by Diane Moody
“Who knows, Franconi,” Shorty added, setting his tray next to the Italian, “maybe it’ll make a man out of you yet. And not a minute too soon, sweetheart!”
The radio operator pealed back the day old bread for a good look at the slimly calf liver. “A fine welcome to the 390th, that’s all I’ve got to say.”
Half an hour later, the enlisted men were taken to their Quonset huts, and the officers were taken to an empty officers’ quarters by a corporal. “This will be your home, gentlemen.”
The accommodations weren’t fancy, but they’d have to do. He noticed some glowing coals in the small stove at the center of the room and another toward the opposite end of the hut. The room was only slightly less cold than the outdoors, which was miserable. He remembered layering up with all his clothes to sleep back in Wichita Falls, but he had a feeling the stoves wouldn’t help much in these frigid English temperatures.
The corporal continued his instructions, pointing directions as he spoke. “Latrine is half a block to the east that way, and the cleansing center is just beyond that on your right.”
“Cleansing center?” Danny asked.
“Yes, sir. That’s where the showers are. The ablution center—that’s where you can shave or wash out socks or whatever—that’s behind the cleansing center. But you might want to wait until morning to find those. You’ll be given a tour first thing after breakfast. Meanwhile, you can stow your belongings in those lockers there.”
Danny noticed the long shelf that ran along the side of the wall of the Nissen, where he assumed he could put some of his belongings. Beneath it, a suspended rod provided a place to hang up his uniform. He would stash the rest of his gear in the footlocker provided below.
“Kind of big for just the four of us, isn’t it?” Anderson asked as he dropped his duffel on a bed. “Where’s everybody else?”
The corporal made his way back to the door. “The previous occupants were shot down in the Merseburg raid on 30 November. No survivors. Welcome to the 390th, gentlemen.”
36
December 1944
Framlingham, England
It was so strange waking up and realizing once again I wasn’t in America anymore—though I use the term “waking up” rather loosely. I’m going to have to find a way to make this so-called bed more comfortable. The cross-bar beneath my mattress hits me right at the hip. No way to get comfortable. I finally got up and stuffed some of my dirty clothes up over that bar. But that was nothing compared to the cold. Once the fire went out in the stove, there was no way to get warm. I think I finally just shivered myself to sleep around 3:00 this morning.
After we cleaned up, we made the long, muddy walk over to the Officers Mess for breakfast. I couldn’t stomach powdered eggs this morning so I took some black bread and “toasted” it on the tent oven. I covered it with butter and jam and washed it down with several mugs of coffee. It would have to do.
When we finished eating, we were given a tour of the base. In daylight, we could finally see our surroundings. The base is set in a patchwork of fields and densely wooded areas located about seventeen miles northeast of Ipswich, England, and just ten miles from the coast of the North Sea. We were told the entire Eighth Air Force is based in a 40x80 mile strip that stretches north/northeast of London. Like most of the 42 bases of the Eighth Air Force, ours was built in the heart of English farmland. Rumor has it the neighboring farmers had kept their distance when the Americans first set up bases here, offering a cold shoulder to the Yanks for waiting so long to engage in this long-suffering war. They were often heard to say, “The trouble with Yanks is, they’re overpaid, oversexed, and over here.” But as time passed, I understand they’ve become more friendly, most likely because of the many overtures made to them—Christmas parties, concerts by visiting celebrities, and the generous gifts offered by our guys at a time of prolonged rationing here.
Like most bases over here, the living areas of each squadron are spaced far apart to lower the risk of a complete wipeout should the enemy send a bombing raid over here. I suppose I should feel comforted by that thought? The three runways form a triangle around which the rest of the base lies.
Each of the four squadrons here has its own site area which is actually nothing more than a quarter-mile stretch of road lined with Nissen huts. “Anderson’s Crew,” as we are now known, is situated in Site 3, about a half mile from the Communal Site which houses the mess halls, the Officers’ Club, and the Red Cross Aero Club for the enlisted men. On the perimeter of the base, we saw the ammunition area, the bomb drop, sick quarters, sub depots, and a huge area that houses the technical site. They also took us to the hut where the parachutes are maintained. Watching guys pack those chutes gave me the willies. When you fly, it’s inevitable, I suppose—needing one of those. But I wouldn’t mind at all fulfilling my duty over here without ever needing one.
Each squadron’s site includes its Squadron Headquarters, an Orderly Room, and the living quarters for officers and enlisted men, as well as the latrine and the “cleansing” and “ablution” areas. (You’ve got to love the Brits and the interesting words they come up with.) All in all, it’s pretty rustic but for now, it’s home.
Over the next few weeks, Danny did his best to get used to the living conditions at the base in Framlingham. The cold, miserable weather didn’t help the flying conditions for their numerous practice runs. Compared to previous training, they were acutely aware of the fact that this was serious combat training. Now they were learning how to operate as part of a Squadron and Group. The elaborate, highly choreographed formation flying had required hours of grueling practice back in the states. Now, as they rehearsed in the frigid skies above England, they flew in sync with other Fortresses of the 390th. Returning to base, they would fly low over the fields of Framlingham, veering left in sequence as each group landed one by one.
When they weren’t flying, Danny and the other officers participated in constant briefings about the war effort and the 390th’s role in it. The Allies continued to make progress in the Continent (Europe), but the job was far from completion. With its incredible success of daylight bombing raids, the Eighth Air Force had given the Allies a much-needed boost to defeat the German Luftwaffe. But plenty of targets deep in Germany—Nazi refineries, munitions and armament plants, marshaling yards, rail lines and shipyards—continued to dominate the daily mission lists of the Eighth Air Force, including the 390th.
One afternoon, following a particularly bothersome briefing, Danny stepped outside of the Squadron Headquarters into the drizzle. As he stopped under the awning to put on his cap, a fellow-officer joined him.
“Makes you wish for those warm summers back home, doesn’t it?
“You can say that again. I used to moan and grown about all those stiff winds off Lake Michigan, but I’ll never complain again after this.”
“From Chicago?”
“Yes, and you?”
“Born and raised in St. Louis. I suppose you could say we were once neighbors.” He held out a gloved hand. “Name’s Charles Janssen, but my friends call me Charlie.”
“Danny McClain,” he said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet you, Charlie.”
As they stepped out into the light rain, Janssen asked, “How many missions, McClain?”
“None, yet. Just got here a little over two weeks ago, but we’re hoping to get the call any day now.”
“Well, you’re not far behind us. My crew arrived here on Thanksgiving Day. Flew our first mission on 11 December. Flew our second mission the next day.”
“Yeah? What was that like?”
“Good to get under our belts, that’s for sure. I couldn’t stop shaking for hours after we got back to base after that first one. I’ve flown in all kinds of weather, in all kinds of planes, even flew through a monster electrical storm one night back at Las Vegas. But I’m here to tell you, that’s all kid stuff compared to this.”
“I keep hearing that. Hey, I’m heading over to the Officers’ Clu
b. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”
“Sure thing,” Janssen said as he turned toward the Club. “But we all got home in one piece, so I’m thankful for that.”
They ordered coffee and found a couple of leather chairs by the fireplace. “What was the worst part of it?” Danny asked. “What do I need to know that they haven’t told us yet?”
Janssen took a sip of the hot brew. “Everything they tell you about the flak is true—times ten.” He shook his head, looking into the glow of the fire. “What a nightmare. I’ll take a fighter any day compared to that stuff.”
“Did you encounter fighters as well?”
“Did we ever. Our target was Koblenz, Germany. In fact, Koblenz was our target both days. Picked up our first fighters just after we’d crossed the North Sea. Came out of nowhere. Thankfully we had some Little Friends along for the ride. Don’t know what we’d do without those Thunderbolts running cover for us. Watching them swarm all over those Jerries—what a relief.”
Danny leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees, cradling his coffee mug in his hands. “Charlie, how’d you handle the shakes while you were up there? I’m in the right seat and our pilot, Dick Anderson, is the best there is. Still, in the middle of the night, I keep having these dreams about losing it . . . I forget everything I’ve been taught and I just sit there, unable to function. Drives me nuts, those dreams.”
“Well, the good news is, you’re not alone. We all fight the fear, one way or another. And the thing is, I never really panicked or had the shakes up there. Wasn’t til I got back to base. Funny how that happens, y’know?”
“I guess,” Danny answered, not really convinced.
“The hardest part is all this waiting. It gives you too much time to think about all that stuff. Once you get that first mission behind you, it’ll make a world of difference. Like I said, we flew our second mission the very next day, and I wasn’t near as rattled on that one.”
“Good to know.”
Janssen set his mug on the side table. “So tell me, which is it, McClain—Cubs or White Sox?”
“What kind of choice is that?” Danny laughed. “The only team in Chicago, of course—the Cubs!”
“Yeah? We’re a two-team baseball town as well.” He paused, scratching the back of his head. “Remind me again—who won the World Series this year? Was it St. Louis? Or was it St. Louis?”
“Is this where I’m supposed to chuckle?” Danny teased.
Charlie threw his head back, laughing. “Yes, I believe it is. McClain, I have a feeling you and I are gonna be good friends.”
37
22 December 1944
Framlingham, England
Charlie Janssen was right. The waiting was about to get the best of Danny McClain. The abysmal weather conditions had caused numerous missions to be aborted which set most everyone on base on edge. At this rate, he wondered if they’d ever get off the ground again.
On his way back to his quarters after lunch, Danny dug his gloved hands deep into the pockets of his leather flight jacket. He chewed his gum aggressively, wishing he could shake the worrisome shadow hanging over him. He hadn’t been this edgy since his last few days at Northwestern. He’d tried to shake it off, this nagging feeling just beneath the surface, but it wouldn’t let him go.
Plus, something was going on with his pilot. Dick Anderson had grown increasingly quiet, which concerned Danny more than he cared to admit. They bunked in the same quarters, they attended the same briefings, they often ate at the same table in the mess hall. But no matter how hard he tried to make conversation, all he got was the bare minimum when he responded. Sure, they were all cranky from being grounded so long. But why weren’t they communicating? Danny told himself it was just Dick’s way. Funny, I used to hear Mom say the same thing about Dad’s moods. Thankfully, Dick’s nothing like Dad. Then again, there’s nothing in the manual about a pilot and co-pilot having to be friends . . .
“Hey, Danny!” Charlie hollered, waking Danny from his thoughts. “We’re going into town for a while. Come with us.”
He looked up just as his friend and some of his fellow officers poured out of their quarters. “Where you headed?”
“Who knows? C’mon. You got something better to do?”
Danny picked up his pace. “Well, there’s that letter I owe Rita Hayworth, but I suppose it can wait.”
A barrage of teasing and laughter filled the air as he joined them and continued as they loaded a troop truck headed for Framlingham. They huddled as the wind whipped through the back of the truck, its tarp cover doing little to buffet the chilly air. They almost lost Charlie’s navigator when the truck hit a deep hole in the mud-filled road, but no one seemed to mind the bumpy ride. A few miles down the road they passed an enormous castle sitting high on a hill overlooking the town. Danny remembered seeing it from the air on their many practice runs—a massive circle of walls and chimneys, ringed around an empty, vacant area.
“Framlingham Castle, right?” someone asked.
“Right so, right so,” answered a co-pilot named Banks in a pitiful attempt at an English accent. “You see, the castle dates all the way back to the seventh century when it was founded by some Saxon king. But early in the twelfth century, Lord Hugh leBigod built a great and strong castle—”
“By god, I think he built it!” someone quipped.
“As I was saying,” Banks continued, “the strong castle which was later rebuilt by Roger leBigod—”
“By god—another by god?”
“Yes, mate, Roger leBigod, Earl of Norfolk. But the history of the castle doesn’t get really interesting until the reign of Henry the Eighth when—”
“By god, there’s now a Henry?” someone else teased.
“Banks, pipe down, will you?” Charlie shouted. “You’re reminding me of my history teacher back in St. Louis. Although I must say, you’re much better looking than she was.”
“I was only trying to give you chaps a lay of the land where we’ve made our temporary home,” Banks pleaded, still feigning the accent. “We’ve basically butted our way in, leveled their farmhouses and fields, then rumbled their walls and shattered their fine china with the roar of our planes. The least we can do is respect their long and colorful history.”
“Well said! Well said!” they all mocked, shouting and clapping.
“Now stuff a sock in it, Banks!”
As the walls of the castle disappeared in the truck’s cloud of exhaust, the vehicle pulled into the quaint village town of Framlingham. A light snow had just begun to fall. In any other setting, it would be a beautiful place to visit, Danny thought. The steep cobblestone roofs of the shops and homes made for a picturesque setting, even in the wintry weather. People rushed about, their coats wrapped tightly around them, their heads covered against the blustery wind.
All of a sudden the truck lurched to a stop, tossing them all forward.
“I guess this is where we get out,” someone joked.
“Cherry-oh!” Banks teased, hopping down to the soggy road.
“Right this way, gentlemen,” Charlie added, pointing as he jumped down. “Quincy’s Pub is just across the road there.”
Danny shook his head. He’d had a feeling they’d end up in one of the many pubs he’d heard about here. Drinking seemed to be the favorite past time both on and off base, so he wasn’t surprised a trip into town would include a pint or two. Or three.
It struck him as funny that things weren’t really so different back home at Northwestern. Weekends on campus meant fraternity parties, dorm parties, and dance parties. Come to think of it, just about any excuse was good enough for a party. Between work and studies, he’d never been a part of those occasions. Well, except for a couple of dances he and Beverly crashed.
That would be Mrs. Ronnie Wentworth now.
“McClain! Over here!” Charlie called, again snapping Danny out of his thoughts.
He followed the guys through the crowded, smoke-filled room to a rustic tab
le in the corner. A young woman with a white apron tied around her waist approached their table.
“What’ll it be, Yanks?”
“Aye, and aren’t you a lovely sight for sore eyes,” Banks said, this time in a messy Irish brogue. A round of groans cut him off.
“Not again, Banks,” the navigator named Whitlow said, redirecting his attention to the waitress. “Hello, sweetheart. How about you bring us all a couple pints to start.”
“I’d be more than happy to, Yank. But let’s get one thing straight. I’m not your sweetheart. I’m the owner’s daughter. See my Da over there? Yes, that’s him. The one with the shotgun on the wall behind him? So stay as long as you like, drink as much as you can, be don’t be calling me your sweetheart.”
As she turned to go, they all stood and applauded, cheering madly as Whitlow shook his head in defeat.
“Whitlow, how is that you’ve already crashed and burned, and you haven’t flown a mission yet?” a guy named Reid asked.
“You haven’t flown a mission yet?” Danny asked.
“No, we’ve been aborted three times because of this stupid weather,” the rascally kid said. “I’m not on Janssen’s crew. I’m on Feeney’s Crew. We’ve been waiting for weeks. Finally got our call Sunday, and three times they’ve scrubbed our missions before we got off the ground. I’ve gotta tell ya, it’s making me a little crazy.”
“Yeah?” Charlie said. “Well, don’t be messin’ with the owner’s daughter, okay? We came to have fun, not to get our heads blown off.”
The waitress returned with a tray full of dark brews in thick glass steins. She set them down on the table, sloshing foam here and there. “Anything else, gentlemen?”
“Would it be too much to ask your name?” Banks asked, without a trace of any accent.
“Not at all. My name is Sophie.”
Danny opened his mouth, then clamped it shut.