG42, aimed directly at his head. He wasn’t flying, but dropping quickly.
McDermott’s instincts took over. He pulled the stick right slightly and fired a burst. The Korth’s body was stitched and flung backward, the MG42 falling from his four hands. McDermott caught sight of its huge sloped skull as his plane shot overhead. He pulled up, not believing what he’d just seen. He played it over and over in his head. He’d killed one of the bastards.
He was pulled from his revelry when he noticed huge tracer rounds floating beside him like beach balls. He’d been so engrossed in thought, he forgot where he was and had gained too much altitude and lost too much speed. He was an irresistible target for everyone with a gun. Someone was yelling over the radio, for him to get out of there.
“Shit,” he cursed and pushed the throttles to full power and dove back to relative safety. He turned west away from the beachhead and his plane, followed by the rest of the squadron darted past buildings only yards beneath their wings.
Once away from danger, he gained elevation and leveled off at three-thousand feet. He shook his head and replayed the Korth being eviscerated with his .50 caliber bullets. There was no doubt he’d killed the thing and the thought gave him hope.
14
MaryAnn and the rest of the Fighting 4th Squadron got the news of the East Coast invasion the same way everyone else in the country did, by radio. The news of a new front opening on the other side of the continent was disheartening and made them want to do more, but they were firmly planted in Anchorage for the foreseeable future.
When they could fly, they did because the Russians certainly didn’t take breaks and they always seemed to know when there’d be a break in the weather long before they did. In fact, an outpost had been established on a hill overlooking the nearest Russian airfield and whenever there was flight activity, it was radioed in and the whole squadron was scrambled, even if the weather was dubious. MaryAnn had taken off in near blizzard conditions but every time she thought she’d never find the Anchorage airfield again, it would clear just enough.
Today was cold but the cloud base was at seven-thousand feet, well within flight parameters and the short days required takeoffs in near total darkness. The gray clouds spread from horizon to horizon and looked as though they’d never budge.
She was first off the tarmac, her gray and white mottled P-51 purring as it lifted, all twelve cylinders firing perfectly synced. Despite the incessant cold, feeling the plane respond to her touch always made her forget the cold, at least for a moment. She flexed her gloved hands trying to keep blood flowing to her already frozen fingertips.
She went to full power and circled the airfield just below the cloud base and waited for her flight of eight other pilots to form up. Flying so close to the seemingly solid clouds made her feel as though she were under icy waters, like a fish searching for a fisherman’s hole in a Minnesota lake. Finally, with her pilots loosely formed around her she keyed her mic. “Watch for icing. Let’s see if the Reds are up for a game of tag.”
They knew there were Russians planes aloft, they’d gotten reports from the forward observation teams, but they had no idea if they were above or below the cloud layer. MaryAnn decided she’d rather not risk losing pilots and planes to icing and disorientation by passing through the cloud layer. If an opening presented itself, which seemed unlikely, she’d decide whether or not to take it, depending on how things unfolded.
An hour later, her flight of eight was approaching the stalemated front-line. The scene never failed to pull her heart strings for the men and women struggling in the bitter cold below with little more than the clothes on their backs. It looked like a cold version of hell.
Sometimes soldiers were flown out from Anchorage and she’d listened to their stories: terrifying artillery attacks, strafing runs, bombing ru
ns, and the constant enemy that was the long freezing nights. One soldier said the only good thing about the cold was it kept the countless mounds of corpses from stinking.
She turned her flight of eight away from the approaching Russian line, not wanting to draw anti-aircraft fire. The Russian AA guns were accurate and deadly and had accounted for most of the squadron’s losses since they’d arrived. She was ready to dart into the clouds at the first hint of enemy fire, despite the danger of icing.
The ground was still dark beneath them, but there was still the occasional plume of fire from an artillery piece or something on fire. This was the third day in a row she’d flown over this section of the front. She hoped it would be another fruitless mission where they didn’t clash with the Russians, but it was not to be. Her radio crackled in her ear, “Bandits on our six, closing fast.”
MaryAnn craned her neck but couldn’t see the danger. “Group One, break right. Group Two, break left. If you get in trouble use the clouds.”
She didn’t wait for responses but turned hard right, knowing the other three pilots would match her turn. She grunted into her facemask as the Gs pushed her into her seat. She felt the color draining from her vision and snapped her wings upright and level and the feeling of blood returning made her blink away tears.
The Russians were suddenly the only things she could see. They were closing fast at a combined speed of nearly one-thousand miles per hour. This was instinct flying and shooting. She twitched her stick slightly and mashed the trigger, then threw the plane sideways and prayed the Russian pilot went the opposite direction.
She opened her eyes an instant later and was relieved to still be alive. She swiveled her head and saw a black smoke trail. She’d scored a lucky hit. She saw her wingman still on her tail and hoped Second Lieutenant Flaherty would remember her training and stick on her like glue. She’d come a long way since arriving in Anchorage and had become a good stick, but her forte was ground attack, not dogfighting and she’d told MaryAnn in a moment of confidence one cold night in her country-girl slang, ‘dogfighting scares the holy hell outta me.’
MaryAnn didn’t coddle any of her pilots. There was no time. They’d either survive or die and sometimes it had more to do with luck than skill. So far, Flaherty had been lucky, scoring a confirmed kill her first week. MaryAnn hoped she’d survive the next five-minutes.
“Stay with me, Flaherty.” She cranked back on the stick and her Tigress reacted instantly, arcing upward toward the clouds. She kept her loop tight, but she knew it would take her into the clouds briefly. She was counting on it.
The loop topped out and her world was suddenly gray and white. She continued the loop but righted the plane once back beneath the clouds. She quickly scanned the area, seeing a few dots intertwined in combat to her right. The trail of black smoke from her victim disappeared into the clouds. See you another day, Ivan.
Her radio crackled with the panicked voice of her wingman, Flaherty. “Got one on my tail.”
MaryAnn craned her neck and knew this wasn’t going to end well. Propped behind and slightly above Flaherty’s six o’clock perched two Russian fighters. “Pull into the clouds now!” It was too late, the nearest fighter’s wing’s flashed as it unleashed a hail of .50 caliber bullets. MaryAnn watched in horror as Flaherty’s windscreen shattered and the engine erupted in flame sweeping into the now open cockpit. Flaherty’s screams were crystal clear in her headphones, until they suddenly ceased and were replaced with static.
MaryAnn lost sight of the doomed P-51. She wanted to scream and cry all at once but a cold fury came over her and instead of pulling into the safety of the clouds, pushed her plane into a dive. The Russians followed and fired sending tracers slicing past her wings, barely missing.
She rolled onto her back and yanked the stick straight into her belly. She glanced at her altimeter unwinding at a horrific rate and calculated that she might make it before plowing into the frozen ground. She cut power and watched the ground quickly approaching. She grit her teeth and fought to stay conscious. Later, an eyewitness would describe The Tigress as being only inches off the ground at the bottom of the dive.
The thundering explosion behind her told her at least one of the Russian’s hadn’t been so lucky. A quick backwards glance told her the first Russian, the one who’d killed Flaherty was still with her. More tracer fire bracketed her and she yawed and twitched her stick throwing the enemy pilot’s aim off. The battle-scarred ground flashed beneath her like a high-speed movie. She saw dug in tanks, bunkers and burnt-out vehicles. At one point her plane lined up perfectly and she briefly saw the stark faces of soldiers lined up in trenches.
The Russian’s fire was incessant. He matched her every move. She knew if she tried to climb, she’d present a perfect target. Her only chance was to stay low and fly him into something, but there was nothing but flat, burned out tundra. She hoped one of the soldiers shivering down there would get lucky and put a round through the Russian bastard’s ass, but knew they were streaking so fast and close, they’d have as much chance of hitting her, as him.
She cringed as she felt her controls mush slightly. She glanced right and saw gaping holes along the trailing edge of her aileron. She had to do something quick, or she’d be dead. She put the plane up on edge, her left wing, inches above the frozen ground. She pulled into a tight turn, careful to keep from dipping and becoming a rolling fireball.
She stole a quick glance, the Russian hadn’t matched her move, he didn’t have to, he simply went a hundred feet up, matched her turn and cut his power to turn inside. MaryAnn saw the fighter getting ready to pounce. In another second he’d have the perfect angle and shot. She slammed the stick right and despite her holed aileron, Tigress turned right, sending MaryAnn’s body tight against the plane’s left side. She felt like she was in an out-of-control ride at the county fair. The ripping sound of bullets impacting the ground where she’d just been told her she’d made her move in the nick of time, but it was only a brief respite from the inevitable.
She pushed to full throttle and pulled the stick back, rocketing nearly straight up, streaking for the safety of the clouds. The Russian’s slower speed in the turn allowed her to increase the distance, but the Russian knew he still had her. She swiveled watching the Russian dart up after her. Her airspeed decreased despite redlining the engine and she wondered if she’d taken damage to the engine.
She looked longingly at the clouds knowing she wouldn’t make it. She yanked the stick all the way back pulling herself into another loop. The Russian was waiting. He let loose and MaryAnn felt her Tigress shudder with hammer like blows. Smoke filled the cockpit and she wondered what it would feel like to burn. The thought terrified her. She couldn’t see out the smoke-filled cockpit, but she could feel her stricken aircraft falling like a leaf off a tree. She had to get out, now.
She found the cockpit release and pulled. It flew off and she could suddenly see. She was upside down, in a spin. She tried to yank herself out the open cockpit but her restraints held her tight. She cursed at her stupidity and worked to release herself. She remembered to disconnect her radio wire and she launched herself with all the strength she could muster.
She felt a sharp pain in her shoulder and then she was falling. The cold air hit her exposed face and she felt as though her skin would tear off. She clutched for the parachute rip-chord and finally found it. She ripped at it and felt the snap of the chute opening.
She tried to focus, to orient herself. She heard her beloved Tigress hit the ground with a rending and tearing of metal. She glimpsed snow, then a burnt tree, then felt her legs buckle and she slammed her helmeted head into the ground. She felt nauseous and wanted to throw up. There was a sound, someone yelling excitedly, perhaps more than one. Just before she passed out, she realized they were speaking Russian.
MaryAnn woke up shivering uncontrollably. Her head pounded as though someone were beating on it with a sledgehammer. She tried to raise her hands but something stopped her. Sh
e tried harder and realized in horror that she was bound. She opened her eyes and the pain in her head magnified, but she kept them open. She was in a dim room, seated on a dirt floor. She felt the cold hardness of the wooden beam she was tied to. Fear raced through her, making her forget, momentarily, about her pounding head.
She struggled to free herself, but she was bound tight and only succeeded in making her hands and wrists ache. She froze when she heard a voice. She was momentarily confused. She knew it was Russian, but she understood it somehow. She felt a slight buzz of irritation in her neck. “You cannot escape, Miss.”
The voice was coming from behind her and she tried to turn her head but couldn’t move far enough. “Wh-where am I?” she stammered.
“In the care of the Korth-Russo forces.” The man’s voice was smooth and low, almost calming. She heard his footsteps crunching the bare floor and the first she saw of him were his polished black boots. He crouched in front of her and shined a light onto her face. The pain in her head increased and she shut her eyes tight and turned away. She felt his calloused hand on her cheek and she pulled back and smacked her head on the pole she was bound to. “Relax, you are lucky to be alive. You bailed out at the minimum survivable height after our heroic comrade swatted your plane from the sky.”
She felt his rough hands turn her head as though examining her. “Your face is bruised and swollen, but I can tell you’re a beauty. Your heavy clothing hides your curves. You Americans are too skinny, but I’m sure some of the men would appreciate your warmth during these cold nights.”
She froze, the fear making her hold her breath. “I’m-I’m a prisoner of war. You can’t—you can’t— I’m a soldier.”
“Hmm. Yes, a soldier. From all accounts a deadly one at that. Your plane shows many victories, many kills.” She squinted her eyes open and he diverted the light from her face but kept it lit. “You keep score like it’s a game.” He scowled and his stubbled face looked hard as steel. “Is this war a game to you?”