Kitty's War

by Barbara Whitaker

  Swarz patted him on the shoulder. “Sorry, pal. Talk to Barker—when we get to the hardstand.”

  Ted climbed back on the truck, still in shock.

  “Hey, Barker,” Swarz called when they reached the plane. “Come ’ere. Kruger wants to talk to you.”

  The pilot approached. “What is it?”

  “Nobody told Kruger here that the total missions went to thirty.”

  “Yeah. They raised it the week we got here. Boy, were there some pissed off crews.”

  Ted fought to keep down the heavy breakfast he’d eaten. “I was at headquarters, but I didn’t hear anything.” He thought back. He’d been reassigned, went to London and when he came back, he was stuck working with the Red Cross. He must have been away from the action when the order came down.

  “Come on. Finish the check out and get on board.” Barker put his hand on Ted’s shoulder. “At least you don’t have to face eighteen more like we do.”

  Ted nodded. The pilot climbed into the plane. Ted handed him the bag containing the charts he’d gotten at the briefing and swung himself up into the B-17. Although this plane was almost new, a shiny B-17 G, once inside the familiar surroundings greeted him like an old friend. He made his way to the navigator’s position and settled in.

  Barker and Chernoff handled the take off like seasoned veterans. Weather made getting in formation more of a challenge. From Ted’s position he could see straight ahead out through the Plexiglas surrounding the bombardier. Off to his right another bomber loomed within spitting distance. Formations were supposed to be tight and steady. Either Barker or the other pilot was having trouble maintaining his position.

  On his previous missions, Ted had seen his share of midair collisions. He had trusted Rollins and Hopper with his life because he knew them well. They’d trained together, then they flew nineteen missions together. Each man knew what to expect of the other. This was different.

  He didn’t know Barker and Chernoff. True they had flown twelve missions. Were they good or just lucky? Could he trust them and the rest of the crew with his life? He had no choice, not now.

  He forced himself to focus on the charts. He estimated flight time to the target and back would be five and a half hours.

  Chernoff did his routine crew check advising they get on oxygen before they reached their cruising altitude of sixteen thousand feet. Ted adjusted his oxygen mask and cleared it so it wouldn’t freeze up on him. He’d remembered to wear layers of clothing to be able to survive the below zero temperatures.

  Through breaks in the clouds, he saw dozens of ships in the channel below. The invasion force. He wondered how many men would go ashore. How many would die? Milton came to mind.

  He’s down there. On one of those ships. Will he survive?

  Bursts of flack greeted them as they reached the French coast. Little black clouds hung in the sky where the shells exploded, directly ahead in their flight path.

  Sweat beaded on his forehead. Instinctively his hand went to his hip and leg. Memories of pain flashed through his mind. He closed his eyes trying to block the images.

  The plane bounced from a near miss, and Ted fumbled his pencil with his bulky gloves. He’d almost forgotten how to manage pencil and paper in this environment.

  Concentrate, he told himself.

  Out of the flack, the crew settled in. Ted tried to relax.

  Milk run, remember. An easy one for your first time back.

  Chernoff came on the intercom again. “Keep your eyes peeled for fighters.”

  ****

  When Kitty reported for work on June 6th, she immediately sensed something was going on. Men scurried in and out of General Lake’s office. They spoke to each other in subdued but anxious tones.

  She went about her normal routine. She’d worked for General Lake long enough to know he would tell her when he needed her to do something or thought she ought to know.

  Sally arrived with her usual stack of reports. She eyed the activity then leaned down and whispered, “I suppose you’ve heard?”

  Kitty shook her head, then sat very still until the two officers who exited General Lake’s office were out of earshot.

  Leaning close again Sally said the word no one openly spoke of, “Invasion.” She nodded her head to emphasize she knew what she was talking about. “It’s on.”

  A thrill surged through Kitty. Finally, the Allies were invading Europe.

  Another officer approached, his hands filled with manila folders.

  “Got to go,” Sally said brightly. She hurried away.

  Kitty nodded as the man said, “He’s expecting me.”

  She tried to return to her typing, but images of Milton filled her head. She’d seen newsreels of soldiers rushing onto beaches in North Africa and Italy. This time it was France, and her brother was one of the soldiers. Then she remembered that he’d done this before. But she hadn’t. She’d been back home before. It hadn’t been real. This was real.

  She said a silent prayer for him and for all of the men in harm’s way.

  Keep them safe and let us be successful.

  She didn’t see the general for over an hour, not until one of the officers stuck his head out and said, “He wants you.”

  As she entered the office, her eyes immediately went to the map where clusters of pins gathered along the coast of France. She knew without asking that they must represent the invasion.

  General Lake dictated a memo and instructed her to return as soon as she had it typed up. Within minutes she was back staring at the map.

  Did any of the pins represent the First Infantry? Was Milton part of the invasion force as he said he would be? She knew the answer without asking.

  General Lake caught her staring and placed his hand on her shoulder. “Thinking of your young man, are you?”

  She nodded. “Is the First Division there?” she boldly asked.

  “Don’t know. None of that information is available yet.” He patted her shoulder. “Right now we have to concentrate on doing our job.”

  Kitty knew he was right. Yet her stomach knotted, and it took all her concentration to keep her hands from shaking. No one had to tell her how important the invasion was. It had to succeed if there was any hope of defeating Hitler. Her brother was there, on one of those beaches. He could be killed. And if he was, how would she know?

  All she could do was pray and wait.

  Later in the morning when she heard words like “pill box” and “heavy resistance” and references to bombing routes for German reinforcements, she tried to imagine what it must be like for the men on the beaches. She thought of the beach on the Georgia coast where she’d seen ships far out on the horizon. She imagined smaller boats bringing men ashore, soldiers climbing out of the boats in the rough surf and making their way through the water and onto the shore.

  Even for her, they would be easy targets. And all she’d ever shot was Milton’s .22 rifle. He had taught her to shoot at targets he nailed to a tree. Now the Germans were shooting at him. And on the open water and bare sand, even moving, he wouldn’t be that hard to hit, not for men who’d been trained to shoot. She didn’t even want to think about machine guns and artillery shells.

  Thousands of flights were flown that day. Many planes returned to their bases to get more fuel and ammunition, then departed for a second mission. Fighter squadrons flew multiple sorties.

  She prayed for Ted, too. Back with his bomber crews, he would be flying on this day of days, like every other airman who could get aboard a plane.

  Memories of that last day, the day he left, flooded back. He’d come running up the stairs all excited. She’d just gotten up from her desk, on her way to get a file for General Lake, when Ted scooped her into his arms and twirled her around.

  “I’m off,” he’d said. “Assigned to Tate Field.” His infectious grin had made her smile, even though his news upset her.

  “They cleared you?” she’d asked.

  “I guess so. All I know is that I�
�ve got my orders to report right away.” He stood smiling down at her, and for an instant she’d thought he was going to kiss her. But he didn’t. Instead he made a promise.

  “I’ll write you,” he paused and grew serious. “We’ll get together…sometime.” He’d hugged her. And she’d hugged him, breathing in his masculine scent, imprinting the feel if his strong body against hers.

  Then just as quickly as he’d arrived, he was gone, bounding down the stairs and out of her life, again.

  Madge had been furious when she found out. Not only was he gone, but he didn’t tell her ‘good-bye.’ Only Kitty. Madge hadn’t spoken to her since.

  The momentous day went on forever. News was sparse. Everyone was nervous, yet eerily quiet.

  In the late afternoon, the anxiety on some of the faces softened. She heard snatches of conversations outside the general’s office. “Men ashore” and “second wave” and “third wave” and “toe hold.” No one was confident enough to use the word “success,” but confidence grew as reports filtered in.

  General Lake’s enthusiasm finally broke through as reports from bomber missions and fighter sorties confirmed the importance of air power to the success of the invasion. Despite his theory that bombing alone could defeat the Germans, he voiced his commitment to the Air Force’s support of ground troops.

  In the days that followed, she heard stories of heavy fighting. The Allied troops, after landing in an area along the French coast called Normandy, moved off the beaches and slowly gained ground inland. Airborne soldiers, reportedly scattered when they dropped, fought in pockets until relieved by the landing force. The only word used to describe casualties was “heavy.” That meant lots of dead and wounded.

  Kitty prayed almost constantly for Milton’s safety.

  And she worked. Long hours. Whatever was needed. She typed, took shorthand, delivered coffee, emptied ash trays, compiled reports. She even forced herself to visit the wounded in the hospital, despite her dread of such places. It was all part of her job, she told herself. Part of what she was supposed to do to help win the war.

  ****

  In the dark, with rain drizzling, Kitty slogged along the muddy path to the humid shelter of the Nissen hut that served as home. Exhaustion from the past week of long days, hours in meetings and at the typewriter, weighed heavily on her shoulders. Supper of cold sandwiches and lukewarm tea didn’t help.

  She shouldn’t complain. Milton was somewhere in Normandy, and she bet he would love to have a couple of sandwiches and some lukewarm tea. She prayed he had something to eat and he wasn’t sitting out in the rain.

  When she got to the hut, most of the girls were getting ready for bed. Showered, clothes ironed and laid out for the next day, they quietly read and wrote letters or painted nails and curled hair.

  At her bunk she sank down on the thin mattress, pulled off her shoes, and peeled the damp stockings from her legs. An unfamiliar girl stood by Madge’s bed.

  She gathered up a friendly smile. “Hi. I’m Kitty.”

  The girl looked at her kind of funny, then smiled and stuck out her hand. “I’m Charlotte. Most everybody calls me Charlie.”

  Kitty shook her hand. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.” She glanced around. “Which bunk is yours?”

  “This one.” She sat on Madge’s bed.

  “But that’s Madge’s…”

  “I know,” the girl interrupted her. “Madge and I swapped.”

  “Swapped? What do you mean?”

  “I guess you’re the one.”

  “The one what?”

  “She wanted to get away from.”

  Kitty gasped in surprise, then quickly caught hold of herself and clamped her jaw tight.

  Control yourself. Don’t let her see that it upsets you.

  She drew a calming breath and glanced around. Sally and Bertie stood nearby watching. Sally whispered something to Bertie before going to her own cot.

  Kitty turned her attention back to Charlie. “I don’t understand. When did this happen?”

  “Oh, she’s been after Captain Weatherby for a week or more. I finally agreed to switch with her. No one else wanted to.” She reached and pulled the blanket back so she could crawl under it. “I figured I could put up with anything.”

  “Thanks,” Kitty murmured sarcastically under her breath.

  What had Madge told her? That she was an ogre? A man thief? It was crazy. She knew Madge was mad and hurt that Ted dumped her in favor of Kitty. Was Madge mad enough to change quarters just to get away from Kitty?

  She sighed in resignation. Ted was gone, transferred back to the bombers. Now Madge had moved to another hut and wouldn’t speak to her. She was too tired to think about it all tonight.

  She considered trudging back out through the rain to the showers but decided it wasn’t worth it. She was bone tired. Her brain was exhausted from dictation and typing. All about the invasion. Men were dying, and Madge was mad over losing her boyfriend. Those men were fighting to save the world. Milton and Ade and all the others on the ground over there fighting the Germans. And Ted. He could be in a bomber somewhere over Europe by morning, in just as much danger.

  Kitty undressed and slipped into bed. She refused to think about Madge. Instead she hoped sleep would swallow her up and obliterate any thoughts of conflict—personal and physical and political.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  June 20, 1944

  Another pre-dawn wake up call. This time the mission was deep into Germany, and the crew he was flying with had only flown three missions. Their first two were flown with other crews to give them some experience and confidence. The third a short flight over the coast of France. Today would be their first long mission on their own.

  For Ted it would be number twenty-three. Seven more and he could go home, if he survived.

  The young pilot, Bill Webber, was cocky to the point of being arrogant. He listened to no one. At the briefing he acted like the flight deep into enemy territory would be a cake walk, like the flights along the French coast. He’d obviously never flown to Berlin or any other heavily defended German city.

  Ted sat back and listened to the younger man’s show of bravado. A pity all the experienced crewmen knew the new pilot was scared to death. They’d all seen the act before. All the bragging to hide the fear. In a way it was pathetic. The bad part was that Ted had to fly with the little prick.

  The co-pilot, Coppacci, was quieter, comfortable letting Webber be the show-off. His demeanor gave Ted a measure of comfort. He just hoped the guy knew how to fly.

  The rest of Webber’s crew seemed okay. Green and scared just like they should be. They all had a long day ahead of them.

  When the bomber stream crossed the Zuiderzee, heavy flack welcomed them to German-held Europe. Webber’s plane, the Blonde Bombshell, flew in the middle of the formation. A position thought to protect new crews until they got the hang of formation flying and fighter attacks. Ted hoped Webber could hold formation through the flack field. A midair collision was just as deadly as the German anti-aircraft fire. And it was a long flight to Germany with lots of flack ahead and almost guaranteed fighter attacks.

  Once out of the flack, Ted watched the sky for fighters. When they came, the fighters would cut through the bomber stream like a hot knife through butter. And every gunner on every B-17 waited and watched.

  To make matters worse, their promised escort hadn’t shown up. He’d flown with no fighter protection before. But Webber’s crew hadn’t. He could tell from their strained comments.

  If the German fighters came, they’d attack the formation head on and scream through the gauntlet of heavily armed B-17s. With thirteen machine guns blasting away from every bomber, you’d think more of their attackers would get shot down. Some would, but most would circle and come at them again and again. Any plane that was hit, that trailed behind, became easy pickin’s for the German vultures.

  Ted strained to see their position in the formation. He could see the plane ahead throu
gh the bombardier’s Plexiglas nose. His view to the right side was partially blocked. Webber’s inconsistent speed made it difficult to maintain visual contact with the ship on the left. He willed the little smart mouth at the controls to keep a tight formation. That and their machine guns were their only protection.

  And then they came. From ahead and above.

  The Blonde Bombshell sat low in the formation, so they were not the first to spot the swarm of specks descending out of the clouds. The warning came when other bombers opened fire. Within seconds the smaller, faster aircraft whizzed toward them, guns blasting.

  Webber’s crew had never seen a fighter attack, had never experienced the terror, the adrenalin. Machine guns blasted from every position as the ME-109s zoomed by.

  Ted fired into the unknown. His limited vision made his gun less effective than the others. Yet every stream of bullets protected them from the experienced fighters who didn’t want to get stung by the beast that spewed lead from every direction.

  Mercifully the fighters disappeared as quickly as they arrived.

  Ted knew why. Flack. So heavy, the sky ahead blackened as the formation approached. They flew straight into the deadly stuff. The fighters stayed out. They would pick up the survivors on the other side, knowing the bombers couldn’t avoid it, not if they made it to the target.

  The excited comments from the crew during the fighter attack faded into terrified moans as the sense of helplessness settled over them. Just sit and wait to be hit, that’s all they could do.

  Ted hated this part the most. The helpless feeling as the ship bounced and bumped its way to the target.

  The bombardier dropped their load when he saw the planes ahead drop theirs. By the time they reached the target, explosions obscured the ground making identification of it impossible.

  “Bombs away,” he called.

  The plane lurched upward as the bombs fell below.

  “Get us out of here,” the bombardier called to Webber.

  “Jesus! Did you see that?”

  “Oh, my God!”

  A one-winged bomber slid by just below Ted’s window. “Watch for chutes,” he ordered.