Manny Columbo, the waist gunner of the crew, was lying on his bunk across the aisle. He stared up at the curving ceiling of the Quonset hut and took a long drag on his cigarette. “That’s the stupidest, dumbest thing I ever heard! Like leaning a broom against a bed has anything to do with anything.”
He sat up abruptly, and then swayed slightly, clutching his head and shutting his eyes. “Wow!” he said. “That must’ve been some night I had last night! I was so drunk I don’t remember the last half of it.” It was Columbo’s habit to break whatever rules existed, and he managed to find new and rather innovative ways to do it. He had been gone practically all night, and Clint could not figure out how he managed to get in and avoid the MPs or, for that matter, how he managed to get out of the camp into the small town ten miles away. “You better pull yourself together, Manny. I think we’ve got a mission this morning.”
Columbo groaned, stood up, and suddenly sneezed explosively. His eyes began to water, and he cursed fluently as he dug into his hip pocket for a handkerchief.
Asa Peabody stared at him and shook his head. “Well, if I was you, I wouldn’t go on that mission.”
“I wouldn’t if I didn’t have to, you jerk! Why this mission in particular?”
“Because you just sneezed, and it’s Friday!”
Columbo stared at the smaller form of the tail gunner, examining him as if he were some sort of strange specimen. “Are there any more like you at home, Peabody? What in the world does sneezing on Friday have to do with flying this mission?”
“They don’t teach you city fellas nothin’, do they, in New York? Everybody knows about sneezing.” He began to recite what sounded like verse:
Sneeze on Monday, sneeze for danger,
Sneeze on Tuesday, kiss a stranger.
Sneeze on Wednesday, receive a letter,
Sneeze on Thursday, receive something better.
Sneeze on Friday, sneeze for sorrow,
Sneeze on Saturday, see your lover tomorrow.
Sneeze on Sunday, your safety seek,
or the Devil will have you, the rest of the week.
Peabody looked around triumphantly and said, “See, it’s Friday, and you sneezed. That probably means that if you go on a mission, you’ll get killed.”
Columbo reached over, picked up a book he had been reading, and threw it at Peabody, who dodged it. The leafs fluttered wildly, and the book struck the wall. Columbo turned abruptly and headed for the bathroom.
“I don’t think Manny thinks much of your superstitions, Asa.”
Cisco Marischal, the navigator and nose gunner, was already up and dressed. Clint could only imagine what he could be in civilian clothes, for he looked like a dandy in his flight uniform. He turned and positioned himself before a small mirror on the side of the hut and carefully smoothed his hair. “Now, me, I believe in luck. A bullfighter’s got to have the luck or he’s not going to make it.”
Clint was rather fascinated by the Mexican. “Were you really a bullfighter, Cisco, or are you makin’ all that up?”
Without answering, but with an air of disgust, Marischal reached into a small box under his bunk, pulled out what appeared to be a leather-bound book, and opened it up. “You see that there? You can’t read Spanish, but this is from a Madrid newspaper. It says right here, ‘Cisco Marischal is one of the brightest stars in the firmament of Spanish bullfighting. This young man will rise high in his profession. Yesterday afternoon he was awarded the ears of his bull, and we predict that he will make quite a collection of these. Viva, Cisco Marischal!’”
Peabody was staring at Marischal with fascination. “They gave you the ears for killing that bull?”
“Yes, certainly!”
“Well, you can’t eat them, can you?” Peabody thought for a moment and said, “Well, back home we eat pig lips, so I guess over there you fellas can eat the ears if you want to.”
“You stupid idiot, you don’t eat the ears! They’re a trophy, a triumph! When you kill a bull well, they give you the ears. If you do it especially well, sometimes the tail, too.”
“Well, shoot,” Asa grunted, “who wants a bunch of old bulls’ ears and tails? I think you’re crazy to get in there with one of those wild bulls anyway!”
Clint grinned. “I wouldn’t want to do it myself.”
But Marischal simply stared at them. “It isn’t as dangerous as making a raid over Germany,” he said. “I’d rather go against a bull anytime than against those Focke-Wulfs or Messerschmitts.”
Asa shook his head with apprehension. “I did a little Brahma bull riding in the rodeo, back before I got some sense kicked into me. Those things are bad enough, but bullfighting, I just don’t think I’d have the nerve for a thing like that.”
“What did you kill ’em with, Cisco?”
“A sword, of course.”
Peabody winked at Clint. “It’s a good thing you didn’t have a .50-caliber machine gun to do it with. You’d have missed the bull and killed half the spectators in the stadium!” Cisco flushed, for his bad marksmanship was legendary. He had the lowest scores of any gunner in the Eighth Air Force, as far as could be told. His method was simply to aim in the general direction of whatever came by way of an enemy and open fire and hope, by dumb luck, to get a bullet or two into the enemy aircraft.
Asa, on the other hand, was the best gunner on the Last Chance. He did have a bad habit of shooting at friendly aircraft and could not seem to memorize the silhouettes of the German planes.
At that instant, the door burst open and the operations officer stuck his head in. “Hey, you guys! You’re flying a mission leaving at 0400 hours—chow’s ready now. Come on; out of the sack!”
Clint made his way with the rest of the crew into the chow hall where they had fresh eggs for breakfast. As he looked around he saw that despite the fact that they had been in combat, there was no sign of a letup in tension. He had learned that the crew of the Last Chance did not work smoothly together. It’s no wonder, he thought as he bit down on the toast over which he had smeared orange marmalade; they’ve thrown the worst actors in the whole squadron into this airplane. Somehow this took away his appetite, and he began to feel a little nauseated. They had flown, three missions but had really seen no action, for they had been over targets not covered by enemy fighters. He had the feeling that this day would be different.
They moved outside, and trucks ferried them into operations. In the dark, they all assumed ghostly shapes. They talked, if at all, in subdued whispers. Mostly they were silent, for it was a black, gloomy predawn, and Clint felt that the spirits of all of them were in harmony with the cheerless atmosphere.
They listened with growing concern as the officer giving the briefing said, “Today we’re heading for Kiel in northern Germany. There are several hundred fighters in the area, and you can expect a hot reception. Be ready for attacks halfway across the North Sea!”
Clint listened as the officer instructed them on weather and other elements of the mission. When they filed out and got into the airplane, he noticed that Lieutenant Stratton, the pilot, was more irritable than usual. As flight engineer, Clint had made it his business to cover before the mission as many of the problems as possible that can arise with a huge aircraft like a B-17. However, even as he entered the cockpit to give a report, Stratton began screaming, “Stuart!”
“Yes, Sir?”
“Why haven’t you been through this flight check? Look at those needles on those gauges!” He ranted and raved while the copilot, Simmons, sat quietly beside him. Simmons himself was a calm man, very steady. The problem was, as the other members of the crew had soon found out, he was calm—but a terrible pilot. Whatever goes into a man that makes him able to handle a four-engine bomber, Al Simmons simply did not have it. His chief value to the crew was his ability to calm down the pilot, and this was a considerable achievement.
Doing his best to help Simmons calm down Powell Stratton, Clint finally was rewarded as the plane took off. The formation was better than he expe
cted, for Stratton was not a good formation flier. Soon, Clint had done his checkdown, but when he got back to the cockpit, he heard Stratton say, “Number four, what’s wrong with it?”
“Can’t tell,” Simmons replied, shaking his head. “Probably is the fuel pump, or the magnetos failed; won’t do us any good today!”
“All right, feather number four!” The propeller slowed down and ceased to spin. “We’re ten minutes from the enemy coast, heads up, everybody!” Simmons said over the intercom.
There was nothing to do but turn back, and Simmons began grumbling, “What good does this do? All for nothing, no credit. It won’t help us get our twenty-five missions out of the way!”
Twenty-five was the magic number, for that was the point at which combat crews would be sent back to the States, relieved from active duty. The Eighth Air Force was so new that no one had even begun to get close to that number and certainly not on the Last Chance.
The airplane wheeled as Stratton threw it into a sharp turn and almost threw Clint against the bulkhead. He caught himself and had turned to go when suddenly a tremendous shattering noise came to him. Wheeling, he saw that the wind-shield in front of the pilot had shattered. Alarm ran through him as the airplane suddenly lurched forward and went into a dive. At the same time, he heard over his earphones the words, “Fighters, fighters! Get that Focke-Wulf!” Red Frazier was screaming.
Clint had no time to think about the fighters, for the plane was headed down. He moved forward and saw that the pilot was dead. He had taken a full burst of bullets in his chest and was slumped forward.
“You all right, Lieutenant?”
Simmons was struggling with the control column.
“They got me in the leg,” he said, “but I can make it. Get to your gun, Stuart!”
Instantly Clint moved to the turret and at once saw another FW coming in, head-on. Firing the twin .50-caliber machine gun, he watched as the bullets reached out in a sweeping arc. He saw the arc connect with the Focke-Wulf, and it broke off its attack immediately. As they passed by, he heard the waist gunner’s guns clattering, and then when he turned the turret to get another shot, he saw the tracers from Asa’s guns meet. The Focke-Wulf exploded in a huge orange burst, and Clint yelled, “You got him, Asa, you got him!”
“Watch out for the other one!” Beans Cunningham yelled from the ball turret. “He’s coming back for another shot! You see him, Asa?”
“I got him!”
Clint could not see the action, for it took place under the B-17. He did see the Focke-Wulf as it sped by, off the port side, and saw that it was trailing smoke. He got a shot at it and missed but saw the enemy aircraft fade away. “I think that’s all,” he said, sweeping the skies. “But keep a lookout!”
They saw no more enemy aircraft, and Clint moved forward to the cockpit where he found Al Simmons struggling with the yoke—his face pale.
“I better try to stop the bleeding in that leg. You’ve got to get us home, Lieutenant Simmons.”
Clint found a first-aid kit and managed to patch up the wound. It was in the lower part of the leg and had bled copiously. He got the bleeding stopped, then straightened up to study Simmons’s face. “Can you get us home and make the landing?”
“Got to,” Simmons said. Forcing a grin, he added, “I got two boys and a wife to get home to.”
“You can do it. God will help you.”
Simmons gave Clint an odd look. “You believe that, don’t you, Stuart?”
“Yes, Sir, I sure do!”
“Well, you better pray all you know how—because I’m feeling pretty woozy.”
Indeed, Clint did pray. He did not know what the others were doing, but he knew that if the pilot lost consciousness, they would all have to bail out, and he had no relish for that. He glanced over to where the lifeless body of Lieutenant Powell Stratton was slumped to one side and regret came to him. As far as he knew, Stratton was a man without God, and now he had gone out to meet the God he did not believe in. He turned back and got some water and wiped Simmons’s face with it, then gave him a drink. “I think I see the coastline,” he said shortly.
“I see it,” Simmons said. “We’ll set down at the first strip we get to.”
None of the others knew the extent of the damage or that the first pilot was dead or that Simmons was wounded. If they had, there might have been considerable anxiety. As it was, Simmons did an adequate job. As weak as he was, he bounced the plane twice into the air, then brought it to a halt with a screech of brakes. Leaning back, he closed his eyes. “I guess your God heard your prayer, Clint,” he said. “I’m glad you were here.”
“I’m glad I was, too.” He looked over again at the pilot and shook his head. “I’m sorry about Lieutenant Stratton.”
“He wasn’t a friendly man, but I hate to see anybody get it like that. Could’ve been me.”
They all helped Al Simmons out, and he looked down at his bloody leg and said, “I think it’s broken. It looks like you guys will get another pilot and another copilot.”
As the injured man was wheeled away to an ambulance, Moon Wilson, the bombardier, came to stand beside Clint. The short, chunky man reached into his pocket, pulled out a Moon Pie, and took an enormous bite out of it. He seemed to be relatively resigned to being on a bad-luck ship. He himself had dropped bombs on the wrong town, reputedly destroying a hospital, and had a guilt complex about this. Now he stared at the pilot and said, “Well, that takes care of those two. Now there’s seven more of us that’s left in this blasted airplane.”
“We’ll make it, Moon.”
“Make it? Not a chance!”
“We’ll have to help each other,” Clint said, “and we’ll get a good pilot and a copilot, too.”
“We’ll get the worst they got! It’ll be two guys that couldn’t drive a bus, much less a B-17. Watch what I tell you; we’ll get the worst!”
The crew of the Last Chance sat out the next two missions while waiting for a first and a second pilot. Eaker sent forty-one Fortresses of the Ninety-second and Ninety-seventh for Avion Potez, an aircraft factory in northern France that the Germans were using for a repair depot for their planes. This force came under furious attack as soon as it reached the French coast. Slashing through the Spitfire cover, the German fighters, mostly FW 190s of a crack fighter group, shot down two Fortresses.
After this raid, however, the wet English autumn weather slowed the missions down, and crews settled in on the hastily constructed fields.
During this period, Clint did his best to instill a good spirit in the rest of the crew. As far as he could tell, he was the only Christian among the men and soon had become accustomed to being called “Preacher Stuart.” “I won’t fuss about that,” he said once with a grin as Red Frazier applied the name to him. “We’ve got some good preachers in my family, my uncle for one.”
“I’ve got no use for sissy preachers!” Red sniffed. He shuffled slightly and shot his fist out in an expert maneuver. “I’d like to get some of those preachers in the ring and see how they’d do.”
“My uncle would have done pretty well. He was a fighter before he went into the army in the First War.”
“A fighter? You mean a boxer?”
“That’s right! He did pretty good, too, but the war put an end to that. He lost his hand—but he won the Congressional Medal of Honor doing it.”
A reluctant admiration came to the eyes of Frazier. He grinned slightly, exposing a missing tooth. He was a little bit punchy from his fights and a good gunner, although his expertise with a radio was not of the best quality. “Well, I never met a preacher like that, but you can save your preachin’ for yourself, Clint.”
Clint did, indeed, save his preaching. He went to the services in a small church off the base, since there had been no chaplain assigned as yet. None of the crew would go with him, but he found ways to manifest his faith quietly. He knew that the Last Chance had a bad reputation in the group, and he determined to change that. Thinking about
it as they waited for a new pilot, he was praying one day and asked, “Lord, send somebody that can put some life into this crew. I need to make it through this war, and so do the rest of these fellas. We need a good pilot and a good second pilot, so I’m asking you to put your hand on whoever it is that can pull us through.”
The prayer had satisfied him. He had learned to cast his burdens on the Lord and to leave them there. In a war he could not see any other way. Even the brief combat he had seen had taught him that if a man thought about danger all the time, he would soon lose his mind—as some already had.
One consolation was the letters and the packages that he received from home. Packages came from all members of the family. His Aunt Rose never failed to send him cakes and cookies, which he shared with the rest of the crew, and Lenora wrote faithfully, also sending him small gifts and spiritual books that he deeply enjoyed. He heard from Wendy on a rather regular basis, who kept him informed as to the rest of the Stuarts in service, especially her brothers, Woody in the tank corps, and Will in the marines.
Most of all, he looked forward to the letters from Carol. At his request, she had bought a camera and sent him snapshots with almost every letter—not only of herself, but of the home place and of his parents and his siblings—even of his dog, Jupiter.
Carol’s letters were not long, for she was better at speaking than at writing. The one he opened on October 7 was typically short and began with an apology:
Dear Clint,
I cannot write a long letter today, for I am late for work. I wish I didn’t have to go. I wish that you were here so that I could stay home and take care of the house and you. But for now, this is the way it has to be.
Mr. Bledsoe has been very nice to me. He gave me a raise last week, and I didn’t expect it. He’s very kind—but sometimes I wish that he wouldn’t be quite so attentive to me. I will write you again tomorrow when I have more time. I love you very much.
Clint studied the letter and wondered at the reference to Harry Bledsoe. I wonder what kind of a man Bledsoe is. This led to another thought, that some women had not been faithful to their husbands. One sergeant, the belly gunner in another aircraft of his group, had gotten what they called a “Dear John” letter only two weeks ago. He had married a young woman just before leaving the States, and in the letter she said that she had found someone else and was divorcing him.
Winds of Change Page 16