Lifting the large camera, she took a shot of the navigator, fumbled with the film advance knob until she locked another frame in place, then shot a picture of the bombardier. She was thankful for the roll-film adapter that Patrick had thoughtfully installed, and for the dawning daylight filtering through the bomber’s Plexiglas nose. Some of her shots might even come out.
From her position, she could see the fogged-in runway through the glass nose. Despite the limited visibility, the engine revved to full power, and Destiny’s Child began taxiing.
Then she spotted something—a jeep was moving down the center of the runway only a hundred feet ahead. Mary guessed it was helping the plane to establish a straight course. She focused the camera on it and snapped a shot, hoping that she was doing it right, trying to remember everything Patrick had showed her. Soon the jeep pulled off the runway, and the plane sped at full power.
The plane lifted off the ground, and Mary let out a whoop. The laughter of ten men, flowing through the interphone, filled her ears.
“Sorry about that,” she said, hearing her own voice echo in her ears. “I had no idea I was connected.”
“Ah, don’t worry about it,” someone said. “A woman’s voice over the phone isn’t something we hear every day.”
“Although I wouldn’t mind one bit….”
It was Vinny’s voice; she had no doubt. The navigator glanced her way as if determining her response.
“I want to do the very same thing, every time,” someone else said.
Mary believed it was the friendly voice of the copilot she was hearing.
“And I usually give in to my whim when we touch down, making it home. Can you believe it, guys? Today’s the day, our last flight.”
“You’ve made Uncle Sam proud,” the pilot said with a fatherly tone. “Now let’s do this thing and get home. I’m sure the little lady has more important things to write about than a bundle of old crew members who’ve danced with Lady Luck and successfully completed the tango.”
When they finally climbed far enough to break through the cloud cover, the image of hundreds of B-17s rumbling all over the sky took Mary’s breath away. Gradually the formations began to take shape, each one moving into place. She saw them clearly for a few minutes, but lost them as they soared into a second layer of clouds.
Once they approached the Channel, Mary discovered her flight gear had one final layer before it was complete.
“Here, put this flak jacket on.” The bombardier handed her a thick gray vest.
Mary took it from his grasp, and it immediately hit the ground, its weight slipping through her fingers. A tinge of pain shot up from where the “jacket” landed on her foot.
“You’re kidding, right?” she said over the interphone. “Is this thing lined with steel or something?”
“Basically, yeah.”
She could see the navigator’s smiling eyes even through the goggles.
“It’s to protect you from projectiles.”
Mary wrinkled her nose at the word projectiles. It was such a civilized way for saying stray bullets and shrapnel.
“You don’t understand.” She tugged at the jacket, but it refused to budge. “There’s no way I’m going to be able to wear this.”
“Here, let me help.” The navigator leaned over and lifted it, and placed it around her like a cloak. She wiggled her arms the best she could to fit them into the armholes.
He topped the outfit with a steel infantry helmet. “There. Comfy?”
“If comfy means doubling or tripling one’s body weight—yes, I’m fine. Thank you.”
“Wonderful. It’s time to plug you in.”
Eddie hooked her up, explaining the oxygen tubes and wires for the electric heat suit. Then he plugged in his own gun positions by electric wire.
Mary breathed in, feeling the cool flow and tasting the slightly metallic oxygen. Then she gave a thumbs-up and glanced at the notepad still among Eddie’s things. She longed to record this experience as it unfolded, and made a mental note to herself.
I feel burdened, weighed down. Not only by the numerous layers of clothing, but also with the knowledge there’s no turning back. This is it. We’re entering enemy territory. The next group of planes we come up against will have one thing in mind—making sure our Fortress never returns home. But I trust these guys. They’ve completed so many missions. Yeah, I’m scared. Shaking in my boots! But I’ve got to be in the safest plane in the great blue.
She sighed and looked out the window. They were flying across the Channel with fighter escort. Vapor trails appeared like white wakes from the Thunderbolts.
Suddenly smoky bursts filled the air around the plane, with their thunderous reports following almost instantly. A few small plunks hit the metal frame.
Oh, dear God. Oh, Lord, help us. Mary didn’t know where the prayer came from. Yet here, as shells continued to burst around the plane—like Fourth of July rockets gone bad—prayer felt like the right thing to do.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Eddie glanced over at the reporter sitting in the makeshift seat. His crew had come so far, had fulfilled so many missions together—now this. What was the commanding officer thinking? Eddie had enough to worry about with his own duties, and this time he was in charge of a woman too?
It will be over soon, he told himself. Before I know it, we’ll be back, and she’ll be out of the picture.
It would be a good thing to have her gone. Just being near her made his stomach ache even worse than it normally did on missions. And the way he’d lied—he hadn’t been that bad since the fourth grade when he’d nearly flunked his math quiz and meticulously worked with the red-ink pen to transform the D to a B. He’d got caught though—he hadn’t counted on his mother counting up the red check marks on the page.
The fact was, Eddie had heard of this woman. Her black-and-white image in the newspaper had made her look older, more mature than she was in person, but he’d read her stories just the same. He’d even cut out the interview from the Sentinel about their crew chief on D-Day.
So why had he lied to her, saying he didn’t know who she was? And why did he lie to Vinny, stating that the CO had put him in charge of her?
Yes, it would be a good thing to have her gone, to end his confused feelings. But why does she have to be so pretty, and smart, and nice?
The rumble of the plane reminded him this was no time to relive past memories or get flustered by the girl sitting beside him. Edward Anderson, he thought to himself in the same way his father had spoken when he’d been in trouble. Listen up, boy. It’s time to get mad. Fighting mad.
Thinking of D-Day would help him do just that. He’d read another story by a different woman reporter. The way she described the beaches and the wounded men stirred his anger. So many American lives lost because of a few madmen.
Think of the German killers. The bodies lining the beaches. Even the citizens—mothers and children—killed by those Krauts who’ve decided to take over the world.
Soon Eddie felt his body heat up—more than simply the electric coils at work. Sweat poured down his back and chest, and his eyes burned. He’d used this tactic before, after reading that only one emotion could reign in a person at any given time. Now it had to be anger.
But then he glanced to his right once more and spotted Mary Kelley. Fear rushed in again faster than he could control it. Fear that she’d be the one hurt this time.
I’m going to club the person who ever placed her pretty face on this mission.
“Check your guns.” The pilot’s voice spoke over the interphone once they were well over the Channel.
The navigator jumped from his seat, nearly tripping over Mary’s feet, to one of his machine guns. She heard him mumble something, then listened to the small bursts of bullets and the replies.
“Tail guns, okay.”
“Left waist gun, okay.”
She heard her navigator report, “Right cheek gun, okay.” Then a moment later, after crossi
ng to the other side, “Left cheek gun, okay.”
The process continued from the rear of the aircraft to the nose.
They finally leveled off, and it appeared as if they were suspended in the air—fixed in place. Huge metal machines jockeyed into position around them like toy planes hanging from a mobile in the sky.
The only hint of their motion was the white garlands left by the wingtips. Mary tried to imagine just who they were flying over, another world away. She’d been through enough bombing alerts to remember the alarms and sirens that sounded when bombers roared overhead. She could almost hear the women screaming and the children running for safety, then crouching in darkness as tense as a taut wire as uncertain minutes ticked by.
Oxygen flowed cool into her mouth. Awe of these men and fear of what lay ahead tussled for control of her emotions. She spotted movement from the navigator. He glanced at her, then pointed to the window to the south. She sucked in a breath and saw the snow-covered Swiss Alps. How majestic they looked, even from this distance. But then she spotted something else. Four B-17s swung out of formation and headed toward those mountains.
“They must be having problems and are aborting the mission. That leaves the rest of us in a tight spot. I hope they make it.”
The crew members must have realized Eddie was talking to her, because no one else responded.
“Flak! Flak at three o’clock!”
The antiaircraft fire from the ground burst high and just to the left, but clicked closer with each explosion, as if someone were dialing in their position.
They’re trying to hit us! Mary tightened her grip on the ammunition box.
The flak exploded, showering glimmering fragments—burning steel spinning through brown smoke.
“Those aren’t just 88s. Some are the big ones—the 105s,” someone said through the interphone.
Suddenly big, black bursts of smoke flowered in front of them. And it seemed as if they were instantly alone, like a rocking ship in a black sea, with no sight of the other ships.
Mary heard the clank of metal hitting metal and now understood why she’d been turned away from frontline work for so long. The battle was already raging, and they were hours away from their target. How could they possibly make it there and back without a serious hit? Even more than that, how had this crew done it twenty-nine times already without losing one crew member? The image of them on their knees before the chaplain came to mind.
Another missile—or whatever it was—burst right outside of the window. The concussion from the blast seemed to shoot through Mary’s whole body. She heard her own scream echoing in her ears.
“Shut that girl up, will you?” a voice called out. “Heck, that hurt my ears more than the explosion.”
Mary wasn’t sure which of the men had spoken, but she bit her lip and tried to comply. She closed her eyes, squeezing them tight. But it only took a large bounce and another loud explosion for her to realize not knowing was worse. She opened her eyes, gripped on to the metal wall the best she could, and looked forward over the bombardier’s head to the action outside. Mushroomed puffs of smoke marked the sky where the shells had exploded around the planes. A cinch of fear tightened around her chest, making it hard to breathe.
From her previous interviews, Mary knew that with each shell that burst, thousands of shards of metal bulleted in every direction. If direct hits exploded inside the plane, the results were fatal. But even a close explosion could seriously cripple a plane or injure crew members.
Over the interphone, the men kept each other updated on what they saw coming at them. Before her, Eddie and José were busy at work, each one knowing his part.
“Copilot to crew,” she heard over the interphone. “Check-in.”
She knew he was confirming the status of the crew and checking for battle damage.
“Top turret, okay.”
“Right waist, okay.”
“Left waist, okay.”
“Radio, okay.”
“Navigator, okay.”
“Sage, okay.”
“Bombardier, okay.”
“Tail gunner, okay.”
Their voices rattled over the line one by one.
“Mary, how about you?”
“Tagalong, okay.”
Laughter echoed through the interphone despite what seemed a desperate situation outside.
Mary saw that since those other bombers left, they were now in an outside position. And just when she thought the shells exploding around them were bad, she noted German planes bearing down on them, ready to tango. And soon the dance began.
As the aircraft bounced around, she also realized that the duties of the pilot weren’t only to stay on course, but to also keep out of the way of the other planes … and take evasive actions when it came to the Germans, especially the Me-100s that were firing rockets from their rear.
The level aircraft dropped suddenly. And just when her stomach returned from her throat, the Fort shifted to the right. Through the interphone, she heard the two pilots talking to each other, keeping watch over their half of the plane and any enemy threats.
“Kraut at four o’clock. Looks like a Me-410.”
“It’s in my sights,” someone said.
Machine-gun bursts sounded from somewhere behind Mary. The rounds continued, until a “yee-haw” sounded through the interphone.
“The Kraut’s outta control. I see him dropping. Look, a parachute!”
“Nice kill,” Eddie shouted. “Now watch out, here comes his buddy!”
Although she couldn’t see the action behind her, more machine-gun fire erupted from the two waist gunners and from the gunner in the top-turret bubble.
How long does it take to get to Berlin? Mary wanted to ask, feeling helpless as she pulled her arms tight to her chest. How soon can we drop these stupid bombs and head home?
Hours passed, yet the crew members of Destiny’s Child had few breaks from the assault. It was nearly a constant stream of antiaircraft fire and enemy fighter aircraft. Yet surely they had to be getting close.
“The right, watch out for the Kraut on the right!” one of the men screamed. The plane jerked to the left.
“FW 190s!” someone shouted through the interphone.
Mary tried to remember what she’d read last night about the distinctive markings of the planes. She’d studied them in order to impress the crew, but now she understood that nothing she could ever say or do would impress them. These aircraft were more than just something to memorize facts about—this was their life … or death, if their number was up. Which she sure hoped wasn’t today.
A flash of yellow zipped past her window, the black-and-yellow checkered paint on their tails and engine cowlings blurring by. She couldn’t believe how close he was to their plane. Get ’em, guys!
The Fort continued to vibrate from nose to tail, and there was a steady staccato from machine guns and constant clank of shell casings spewing everywhere.
“Little friend, little friend. We need some help up here,” either the pilot or copilot said.
The P-51s, their fighter support, were indeed helping, but there weren’t enough of them to go around.
“IP coming up.” It was the bombardier’s voice in her ears.
Mary remembered reading that originally the IP had meant a point thirty miles from the target where the bombardier would lock into the crosshairs and fly straight and level until bombs away.
Unfortunately for previous crews, thirty miles gave the flak gun ten minutes to concentrate on the approaching Fort, zeroing them into the sites. Many crews were lost. So instead, the new system was to make a minor change of direction every minute, until the last one ticked down. Then they would run straight and level toward the target.
As Mary’s body shifted with the aircraft’s adjustments, she lifted the camera from where it hung around her neck. She ignored the flak bursting around them in every direction, ignored the desire to scream, and instead set her jaw with determination, knowing this i
s what she’d come for.
“Bombs away!” she heard through the interphone.
She knew they’d released when Destiny’s Child bounced up, due to the lightened load. Then suddenly the plane made a sharp turn to dodge the flak. Seeing her opportunity, Mary turned her camera to the window tilted to the ground. She focused and shot as a large plume of black smoke billowed from a refinery.
“You got it. You got it!” she squealed. Then it was time to turn home.
The flight home went faster than the trip there, and Eddie cleared his throat, speaking into the interphone. “We’re only an hour from the Channel, gentleman. But keep your eyes open. Sometimes the worst part of the ride is at the end.”
Mary sighed. They’d made it. Once they crossed the Channel, just a couple of hours and they’d be back on Allied ground.
But just as Eddie finished, his voice was cut off from an explosion that rocked the plane, and Mary’s screams weren’t the only ones filling the interphone.
“Oh no, oh no. The wing. Half of the wing is gone!” Reggie shouted. “The wing hit the tail. I’m going to check it out.”
Mary’s chest constricted, and she grasped her oxygen mask, breathing in and out, attempting to stay calm. She didn’t dare look out the side window—didn’t want to see the plane with half a wing.
This was it. She imagined the story now. AMERICA’S SWEETHEART DEAD. Reporter for the New York Sentinel killed while stupidly joining a B-17 bombing raid. Just when they thought they’d made it home …
She placed a hand over her pounding heart and imagined the London office waiting for her transmission, and Paul waiting for theirs.
Would her father be waiting and wondering too? What would he do if she didn’t show up?
The plane bounced and shifted beneath her as the pilots attempted to stabilize it. She could tell they were backing off from the rest of the formation.
Arms of Deliverance Page 19