Winter Warriors

by Stuart Slade

  “Stay with my division? I think so, I need somebody to replace Asbach. Yes, Lang, you can stay. Now, anything else?”

  Lang thought for a second. “A bottle or three of brandy, that sounds good. Where does Asbach’s family live Sir?”

  “On the Rhine, the family business is making brandy. Their home is in one of the small towns there, place called Duren.”

  Marcks stomped out, swinging the door shut behind him. A sacrilegious thought entered Lang’s mind. At least out here I don’t have to keep remembering whose ass to lick. With that comfort, Lang relaxed on his pillows.

  Curly, Battery B, US Navy 5th Artillery Battalion, Kola Peninsula.

  “Well, we’re nearly there. Knyaz, you’ll be leaving us now?”

  “No, Commander, my division is grouped around this railhead. If it is permissible, I’d like to stay with you until we’re in.”

  “Knyaz, if I may make a suggestion, why don’t you get your ski troops and go in ahead of us. That way you’ll get your welcome before this gun grabs all the attention.”

  Knyaz nodded, that was a good idea. The escape of the railway guns had made headline news around the world, even if only one of the three had actually made it. There was even talk of making a Hollywood film about the exploit. I would rather like to be played by Clark Gable. Knyaz thought.

  “Very well Commander, thank you. John, fly well and burn many fascists.”

  Marosy mouthed the word “Napalm” and got an appreciative laugh from the Russians. “Knyaz, thanks for everything. We’d never have got out if it hadn’t been for you and your Siberians. They’ve got a new bird for us back at base. If you ever need anything, just get the word through. Anything bratischka, I mean that.”

  “And I will take you up on it. Now goodbye my friend.”

  After three days on the train, it felt good to be back on skis again. It had been a hard job repairing the tracks where the fascists had ripped them up. The engineers had settled for clearing the wreckage away and rebuilding the line by removing track from behind the train. Meanwhile, Knyaz and his men had kept guard but the fascists had gone. Once the work was done, it had been a gentle ride home. But it still felt good to be on skis again.

  The cantonment started just as the railway like entered a marshalling yard. Knyaz had his surviving troops spread out on either side of the line, in echelons. He had to admit the arrowhead of ski-troops made a dashing figure as they entered the area occupied by the 78th Siberian Infantry Division. He could hear the watching men give the traditional ‘Urrah! Urrah! He brought his men to a halt in what passed for the parade ground. Across to his left he could see Rifleman Kabanov receiving an enthusiastic ‘welcome’ from two of the canteen girls. It was good to be young sometimes, Knyaz thought, forgetting he was only 26.

  “Knyaz. You have returned.” It was his general, standing before him in the trampled snow. Knyaz frowned slightly. Things weren’t quite normal. The General usually called him Tovarish Lieutenant.

  “Sir. Regret to advise you that we have lost 22 men dead and fourteen wounded. But we have killed many fascists and captured much of their material. I will have a full report for you later Tovarish General.”

  “There is no hurry, you have a party to attend first, Tovarish Senior Lieutenant.” The General was beaming at him and Knyaz closed his eyes to imagine himself with his new insignia. And his extra pay. That thought made him wonder. Have I been around Americans too much?

  As if to confirm his belief, there was a deafening whistle from the approaching train. Curly edged into the marshalling yard, surrounded by cheering troops. They ran alongside the lines to welcome the gun back home. The General looked at the railway gun and shook his head. “You can’t keep it you know.”

  Knyaz tried to look shocked. “Tovarish General, it is not our fault. He just followed us home.”

  EPILOGUE

  C-99B “Arctic Express “ Seattle, Washington, Ten Months Later

  The rumble of the nose doors opening and the whine as the engines behind the wings spooled down were so familiar to Major Dedmon that he hardly noticed them. Around Arctic Express, tracks would be gathering to remove the cargo. It was mostly 20mm Shvak and 23mm V-YA cannon for aircraft. Built in Russian factories, the guns were reverse lend-lease. Their value was charged as a payment against Russia’s account. Even in a world war, the accountants had to be kept happy. Around him, the flight deck crew finished their shutdown checks. Dedmon signed the chit that handed his aircraft over to its ground crew. That also was routine. He would leave his aircraft in their hands and they’d look after her before the next long haul to Russia.

  Inside the terminal, Dedmon’s crew, as usual, started to go their separate ways. This time, however, they were stopped by Colonel Sutherland. “You men, a moment please. I’m pleased to inform you that your tour of duty on the Air Bridge has been completed. I have your new assignments here. Some of you are going to the Pacific Coast to fly with the C-99 flights to Hawaii and Australia. Others will be going to other bases in the Zone of the Interior for other air transport duties.” He handed out envelopes.

  “You’re breaking my crew up?” Dedmon was upset at the idea.

  “I’m afraid so Bob. Needs must when the devil drives I’m afraid. There’s too much expertise here to keep in one group. It needs to be shared out. You’d better hurry by the way. There’s a C-69 Connie leaving in two hours. One of the seats has your name on it.”

  “Very good Sir.” Dedmon went off to say his farewells to the crew that had been with him for nearly a year. If he moved fast, he would just have time for a quick wash, climb into a new uniform and collect up his property. Behind him Colonel Sutherland watched with a degree of sadness. It was hard to play the genial old man, put out to grass in a backwater assignment, while watching these young men and deciding when they were ready to go on to bigger and deadlier things. The crew of Arctic Express, formed a group, shaking hands and slapping backs. Doubtless they were promising to keep in touch. Those promises would almost certainly never be kept. Then, they finally went their separate ways.

  C-69 Constellation “Queen of Naugatuck”

  “Hi Sir, I think we’re going to be neighbors for the next few hours.” The young Captain managed to combine the right amount of respect for Dedmon’s rank with friendliness and the camaraderie of pilots. Dedmon found himself instantly liking the man.

  “Looks like it. I’m Bob Dedmon. Been flying C-99s for the last year or so.”

  “Andras Pico, co-pilot on C-99s for about the same length of time. My bird was Snow Queen”

  “Arctic Express. The flight roster says we’re heading for Fort Worth. That’s Texas. My home state.”

  “Colorado is home for me. You get your bag lunch?”

  Dedmon held up the brown paper bag he had been given. He’d already looked, it contained a cheese sandwich, a ham sandwich, an apple and a bottle of something labeled ‘orange juice’ although it didn’t look like any juice Dedmon had ever seen before.

  “Excuse me, Sirs, do we have to sign in? I’ve never ridden one of these before.”

  An Airman was looking down at the two men. Pico returned the gaze. “You reported at the desk? And they gave you a seat number?”

  “Sir, yes sir.”

  “That’s fine then. Just find your seat and strap in. What’s your name son?”

  “Martin Sir. John Paul Martin.” The airman looked around and suddenly realized he had been standing right next to his assigned seat. He smiled sheepishly and sat down, nearly dropping his bag lunch in the process. “I’ve been a tail gunner on B-29s for the last six months.”

  Dedmon and Pico nodded respectfully. The B-29 crews had taken a ferocious battering. This young airman was lucky to be alive. Dedmon asked the inevitable question. “Many missions?”

  “Not combat, no, Sir. Mostly training flights and ELINT missions around Japan. Saw quite a few Japanese fighters, mostly Army Ingas and Gails. A few Navy Zeros but we kept out of their way. I got lucky I gu
ess. Never fired my guns.”

  Pico and Dedmon exchanged glances. Some airmen, speaking to officers informally like this, would have exaggerated their experience to gain favor. This young man was above that. They approved.

  “Gentlemen, we are about to take off. Please ensure you are strapped in securely. In the event of this aircraft crashing, remember to eat your bag lunches before impact, we are not allowed to waste food.” A groan went around the passenger cabin, the joke was an old one. “Personnel facilities are in the rear of the aircraft. We have no female passengers today so use of those facilities is unrestricted.”

  Pico smiled. “Did I ever tell you about the time we flew a group of Army nurses out? Hit bad turbulence, one of those times when a storm cut in and we didn’t expect it. We were bouncing all over the place. Everybody on board was airsick but those nurses got to work, passing out sick bags. They cleaned up after the ones who lost it, as cool as you like. Then, when we’re out of it, one of them throws a hissy-fit because somebody had left the seat in the latrine up.”

  Dallas-Fort Worth, Texas

  The flight down had taken six hours, most of which Dedmon had spent asleep. His companions had been considerate enough not to wake him, another point which had won them favor in his eyes. After landing, they had been herded into Air Force busses that had taken them for another two hour drive. Finally, their transport had pulled into a reception area that was indoors and lacked windows. The busses had dropped them and pulled out. A harassed-looking man with a clipboard had met them and taken them under his wing.

  “I’m Colonel Lane. The General will speak to you in a few minutes. If you just come with me please.”

  He’d led them into a large briefing room, one without seats. Several additional groups of men arrived. Then an uneasy hush fell over the room. A stocky figure with a grim expression frozen on his face stepped out and stood behind the podium. A stir went around the room as the audience recognized General Curtis LeMay. They’d expected his voice to be a roar but in fact it was quiet, hard to hear.

  “Gentlemen, you have been gathered here for the most important mission the USAF has ever flown. In addition, it is the most secret mission we have ever contemplated. There is a rule here you must never forget. What you see here, what you learn here, what you think here, must stay here. You must never, never breathe a word about your work to anybody. If you do, you will be in a military prison for so long you will forget what daylight looks like. Many people know parts of the story but very few know it all. If somebody uses a part of the story to persuade you to tell them the rest, you will terminate the conversation immediately and report the meeting to the Federal Bureau of Investigation. They will take it from there.

  “When you fly, you will take off at night and you will land at night. If anybody asks you what you fly, you will reply that you are C-99 crews. Many of you, especially pilots and navigators are C-99 veterans. Feel free to bore any such audiences to death with stories about how you secure cargo and check weight balances.” A stir of laughter ran around the room. “Now, the next step is to assemble crews.

  Circulate amongst yourselves, try to form up into groups of about six you feel happy with. No more than three officers per group. We will assign anybody who isn’t in a group after a reasonable time.”

  Dedmon looked at Pico and the two men nodded. Then they looked at Martin “Want in Martin?”

  “Yes, SIR!” The pleasure was immediate and obvious.

  “Bob, the guy over there, Sergeant King, knew him on the C-99 runs. He’s the best mechanic I’ve ever known. Snag him?”

  “Go for it.”

  Pico stepped away and a few seconds later brought a well-built, even overweight, Sergeant back with him. Dedmon stuck out a hand. “Sergeant King, want to join our happy band of brothers?”

  The Sergeant looked cheerful. He’d been afraid his girth would put off potential crews. “Be happy to, Sirs.”

  Dedmon looked around again. Then he heard Martin’s voice behind him. “Sir, the EW officer over there, Captain Mollins, knew him on the RB-29 flights around Japan. If we need an EW man, he’s the best I saw while on the RBs.”

  Dedmon acknowledged the advice. A couple of minutes later, the EW officer was part of the crew. Meanwhile, Sergeant King had seen another flight engineer, Sergeant Gordon, he’d worked with and brought him over to join the group. Dedmon looked at the six men and felt a quiet satisfaction. These were good men, he had the makings of a fine crew here. Then his eye was caught by one last man, one who seemed left out by the rapidly coalescing groups around him.

  “Anybody know that one?”

  His crew shook their heads. “Offer him a home?”

  There was a moment of thought, then a series of nods. Dedmon went over to the man. “I’m Major Dedmon, want to join my crew? We’re over there.”

  The man looked at him then broke into an open, friendly smile. “That’s right friendly of you Sir. I was feeling kind of left out here. I’m a bombardier, used to be onB-17s. If you’ll have me, I’m in. Name’s Crane. Sergeant Sammy Crane. Most people call me Argus.”

  Dedmon took his group up to the front where General LeMay was speaking quietly with Colonel Lane. The other groups were still speaking and getting to know each other. “Sir, our crew is ready, there’s seven of us.”

  LeMay looked at them expressionlessly. “Not going to take time to get to know each other?”

  “No Sir, we’ll have time for that later. We’d just like to get started.”

  “I have no cause for complaint with that. Colonel Lane, take these men into the main hangar to choose their aircraft.” LeMay turned and started inspecting a file. Dedmon got the distinct feeling he’d done the right thing at the right time.

  Lane took his clipboard and noted the crew’s names and expertise. “If you gentlemen will come with me.”

  The party went through the doors, down a corridor then through another door, this one guarded by two Air Force Police. Then he ushered the crew into the building beyond.

  “Oh My God!” The chorus of comments was born of shock and surprise, shock at the sheer size of the hangar, stunned amazement at what it contained.

  Lane looked slightly conceited. “They all say that when they come in here for the first time. That’s why we call this the Ohmygod hangar. And those eight aircraft are called B-36s. The B-36H-30-FW Peacemaker to be precise. They’re the month’s production from this particular final assembly plant. Gentlemen, as the first registered crew of this intake, you get first choice. Take your pick. That aircraft will be yours for the indefinite future.”

  Dedmon looked at the aircraft, he recognized the wings as being those of the C-99 only they had jet pods mounted under the wings. Two jets per wing in addition to the six piston engines. The tail was similar to the C-99 but the fuselage was totally different. He looked underneath and saw the gaping, cavernous bomb bay. Twice, three times the size of that on a B-29? “I’d never guessed bombers like this existed.”

  “Tens of thousands of people in America know these aircraft exist, the people who build them, the people who assemble them, the people who fly them. They keep their mouths shut. I’ll add something to what General LeMay said. You tell anybody about these aircraft, you’re not just committing treason. You’re breaking faith with everybody who has worked for six years to build up this force and to keep it secret. Now, which one would you like?”

  The crew wandered around the eight aircraft in the hangar. Eventually, Dedmon found himself standing underneath one particular B-36. He couldn’t understand why but he felt comfortable with this particular aircraft. It didn’t make sense. They were all identical as far as he could see but this one seemed right somehow.

  “What do you think guys?”

  “She seems a real Lady, Bob.” The rest of the group nodded.

  “Colonel, could we have this one please?”

  Lane looked up and read the tail number, then noted it against the crew list. “Right Major Dedmon, she’s yours
. What you going to call her?”

  Dedmon looked up at the great silver bomber. “She is a real lady all right. In fact, she’s a Texan Lady.”

  THE END

  Table of Contents

  CHAPTER ONE: RED SKY IN THE MORNING

  CHAPTER TWO: A CHILL IN THE AIR

  CHAPTER THREE: COLD WIND RISING

  CHAPTER FOUR: FIRST SNOWFALL

  CHAPTER FIVE: THE BLIZZARD

  CHAPTER SIX: WHITEOUT

  CHAPTER SEVEN: A KILLING COLD

  CHAPTER EIGHT: THE ENDLESS SNOW

  CHAPTER NINE: SNOW DRIFTS IN THE WIND

  CHAPTER TEN: ALL THINGS MUST PASS

  CHAPTER ELEVEN: CLEARING THE DEBRIS

  CHAPTER TWELVE: RESTORING ORDER

  EPILOGUE