Winds of Change

by Gilbert, Morris

  “Yeah.” Cunningham held up his foot and was saying, “I think just a fragment of it got me. I think I can handle it.”

  Clint slapped him on the shoulder. “You better; you’re the only one small enough to fit in that thing.”

  “I can handle it, Clint.” Cunningham suddenly looked out and said, “Uh-oh, there they come! Bandits, three of them. Look like Focke-Wulfs!”

  The formation pulled in a little tighter, and the German fighter planes made quick passes close by. By this time Clint had learned to accept the dangers of combat as well as any man ever did. So had all of them on the Last Chance. They all knew that every time they went into the air there was a chance that they would never make it back. Clint moved along the airplane, doing his job. He was praying, Oh, God, be with me today and keep me from . . .

  “Navigator to crew, fighters at nine o’clock!”

  “Hold it; it’s our little friends! It’s our escort!”

  They crossed the edge of the enemy territory finally, then the P-47s dipped their wings and turned back to England.

  “Why do they have to leave us just when we’re about to bump up against Göring’s crew?” Tom Smith, the copilot, grumbled as he saw a cloud of fighters coming.

  Adam looked at his copilot. He never felt certain of Smith or of what he would do. The man, he knew, was terribly afraid, and since Adam never had that problem, he could not really grasp it. It, to him, was a tragic flaw, and he could not understand how a man could function with his mind filled with fear.

  Looking out his window he hollered, “Pilot to crew, fighters at six o’clock. More fighters low and coming up!”

  “Tail to crew, four fighters closing fast at six o’clock high!”

  “Radio to crew, I think they’re all gonna come in!”

  Clint moved to his position in the top turret and could hardly believe what he saw. Four fighters were flying so close together that they looked like one enormous, four-engine aircraft. “Look at that!” he yelled. “We can’t miss!”

  Clint could not believe that they intended to attack that way. The greenest German pilot would have known better, but they kept coming. At six hundred yards, he saw the first flash of cannon fire, which was the signal for the formation gunners to let go. Every fifth round was a tracer, and soon all top turrets, some balls, and all tail guns were pouring a heavy barrage at those four fighters. The enormous mass of .50-caliber slugs was so devastating that there were four puffs of black smoke. The sky was filled, suddenly, with airplanes breaking apart.

  There were no more fighter planes in sight, so Clint crawled down and moved to the cockpit. He was somewhat shaken by the experience. “Those fellas didn’t know what they were doing—they must’ve been totally green.”

  “They’re good Germans now,” Adam said harshly. “I wish they’d all come at us like that and that we could kill ’em all with one burst!”

  Smith turned his head jerkily and stared at him. “Don’t you ever feel anything for those Germans?”

  “I feel good when they die like that!” Adam said. His face was pale, and he kept his eyes on the skies for a moment. Then he turned around to find Clint behind him. “You got anything to say, Preacher?”

  “No, Lieutenant, nothing—except I can’t help but feel sorry for any man who dies, German or American.”

  “Well, you feel as you please, but we came out here to kill Germans, and I’m going to kill all I can!”

  Clint saw the distaste in the copilot’s eyes, but neither of them said a word. Both of them were aware that Adam Stuart was a man with an obsession to kill all the Germans he could. He was, they both recognized, an exceptional pilot, the best, perhaps, in the entire Eighth Air Force. They could not understand why he was kept on the Last Chance, but his skill at flying had kept them out of trouble so far, and as Clint moved away, back to check Cunningham’s wound, he thought, What a shame. Adam’s not going to last like that. Hatred is going to kill him as sure as a bullet from a Messerschmitt.

  The trip to Chicago was exhilarating for Carol Stuart. She had lived in a small town all of her life and had never even been on a commercial airliner—or any other airplane, for that matter. She sat beside Harry Bledsoe, grasping the seat as the plane lifted in the air, expecting any moment for it to fall down. As the earth fell away, Harry said with a grin, “Open your eyes, Carol, and you can see what your hometown looks like.” As they rose in the air, Carol looked over and exclaimed, “Why look, there’s our house right over there! It looks so funny from up here—and the people, they look like dolls!”

  Bledsoe was amused at his secretary. “Flying’s fun, isn’t it?”

  “Well, it is so far.”

  The flight proved to be very successful. Carol did not get sick, as she had feared, and when they arrived at the airport in Chicago, she was stunned at the masses of people. “I’ve never seen so many people in one place in my entire life!”

  “It’s busy, all right. Come along; we’ll get a cab and go to our hotel. You can rest up while I go out and get things ready.”

  Carol was apprehensive, as she had been since she had agreed to make the trip, but when they reached the Stevens Hotel, Harry left her at the desk, saying, “I’ve got a lot of work to do. You rest up, and we’ll have breakfast together in the morning.” She was tremendously relieved.

  “All right, Harry,” she said. “I’ll be ready.” She went to her room on the sixteenth floor and looked out at the skyscrapers of Chicago rising majestically in the sky. She was too excited to sleep and finally changed her clothes and daringly went on a shopping tour. She kept her eyes on the hotel, not daring to go more than a block away, but she did enjoy seeing the people and buying her meal in a restaurant all alone. More than once, she caught the eyes of men who were watching her, but she quickly glanced down and wondered if she were doing the right thing.

  She went back to the hotel and spent a restful night. The phone rang at eight the next morning. It was Harry: “Are you ready for breakfast?”

  “Yes, I’ll be right down.”

  “I’m just down the hall. We’ll meet and go down to the restaurant.”

  When she stepped outside her room, Carol saw that, indeed, Harry was only two doors down, for he was exiting even as she stepped out into the hall.

  “Well, look at you! Been shopping, huh?” Harry took in the dress that Carol had bought and shook his head, his eyes alight with admiration. “You look good enough to be in the movies,” he said. Taking her arm he said, “Come on; I’m starved.”

  They ate breakfast at a small table where a waiter with a white coat saw to their every need. Harry talked constantly about the business and said, “I’m going to work you pretty hard, Carol. Things are breaking quicker than I thought.”

  “Oh, it’s so exciting, Harry; tell me all about it!”

  She listened as he described the events and meetings that he had had for prospects and said, “I’ve got a friend who will let us use his office here. He’s got a typewriter and everything we need.”

  And so the day began. All day long, Carol was buried with details of the work. It took all of her concentration to keep up with what was going on. Bledsoe came and went. He brought men in, introduced her from time to time, but mostly it was work—work—work.

  For three days, Carol worked unstintingly. She had supper each night with Harry, and usually breakfast, although he was sometimes gone by the time she arose. She had been terribly apprehensive about his behavior, for he had flirted with her more than once, but here, he was another man. Business stimulated him, and he flitted around over the city, apparently, from place to place as if it were his natural habitat. Carol was pleased with her job, for she knew she had done it well, and flushed when he said, “Well, I picked the right secretary all right. No one could have picked this up quicker than you, Carol.”

  On the third day, they finished somewhat early, and Harry said, “Well, we’re going out to celebrate tonight. You worked hard, and you deserve a break.”r />
  “Oh, I really shouldn’t, Harry!”

  “We’ll just have dinner, maybe a few dances.”

  Carol was unsure about going out but said to herself, “This is just for supper; just a meal together won’t hurt anything.”

  Harry took her to a place called the Pump Room. “This is the fanciest eating place in Chicago!”

  Carol was helpless in the face of the menu. “What is beef forestiere?” she asked.

  “I don’t know,” Harry said, “but if it’s beef, it has to be pretty good.” They had laughed a great deal, and Harry had ordered a bottle of wine.

  “Oh, I don’t think I should!” Carol protested.

  “It’s only wine!” Harry said, smiling. He filled her glass and his, then held his up for a toast. “Here’s to the best secretary in the whole country!”

  Carol could not refuse and finally drank the wine. Soon that bottle was gone, and Harry ordered another, and Carol began to feel rather sleepy and excited at the same time.

  “This is such fun, Harry!” she said.

  “Come on; let’s dance.”

  “Oh, I can’t.”

  “Of course you can!” Harry pulled her to her feet, and soon they were out on the dance floor, which was packed. He was holding her close, and Carol wanted to protest, but the wine had gone to her head. She was tired, also, after the hard three-days’ work. The music was soft, and she had always liked to dance. They danced several times, then had their meal. Afterwards, there was more wine, more dancing.

  Finally, Carol said, “I think I’d better go.”

  “Well, all right. It is getting late.”

  On the way to the hotel in the cab, Harry talked a little and held her hand, saying, “I’m a very lonesome man, and you made my trip here very successful.”

  Carol did not attempt to pull her hand back, and when they reached the hotel and got to their floor he said, “I forgot to tell you; we got the Donaldson contract. Come along and look at it. It’s the best we’ve gotten so far.”

  Carol’s head was reeling. She had taken more wine than she had ever drunk in all of her life put together, and she protested, but he said, “Oh, it won’t take but a minute.”

  She followed him to his room, and as they entered he said, “Sit down on the couch; I’ll get the contract.” Carol’s head reeled, and he came back with a sheaf of papers in one hand, and a bottle in the other. “One more toast!” he said.

  Carol protested, but he insisted. One toast turned into another, and finally her eyes would not focus on the fine print. She felt him pull the papers out of her hand; then he sat down beside her and put his arms around her.

  “Please don’t, Harry—”

  “You’re so sweet, Carol. You’re the sweetest woman I’ve ever known.”

  Carol attempted to speak, but she could not respond, for he was kissing her. She knew deep inside that she should resist, but she was lonely and Harry had been so kind. Her head was swimming now; then after a time she knew that she had gone too far.

  I shouldn’t have come to this room, she thought. She tried to get free from his arms, but she felt weak. He was holding her tightly, and his hands were moving over her in a familiar way. “I love you, Carol,” Harry whispered.

  Carol Stuart had lost her sense of direction. The wine had made her dizzy, and she was about to faint. She tried to protest, but she could not, and at last she put her arms around him and said, “I’m so lonesome, Harry—”

  Harry held her tighter, and his lips were on hers. Carol knew something was dreadfully wrong, but she could not think straight enough to do anything about it.

  Outside the hotel, the traffic moved around, and overhead airplanes flew over the mighty city. But inside the hotel room, Carol Stuart was making the biggest mistake of her life.

  “It’s not as bad as you make it out, Honey.”

  Carol had spent the night in Harry’s room and had awakened confused but filled with a sense of shame. Quickly she had dressed and gone to her own room. He’d come down and gotten her, and she faced him with concern in her eyes.

  “I—I never thought I’d do such a thing,” Carol whispered.

  Harry spoke rapidly and earnestly. He was surprised to find that he did care for this young woman. Now he came over and tried to take her hand. She pulled it back, but he insisted. “Carol, I love you,” he said. “I want us to get married.”

  “I’m already married.”

  “You can get a divorce. It won’t be hard. I’ll help you; then we can be happy together.”

  Carol Stuart thought of Clint’s face, and shame swept over her. I can never face him again, not after this—not ever! God will never forgive me for what I have done. She listened as Harry began to make plans. There was a deadness in her such as she had never known. She knew that there would be no way that she could ever block this out of her memory, and the thought of going back and facing Clint was like death to her.

  They left Chicago that afternoon and returned to Arkansas. Carol kept to herself, seeing as few people as possible, but by the end of the week she had made up her mind. I can’t live with Clint—not ever. He would know what I am with just one look at me.

  Harry was joyful when she agreed to get a divorce, but she could not enter into his joy. She tried to, but late that night when she went to bed, she wept, knowing that she had lost something irrevocably, something that could never come back again. The night closed in over the Ozarks—and it closed in over Carol Stuart as she lay in her bed weeping over what was gone forever.

  DEATH OVER GERMANY

  Clint awoke early and waded through the mud during the murky hours of the morning toward the bathhouse, which was located some distance from the personnel huts. Stepping into the shower, he turned on the water, then flinched when the water hit his bare skin. He scrubbed for ten or fifteen minutes, resisting the desire to yell. He turned the water off and made a run back for the hut. All he could find was dirty underwear, so he put them on, feeling not much better than he had before the shower.

  He sat down outside the hut and listened to the faint sound of air-raid sirens from the east, toward the coast. They made a spine-tingling wail, and he hoped they would fade away to the north or to the south. Sometimes at night the sirens would open up and nearby towns would come alive, for that was the sign that German bombers were coming toward them. There were no air-raid shelters at the base, and during the winter, many had chanced the bombs rather than sit out in the freezing water and the mud. Sometimes the dark shape of a bomber could be seen in the sky, silhouetted across a searchlight beam or the moon. But as Clint looked up he saw nothing in the skies but a few faint stars gleaming in an effort to light the darkness.

  There was no mission that day, and the crew had been given four-day passes. When Clint had rejected all urgings to go into London, Cisco Marischal had said, “You got to be crazy missing a chance like this, buddy! Come on, we’ll find you some female companionship!”

  “I’m already married,” Clint had said quietly.

  Marischal had stared at him and shrugged his muscular shoulders. “So am I, but this is war, man! Anything goes!”

  “I don’t think so. Not for me anyway.”

  Marischal had scowled. “You’re missing out on a lot of living, Clint!” He had turned and walked away, and on the way to London he complained to the rest of the crew while they all were crammed into a taxi, “You know, Clint’s the best combat engineer in the wing, I guess—but he makes me nervous with all his religion.”

  “He means it though. He ain’t no hypocrite.” Frazier shoved his muscular shoulders against Cunningham and Columbo, making some room for himself. “Scoot over, you guys! You’re taking up all the room!” He thought hard for a moment, then shook his head. “I seen lots of hypocrites in my time, but I got to say this: Old Clint, he ain’t one of them. I ain’t seen him take a drink or chase a woman since I’ve known him. That takes something in a guy out here in this kind of war.”

  Peabody agreed at
once. “I almost got saved in a revival once back when I was a kid. The preacher preached on hell—scared the daylights out of me! I was ready to go up and get converted.”

  “Why didn’t you?” The question came from Moon, who turned his steady brown eyes on Peabody.

  “Ah, I was about ready to when I seen this little ole gal I’d been chasing for quite a while. She was looking at me all the way across in the brush arbor, and I forgot all about being scared or what would happen to me after I die.”

  “What’s a brush arbor?” Moon inquired.

  “You don’t know what a brush arbor is? Why, you go out into the woods, cut down saplings, make a big framework, and put tree limbs on top of it, leaves and things. Then the preacher comes, and everybody from all around comes to the meeting—it’s a camp meeting.”

  “I don’t believe there’s anything after we die, anyhow,” Moon said moodily. “You die, and you’re just like a dog—that’s all there is to it!”

  “Me, I don’t believe that,” Manny Columbo said with his intense black eyes on Moon. “All my folks got religion; we’re all Catholics. Not that it’s done me much good, but I know there’s more to life than what we’ve got here.”

  The argument continued all the way into London, and when they piled out of the cab and paid the driver, Red Frazier said thoughtfully, “Well, either we’re right or Clint’s right. If he’s right, we’re all in bad shape if the Last Chance goes down.”

  “Shut up! It’s bad luck to talk like that!” Asa Peabody snapped.

  Moon laughed. “It’s all a matter of luck. If we don’t go down, the ship next to us might. If they don’t, we might. Come on, let’s go find some broads! . . .”

  Clint ate a leisurely breakfast, enjoying the peace and quiet. He walked around the base watching the maintenance crews service and repair the battered B-17s, stopping by to go over the Last Chance. He had developed a particular relationship with this aircraft despite its bad reputation. He had kept it flying, along with help from the ground crews, despite numerous chunks taken out of it by cannon fire and machine gun bullets from the Luftwaffe. Clint had developed into a very fine combat engineer, mastering the thousands of technical adjustments that must be made constantly to keep a ship of this size and complexity in the air. He knew now why sailors called a ship “she,” for he had learned that the men of this crew, himself most of all, had developed an almost husbandly affection for her—taking care of her needs, anticipating them, grieving when she was harmed.