by Aeryn Leigh
Skippy howled as if possessed by demons.
"Close your eyes Amelia," screamed Ella, racing towards the bombers and a gargantuan storm approaching from the other far side, like in a God's vice. The machine-gun and cannon fire swarmed around them, dodging the best she could.
Amelia began to, but the sight before her too majestic in its beauty made them open wide. "Mummy!" she yelled. "What is that?" There were forms in the clouds, figures with wings. “Can you see them? There!”
“See what?” yelled Ella. “There’s nothing but storm,” she shouted, throwing the fighter into a half-barrel roll as glowing orange tennis balls shot by, the FW-190’s 20mm cannon fire barely missing.
Amelia began to reply, but Zia screeched in her lap, it's hair on end. The cat scratched Amelia's forearms, claws embedded.
Colonel Grieg didn't even see the storm in his peripheral vision, focused with cold intent on Ella's destruction in his gun-sights.
Got her.
He fired the hopeful killing blow, his fighter shuddering with cannon recoil.
Lucius watched the rolling wall of storm and thunder come from nowhere. It reached up into the heavens, blotting out everything behind it. He turned away, muscles straining, and Jimmy started to signal the Lancaster but then, the storm-front swallowed the four aircraft whole, like a great white whale dragging Ahab down to hell.
Chapter Twenty-Four
Going Down
"Pull the ring Amelia, pull the ring in front of you." Her mother’s voice shouted to her in the mist. Amelia leant as far forward as possible, trying to see past the canvas bag. Amelia could barely reach the ejection ring she now saw down in front of her. The dying throes of the Me-262 flung her small frame about like when Zia grabbed a mouse and flung it airborne — viciously.
She tried again for the handle. "Grab it, grab it," she said to herself. Small fingers grasped on, then lost grip. Then found it again – and pulled.
There was a loud bang, but it seemed small to Amelia in the cacophony of sounds and, as if smote from below, she shot up. Her seat, her canvas bag, a screaming in terror Amelia — all exploded up into the grey sky. Amelia didn't see much more after that point; her eyes so tightly shut they watered. The jet sounds faded and then she felt a whoosh as the parachute deployed, then jerked as its cargo slowed its fall.
She dared open one eye.
She was alone.
The fighter was nowhere she could see. "Mummy!" she screamed, "Mummy!" The grey cloud swirled around her, and she rocked back and forth, like on a swing at a playground, before the war. Just her, the air rushing past, and now, the frantic meowing of Zia in the bag on her lap. Amelia had never felt so alone in her entire life. Something shot past. And again. And again. Branches reaching out, brown skeleton bones from the mist, and then the seat slammed into the ground.
The big Avro Lancaster fought like the devil in Laurie's hands. The last remaining engine spluttered, and surged, lost power, then kicked on, then became steadier while still mortally sick. Hade's Express was going down, and these things were not exactly a glider. Thirty tons of metal, wood, glass, fuel, high explosive, canine and man were falling like a fat kangaroo flapping furiously. The dials on what remained of the instrumentation dash were all spinning, or blinking.
"What the hell was that?" yelled Andrew. “Sir?”
Squadron Leader John didn't respond at first. He couldn't see shit through the grey clouds in front of him that poured through the bullet, flak, and cannon-fire holes in the fuselage and canopy all around them. He could feel that the plane was the right way up, that they were not in a death spiral, or a flat spin. They sure as hell were not upside down. "Andrew," he said, trying to inject as much calm as possible into his voice, for both their sake and his own failing sanity. The altitude meter was falling, spinning like a child's toy, and then winding back up, as if in two minds. He continued. "Get that landing gear down. And take Bear down with you." The red warning blinked on the retractable landing hydraulics. Andrew climbed out of the co-pilots seat and went down below.
So today was going to be the day he died. Finally. It had taken so bloody long.
Laurie entered a moment of calm detachment. He watched his body strain at the controls, heard the roar of the wind, the static in the headphones, the sounds of the crew furiously yelling and cursing at each other, in no logical order.
He blinked, finally at peace, in the grey.
Then opened his eyes to blue.
Blue sky, and a great big motherfucking green and yellow plain rushing up to meet them below.
Bastard. Bastard. Bastard. Bastard.
He pulled up on the yoke with every sinew and muscle and slowly by degrees the bomber's nose started to level out.
"Nine o'clock everybody. They made it too!" yelled Mick, the B-17 almost five hundred feet below them and the same distance over to their right.
Laurie spared a quick glance over. The Damage Inc.'s co-pilot gesticulated wildly to the middle of their bomber, the green field now only five thousand feet below.
Yeah, yeah, the undercarriage.
"Gentlemen, bail out those who can, otherwise I am going to try and land her."
Down in the Lancaster's fuselage, in a very cramped and small space that housed the retractable landing gear, Bear jumped up and down on the crowbar that manually turned the crank to lower the left-side rubber tyre. "You know," he had to yell to make himself heard over the sound of rushing air, "this could be a lot of fun in other circumstances." He gave it another mighty kick. The wheel moved down another couple of inches. "Jumping up and down all day on inflatable tyres. Hmm." Bear reached out, found a better spar to lever his upper body against, and kicked it again.
"I really do worry about you my friend," shouted Andrew, pumping away at the manual ratchet control lever, swapping arms over as each one got tired in turn, and the tyre slowly ground its way down. "Are you sure your head is okay? That was a hell of a big blow you just had."
"Isn't nothing compared to whatever the hell hit us before that hurricane," yelled Bear in reply, and then they both stopped talking to concentrate on the tyre. The tyre was now over half-way out of its cowling, and they could both see green now below them instead of grey. The wheel became easier now, it's mass adding to the cumulative effect of the downward movement, and with a few more turns it locked down with a final reassuring thud.
“Sir,” yelled Andrew, "we are good on the landing gear."
Over on the B-17, Captain Lucius saw the gear on the British Lancaster finally come down. "Boys,” he said over the headset, "prepare for emergency landing. Or bail out now. The safe window is shrinking fast."
Damage Inc. flew as if drunk, whole electrical systems failing, then coming back, then failing again.
Chief Warrant Officer Rob Lee, engineer for the flight, looked at the fuse-board, and the row of red lights. "I don't understand, it should be working." He paused, took out a fuse, looked at it again, then slammed it back in. "C'mon baby girl," he said, "Work." It didn't.
"That field below looks good," said Jimmy. The radio failed. Lucius to his left nodded. The green, grassy field stretched out for a good few miles in all directions, and looked flat. Clouds swallowed mountain tops beyond that.
Where they were, now that's a place to emergency land, Jimmy thought. They both ran through the check-list in their heads, the short, abridged version.
The last engine failed one-hundred feet from the ground, spluttering to silence and left just the wind tearing past, whistling through all the holes and rents in the airframe. The bomber lurched, it's airspeed too low, and stalled. All finesse gone, the two pilots wrestled the plane. They hit the ground.
"Shit," said Thorfinn. The Lancaster now descended horizontal to the great mass of green. The B-17 looked like making it, and then went down hard.
"We're not doing so great ourselves," said Laurie, manhandling the recalcitrant controls, the field rushing up to them. "You bastard, is this all you've got?" He shouted and their f
at flying kangaroo smacked into the earth, bounced once, then didn't bounce no more.
Colonel Grieg, SS Commander, loyal patriot of the Fatherland, smacked his gauntlets hard against his palm. He dangled from his parachute, twenty feet above the forest floor, swaying in the gentle wind. The breeze rich, cold, and wet, blew from the grey mist swirling through the trees. Am I in Norway? he thought. The forest looked familiar, but not, as if somehow transplanted from a child-hood memory of what rainforests looked like. He swung the gauntlets hard against himself.
The pain, is real, so I cannot be dreaming.
He had her, dead to rights, as the Americans would say. Then grey. Lightning striking his fighter, sending it into a flat spin, the engine dead. Colonel Grieg's experience told him that parachuting out would be the most logical choice, so that was what he did. The FW-190 spiralled out of sight into the grey mist below, his body jerked, the parachute opened, a sense of calm descended, and then... stuck in a tree, no branches to reach out to.
The SS dagger gleamed in the soft light, unclasped from its sheath. With a quick prayer, he cut one cord above him, and another, then two more... and fell.
Chapter Twenty-Five
The Sleep of the Innocent
They speared into the storm, the fighter as if a toy in the grey violence of the mist. It reeked of ozone. Ella tried everything she knew. It made no difference. The instrument dials spun down then spun up like crazed kittens playing with a yo-yo, with about as much mercy. The pair of Jumo's stalled. "Eject beautiful — we must eject." Veins throbbed at her temples. She, they, could see nothing but grey mist. Her right hand managed to clasp the canopy release and she pulled.
"Pull the ring Amelia, pull the ring in front of you," she said again, fighting the panic and terror. Why had she done this? She must have been utterly mad to even consider stealing a plane and escaping with her child.
You idiot. You fool. Dummkopf.
They spun. Ella heard the bang and the explosive shot the rear seat up and Amelia into safety. Now her right hand lowered down and pulled the white O-ring in front of her own seat. Nothing. She pulled again. The seat stayed attached to the aircraft, a testament to her folly.
You bastard. You utter bastard.
The right Jumo kicked on. Copper filled her taste-buds, and tears streaked, splatters on the goggles interior lens. The aircraft boosted slightly, she blinked, and the grey mist gave way to a brown and red scrub land, dotted here and there with rapier thin trees, only seven-hundred feet below.
No safe place to put the aircraft down. She lowered the undercarriage, got a green light. This time you work. A strip of land appeared, way too short, but the best option.
Okay. The stricken fighter touched down on the dirt. It caught the right wheel and sunk, spinning the fighter around. The tail section bit into a tree and sheared off, then a wing, and an engine, until, it stopped. Until everything stopped. Her hands fumbled the harness release, she smelled smoke, heard the flames, and tumbled out of the cockpit, limbs hitting metal, and crawled, hands and knees, into the warm red and brown scrub.
She didn't pass out. She just lay there, in a foetal position, and convulsed, shaking, unable to get up, her brain screaming to get up and find Amelia, but her body told her... fuck you.
Her brow furrowed, Amelia told herself that they weren't skeletons, they were branches. I'm a big girl, she thought. She tried to not think about the grey cloud, or the things she saw in it. Or Mummy nowhere she could see her. It meant she was alone. But I'm not alone, she thought, I have Zia. She stroked the cat on her lap, as she sat in the ejected seat, the parachute trailing behind and lifting slightly up off the ground in the wind.
Mummy will be along soon. Mummy had always been there for her, and always would. She's a giant. An adult. Adults know what they are doing. It's why they yell at each other. Trying to do Important Stuff.
Zia jumped off her lap, onto the grass. She sniffed, her tail flicking, her eyes wide open. Amelia looked around. The ejection seat lay on an angle, resting against a log jutting out from a stream at the bottom of a long hill. She could see the skid marks from the seats toboggan ride down behind them. That was fun! Past the stream, the base of a mountain, rising up and up into the clouds that swam lazily by. Amelia gave a great, long yawn. Nice and warm, the sounds of bees buzzing in the meadow around her, she blinked, her eyelids now heavy and slow, blinked once more, and slept the sleep of the innocent child.
The pale blue shimmering form looked at Amelia from the vantage of the tree, high up in the branches. Zia, having decided whatever was out there proved no threat, took advantage of a peaceful nap at long last too. She sat back, then leapt up and curled back on the child's lap after a few circuits. And as fragile and delicate as dew on a summer's morning, the sparkling apparition, seemed to nod what might have been a head, and left.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Two Recalcitrant Nuts
When the godawful sounds died away, leaving just clicks and dings as overstressed metal cooled down, Andrew looked at Thorfinn and stopped, his words fading away. The bugger still smiled. The metal rod transfixing his thigh gleamed black and red in the half-light of the fuselage.
"Ah, think I'm stuck mate," said Thorfinn, blinking hard. "But hey, the bomb didn't go boom!" He chuckled, and flicked any switches within reach to off.
"You're in the initial stages of shock," said Andrew. And then, because he couldn't resist, bad dad jokes virulent in his genes, added, "don't go anywhere." He looked behind. The fuselage lay crumpled, it's back broken. Where the emergency hatch should be now a massive torn hole let light in. "Shout out those who can," he yelled. He heard Mick and James respond. Bear groaned, sitting upright, looking at him. But not the Old Man. Andrew saw Skippy stir, buried under woollen blankets, the flight suit and assorted detritus, now poking her head out and giving a great, big yawn. "Good girl," he said. “Sir?” No response.
Andrew weaved between the broken supports, and found him slumped in the pilot's chair. “Laurie,” he said, then again but louder. “Sir?” His finger found a pulse.
"Christ my legs," said Mick behind him, stretching. "Good thing I'm so short. What a bastard of a night." He saw Thorf. "Shit mate, what happened to your leg?"
"Help me get Laurie out," said Andrew. "He's unconscious. We'll come back for Thorf." He climbed the flight deck steps, and looked back. "James, stay with Thorfinn.”
"No worries," said Mick.
Together they lifted him out of the seat, and down into the main fuselage. Bear, who'd recovered fast, jumped out the exit and landed on the green, knee-high grass. Skippy threaded the forest of legs crowded around the exit and with an effortless bound now too stood on the soft grass.
"Pass him down," said Bear, reaching up, as the other two got to the exit and propped up Laurie. They got him out, knocking his head on the way out in miscommunication.
"Shit!" said Mick aloud. All three carried him a short-distance from the wreckage, and laid him down in the soft grass, the dog licking his face.
"Where the bloody hell are we?" said Mick, rubbing Skippy's head. "Air smells good though." He knelt, plucked a stalk. By the Sun's position, he thought it about just after sunrise, as the two walked back.
Andrew, James, and Bear surrounded Thorf in the cramped fuselage.
"The underside of the rod is still bolted to the frame. We could unbolt it, get him out, then deal with the rod outside," said Bear, his head underneath the seat.
"I'll get the toolkit," said James, heading to the rear.
"It'll be a three-eighths spanner," said Thorfinn.
The two recalcitrant nuts, helped by James's swearing, Thorfy's commentary, Bear's anecdotes and Andrew's ruminations were at last unbolted. With care James and Bear picked Thorfinn up. This time, no heads were bumped on the way out of the bomber, and the whole crew stood, sat, or lay together on the great, grassy plain, four-legged individuals included.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Search Parties
&
nbsp; "I see them Lucius," said Daniel. He stood on the tailplane, the highest vantage point there was, which looked over the long furrow the bomber had left in its less than graceful landing, and the plain which encircled them edged with mountains. He peered again through his telescope.
"See who?" said Lucius from below. He helped Griffin pass supplies out of the bomber to the makeshift camp underneath the right wing, the rest of the crew making a bucket chain. The body of Horace King lay covered next to the right wheel. "The Lancaster or the crew?"
"Both. The Lancaster, Captain, is to our south-west, 'bout one hours walk," said Daniel. "I see three of our parachutes, two men standing, one is motionless, to the south, half-hour away." He rotated around in a half-full circle, anti-clockwise, one hand holding on to a cannon hole in the rudder for support. Daniel stopped and leaned forward, adjusting the telescope. "And something else to our north, looks like a German parachute maybe. I cannot see it clearly. Say forty-five minutes maybe"
"Ok everybody," said Lucius, "listen up. This is how we're going to do this." The daisy chain stopped. "You all have compasses in your emergency kits, you know how to use them. Daniel and Eugene, take some rations and supplies and find our three bailers to the south. Bring them back here. Rob and Jimmy, head to the Brits south-west and offer whatever support you can." Jimmy nodded. "And Griffin," he said to the man mountain next to him, "you're with me." Griffin smiled.
"We goin' hunting Captain?” said Griffin. He put down the large ammunition crate with one hand. "Can I take Betty?"