by M L Maki
“Where’d who go? Spike is 500 feet above and left.”
Nix sees a ‘279 tumble, shedding parts, and the pilot ejects. “I see her. Gs.” He rolls left and climbs. Spike hits a second with a Sidewinder and pulls to climb, a ‘279 on her six. Spike pickles off chaff and flares causing the missile to miss her and Nix gets a lead and fires his gun. The rounds stitch through an engine and into the fuel tank. The ‘279 goes up like a roman candle.
Kohlman, “Splash 1. We’ve got one on our six.”
Lizard, “Break right.”
Nix puts his ’14 on its side and slides down and to the right. A ‘279 going after Spike cuts across in front of them. Nix rolls left after the jet and they end up canopy to canopy only 60 feet apart. They climb in a spiral. Then, Lizard, “2, break! 2, break!”
Nix spins his plane to exit the roll instead of pushing forward into negative Gs. His left wing hits the German plane just behind the cockpit. Fuel sprays from the ‘279 and the canopy is shattered. Nix uses his right aileron and gets out of the spin. “Shit! Sorry, Heather. That was a no, no.”
Lizard, “You okay, 2?”
Kohlman, “We got the roll sorted out.”
Lizard, “The second was a good kill. He ejected at 500 feet. Boss says you’re not supposed to slap them out of the sky.”
Nix on radio, “Sorry, Spike. I did a no, no.”
Spike, “That’s okay, No-No. We all make mistakes.”
Kohlman, “Wow, Nix. You just got your call sign and it was from the Commodore.”
“I guess I did.”
Lizard, “Damage check.”
PADDOCK NEAR EASTBOURNE, UK
Welter drifts down in his chute, landing in a horse paddock. He gathers up his parachute and looks around. A farmer strolls toward him, his shotgun in the crook of his arm. The farmer smiles, “Well, come on, now. I’ve sent for the police, but we can get some soup and a cuppa in you before they arrive. It’ll probably be your last for a bit.”
ARTHUR 2, ON APPROACH TO RAF KENLEY
Nix, “Okay, a one engine landing. Speed is same, but…”
Spike, ‘No-No, Spike. Normal approach, but increase landing speed by ten knots. Don’t flare. Get on the ground and get on the brakes. I’d rather you smoke them, then over run and foul the field.”
No-No, “Roger, Spike.” Then to Kohlman, “The fire department is out. We won’t need it.”
She laughs, “Yes, but remember, every landing is graded.”
“Thanks.”
Kohlman, “100. 80. 50. 20. 10.” Their bird lands hard but the nose wheels stays straight and Nix practically stands on the brakes.
Spike roars by, “Good landing, No-No and Robot.”
As they taxi to their hanger, Nix laughs, “You got yours, too.”
C-56 OVER THE BALTIC SEA
1232, 4 October, 1942 (1132 GMT)
The aircraft depressurizes and the side door opens. Over the roar of the wind, Triage shouts into his radio, “Yankee Bravo, Sierra Bravo 2.” He repeats.
Then, finally, “Sierra Bravo 2, Yankee Bravo. We’re at point Alpha.”
“Roger, Yankee Bravo. 5 mikes to Lima.”
He turns to his team, “Op’s a go.”
Spooky, “This is crazy.”
Mac laughs, “Not as crazy as Korea.”
They jump out of the plane in a group.
NORTH COAST ROAD, GUADALCANAL
0150, 5 October, 1942 (1450, 4 October GMT)
LT John Hunt grimly hangs on as his sergeant, Steven Lewis, drives the deuce and a half truck at thirty miles an hour, in the dark, without lights, down a roughly graveled road not suitable for speeds over ten. They hear a large explosion in the hill ahead. Lewis, “Jesus Christ, Mother Mary. What was that?”
Hunt, “They’re clearing a spot for the artillery. Focus on your driving.”
“How soon?”
“We got two miles and the Japs have boats in the water. They’ve grounded a destroyer and the navy is coming. We’ll be first.”
“How many?”
“I don’t know. At least a few hundred. Probably over a thousand.”
“Is that all?”
“Yeah.”
“Well then, no problem. The coast watch should have this mopped up before we get there.”
They see the flicker of machine gun fire over the water and see tracer rounds passing ahead of them. Out over the water, Hunt can see the shadow of another Jap plane. The plane catches fire and they hear the roar of an F/A-18 passing over. The ’18 curves and drops a bomb on a Japanese ship. It explodes, the light from the flames show five more transports with four destroyers. A missile launches from a destroyer and the ’18 drops chaff and evades.
Hunt, “Five transports, at about 500 each. We’re looking at 2500, or so.”
They roll into a village. Lewis, “Is that all?”
Hunt, “We’re here. Yep, just 2500 Jap Marines. We got this.”
Theirs is the first of ten trucks, each with 14 Marines. Hunt un-asses his truck and shouts, “Second Platoon to me!” His unit, 2nd Platoon, Bravo Company, 1st of the 7th, is down to twenty-seven men. They gather around him as the other platoons form up. “Okay, defend the machine gun squads. Remember to hold fire until they’re well within effective range.”
His men, calm, shout, “Hoo-ah.”
SGT Lewis, “This is gravelly sand, so dig out, as you dig in.”
They can hear helicopters moving the guns.
Captain Morris, his company commander, walks up, “Good spot, Hunt. We’re going to be spread over a 400-hundred-yard front, so there will be gaps. When the enemy gets established on the beach, make an orderly withdrawal to that hill,” he points. “Once the guns are in place, the helo’s are going to lift Charley company up there. Our resupply is there as well.”
“Yes, sir. Do we have a signal for withdrawal?” As Hunt speaks, the Japanese naval guns start the barrage.
“You’ll have to use your best judgement.”
“Yes, sir.” Then, they hear the machine guns open up.
A few minutes later, LT Hunt is in a slit trench looking out over the Japanese landing boats. They’re smaller than a Higgins, and they have a front ramp. He directs the machine gun crew to fire on the ramps. There haven’t been any ricochets. The first boat lands on the beach and drops its ramp. A pile of bodies falls into the water. Behind them, the rest of the Japanese troops climb over their fallen.
His guys are getting the job done, so, he puts his rifle to his shoulder and shoots the boat coxswain. He goes for another on a boat closing the beach and the boat swings and capsizes, spilling its human cargo. The enemy soldiers struggle out of the water and into withering fire. Hunt, “Lewis, check our ammo and send someone back for more.”
“Yes, sir,” and he scrambles out, keeping low, going from position to position.
Hunt tells his runner, “Have Ernst target the boat drivers.”
“Yes, sir,” and he sprints off.
Hunt stands, exposed to the waist and looks over the battle. Two more transports have been hit by the ‘18s, and the artillery is taking out some of the landing craft. Dead Japanese marines are piling up on the beach. He senses someone sliding into his trench and looks over. Standing next to him is LT Colonel Lewis Puller.
“Um, sir?”
“How are we doing, Marine?”
“We’re giving them hell, sir.” A machine gun round creases Hunt’s helmet, twisting it over his eyes. He takes it off and looks at it, and tosses it aside. “They’re giving it to us, sir, but my boys are finding the fight digestible.”
“Good. You’re Hunt, right? Your daughter’s the fighter ace?”
“Yes, sir.” Hunt sees a dozen Japanese leap to up from behind a pile of bodies and charge. Hunt calmly positions his rifle and shoots, dropping four. His guys get the rest. One manages to get to his trench and jump in and Chesty Puller shoots him twice with his pistol.
Sergeant Lewis joins them, “We’re down to sixty percent and more ammo is coming.
I reminded the gunners to swap barrels. Douglas is gone and Ernst is wounded. Doc is sending him back.” He picks up the dead Japanese and shoves his body out in front of their trench.
Hunt, “Thank you, Sergeant Lewis.” He grins, “Meet Colonel Puller.”
Lewis resists the urge to salute, “We’re giving them hell, sir.”
“I see that. Lieutenant, can you hold this beach?”
Hunt looks out over the beach; many of the Japanese boats are drifting or sinking. He sees one of the destroyers going down. He nods, “Sir, I can hold as long as you need us to. Just keep the ammo coming.”
“Okay, Hunt. Just don’t get your balls shot off. We need more pilots like her.” He grins as he gets out of the trench and leaves.
“Yes, sir.”
PERCIVAL FLIGHT, ORBITING OVER DOVER
1604, 4 October, 1942
Hot Pants and GQ hear, “All units, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, raid warning north. 10 bandits climbing out of Ouston. Designate raid 26.”
GQ, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Percival flight, roger.”
“Percival flight, “Yankee, come to 350. Close and engage. We’re scrambling the Merry Men.”
GQ, “Yankee, Percival flight, wilco.”
Hot Pants waggles her wings and accelerates north. LT Cochran and Ensign Everling stay on her left wing.
“All units, Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, be advised. Raid 26 is NOE.”
GQ, “Whiskey Tango Foxtrot, Percival flight, acknowledge.”
PERCIVAL 2
LT Jackie Cochran hums into her mic. ENS Julian Everling, “Will you stop, Lieutenant?”
“What, Ensign?”
“Quit humming. It’s annoying.”
“We’re about to get our first kills and you’re worried about that?”
“Fuck, yeah. We have to survive to kill anything. Get your head back in the cockpit.”
“We’re way better than anything we will face.”
“Are we? How the fuck do you know?”
“Trust me, Everling, I got it.”
Then, GQ, “Percival 2, 1. Two AIM-1s at 40. Follow them and climb out.”
Everling, “Percival 1, 2. Roger.”
At 40 miles and at 18000 feet, they pickle off two AIM-1 missiles. Cochran keeps the nose on target as Everling guides them in. On hits, but one target turns at the last moment, and the missile misses. Everling, “Splash 1.”
GQ, “Splash 2. Pull.”
They climb out and turn for another dive. GQ, “Fox 3. Fox 3.”
Cochran pickles off two more, “Come on, Everling, two kills this time.”
Everling, “Working it. They’re scattering. Slow down and a little right.” Cochran eases back on the throttle and adjusts their course. “Good. Come on, come on. Yes,” On radio, “Splash 2.”
GQ, “Splash 2. Percival 2, 1. We’re going in. Stay on top.”
Everling, “Wilco, 1.”
The lead F/A-14 inverts and dives. Cochran rolls left and starts a turn. “Can you see them?”
Everling, “Yeah. We got two climbing. We need to meet them.”
Cochran inverts, “Gs.” Pulling her nose around, she sees two delta winged fighter bombers in a loose deuce climbing towards them. A missile drops from the right plane. Cochran, “Gs.” She pulls away, dropping countermeasures. One of the ‘262s rolls on its back and dives, and the other continues toward them. She goes to zone 5 and goes after the diving jet. The German comes out horizontal, then rolls into a left turn. She goes with, trying to get a lead on it.
GQ, “2, break! 2, break!”
Everling, “The other jets on our six. Break!”
“I almost have it.”
GQ, “Break, damn it!”
Everling, “He’s on us!”
They feel rounds hit their plane just as Cochran squeezes the trigger. Her rounds hit the tail of the ‘262, shredding it. In their cockpit the warning lights are lit up: fire in both engines; master warning; hydraulic failure in two systems. Everling looks over his shoulder and sees black smoke and flames.
Cochran, “Pulling the extinguishers. Hydraulics are mushy.”
Everling, “We need to eject, damn it!”
“I’ve got this. I’ve got this. One more minute.” Then, the ’14 tries to invert and there’s an explosion behind them.
“Everling, “Eject! Eject!” He pulls the ejection handles and is blasted into the slipstream of the falling jet. He comes to in his chute and sees the ground rushing up.
PERCIVAL 1, IN THE FIGHT
GQ, “2 is hit! Percival 2 is hit! We’re south west of York, about ten miles. Two chutes.”
“Percival 1, Valkyrie 1, airborne in 2 mikes. Can you orbit?”
Hot Pants, “Hang on!” She cranks the ’14 over in a violent left turn, applying dissimilar thrust and rudder to avoid cannon fire from a ‘262.” They’re pushed back into their seats as she applies full burner in pursuit. She slews her aircraft right, skids, and fires, “Got you, fucker.” The ‘262 tumbles, trailing flames and black smoke.
GQ, “Roger, Valkyrie 1. We’re clearing the skies for you.”
Hot Pants, “You see them?”
GQ, “Yeah. Fuck! Break right and dive!”
She twists the ’14 into another spinning roll to orient toward the parachutes and sees a ‘262 circling the helpless pilots. “I got it.” In a screaming dive, she fires a burst at the German vulture, and hits, tracing a line across the fuselage at the wing root. The left wing folds and the low flying fighter spins into the ground.
GQ, “Truck, 10 o’clock.” A German army truck is speeding toward the hill where Cochran and Everling are coming down. On radio, “Any Hog, Percival, emergency tasking.”
Gloria, “We’ve got 75 rounds left.” She circles back, strafing the truck. Her rounds hit the fuel tank, and the truck goes up, spilling out soldiers.
HILLS SOUTH WEST OF YORK, UK
Everling lands as he was taught, rolling to absorb the impact. He stands and gathers his chute into a pile. Percival 1 roars by, then it goes quiet. The silence is deafening. He sees Cochran land two hundred yards away. He grabs up his chute and walks to her. They’re completely exposed on the bare hillside.
When he’s about a hundred feet from his pilot, hears gunfire. Cochran is up and gathering her chute in, and looks up at the sound. German soldiers are running at them, firing their rifles.
“Come on, Jackie! We got to go!”
“Yeah,” and looks at her parachute, then dumps it on the ground and starts running up the hill. The Germans keep shooting. Julian shakes out his chute, letting it catch air and snags the harness on a bush, and follows Jackie up the hill. She looks back as he joins her, “Good idea.”
“Thanks. Keep moving.”
Bullets are ricocheting off the rocks around them as they crest the hill. Everling pulls his pistol and looks back just as Percival 1 roars over their heads. The Germans are spreading out, still firing. He sees a German fire just as he pulls the trigger. Everything slows down, and he clearly sees the flash as the bullet hits him high in the left chest, barely missing his shoulder. He spins from the impact, and the next round hits him in the right shoulder and he falls in a heap.
Jackie tries to get his hand and pull him up. Then, Valkyrie 1 rises above the hill. The helicopter turns and unmasks its minigun. The door gunner opens up, spitting a constant stream of bullets. Julian feels hands pulling him into the chopper and he passes out.
MILTON KEYNES, UK
1618, 4 October, 1942
Chris Oliverson stands in a stolen SS Major’s uniform at an intersection next to a stolen black Mercedes. He sees a line of German trucks coming toward him and waves it over. Stepping onto the running board of the first, he says in perfect German, “Go down this road. Stay on it. You’ll receive additional directions.” He steps off and waves them on.
“Yes, Herr Major.” The driver turns his truck towards Wales and drives on. Four trucks follow with supplies and troops.
CONTROL ROOM, RAF KENLEY
1620, 4 October, 1942
Spike walks into the control room, “Thud, what happened?”
LCDR Frank ‘Thud’ Jackson is focused on the new radar repeater. It’s designed so the women in the pit can add grease pencil labels on the tracks. It has a permanent outline of the British Isles. Thud looks up at her, his jaw tight, “I lost them. They were heading north to hit a fighter group out of Ouston. Cochran and Everling went down.”
Spike, “I see. Status.”
The watch officer, “Um, ma’am, Lieutenant Cochran and Ensign Everling went down…”
“I know. The war goes on. What else is happening?”
“Shotgun is on ready 5, call sign Camelot. Little John’s covering Rusty flight as they attack the German columns heading south. Dog flight 2 is attacking near Carlyle in support of the Scottish volunteers and Leeds Rifles. The Germans attacked Scapa, again. Most of the fleet is at sea or in Belfast. Miami is covering the coast from missile attacks. Percival 1 is returning and Lancelot is leaving on a sweep…”
“Stop.” She picks up a mic, “Lancelot flight, Yankee, fly direct to Charley and orbit.”
NOB, Gunner Hardin’s RIO, “Wilco, Yankee. What’s up?”
“Lancelot, Yankee, we’re getting too predictable.” She looks down at the sergeant, “Continue.”
“Sixteen new German fighters flew into Ouston escorting transports. We’ve lost another radar plane over the Irish Sea. Battleship Division 5 reports on station. What’s left of the British Mobile Division, Canadian 1st Armored Brigade, the US 1st and 2nd Armored Division, 3rd and 9th Infantry Division, are all fighting a rear-guard retreat to London. 1st Armored Recon Battalion is attacking east from Manchester. We have indications the Germans are pulling units from the main attack to respond. Patton ordered them to run through the countryside ‘shooting and scooting,’ ma’am. His words. We have reports of Germans in Birmingham. Our A-10s have reported the destruction of more than one thousand tanks.”
“Do we have an estimate of what they have left?”
“Not at this time, Commodore.”
Andrews walks in, ‘I heard.”
She nods, “Warthogs report one thousand kills. Could you find out how many tanks the Germans have left?”
“I’ll share that info with Eisenhower’s staff and ask. Here’s your mail.”