Bomber

by Paul Dowswell

  As they got ready for bed, John tried to lighten the mood. ‘Tell you what, boys, when all this is over, I’ll cook you all a coq au vin at the fancy restaurant I’m gonna be workin’ in.’

  ‘After the garbage they give us in the chow hall, we’re gonna be ready for it,’ said Dalinsky.

  Corrales had come in from the washroom, carrying a towel under his arm. ‘Hey, Hill – don’t talk crap. You’re Irish, ain’tcha? They have the worst food in the world, apart from the Limeys!’

  John smiled. ‘Bet you I cook a better chilli than your mama!’

  ‘Hill, everyone cooks a better chilli than my mama.’

  But Harry was not in the mood to join in the joshing with his buddies. As he tried to fall asleep he kept thinking about what John had said about parachuting down. You’d have an uncertain future in the hands of the Krauts. But ‘uncertain’ was better than dead. Dead was never having another conversation with your loved ones and friends, never seeing another sunset … He’d understood that when David had died.

  * * *

  As their fourth weekend at Kirkstead approached, Holberg told them all to rest on the forthcoming Sunday because that evening they would be going on a night-flying exercise.

  It was overcast with a definite chill in the air, the sort of day that held the promise of dreary autumn. Harry decided that was a day he would write home.

  As he sat staring at the blank sheet of paper before him he couldn’t quite believe the situation he found himself in – he couldn’t guarantee he would even see his eighteenth birthday that October, never mind the coming Christmas.

  He knew he couldn’t write these things in a letter to his mom and dad. What would they think if he told them he was convinced he would be killed in the next few weeks? They were worried enough about him going off to fight already. He also knew that the crew’s letters all went through the communications officer and were all read and censored.

  He picked up a pencil and began to write.

  Dear Mom and Dad,

  You wouldn’t believe what happened the other week … we all went down to this pretty little village straight out of the movies to a rummage sale and I bought you a couple of cute little treasures, which I look forward to giving to you.

  Even as he wrote it he felt a twinge of unease. Wasn’t that tempting fate?

  He rubbed out I look forward to giving to you and wrote will look good on the fireplace, then racked his brains trying to think of something else to say …

  This nice old lady called Mrs Gooding took me under her wing and helped me out with the Limey money. Then she took me and John Hill back to her house for cake and tea. We met her granddaughter Tilly, who is staying with her for the duration of the war. She was really sweet.

  They’re not all sweet though, the English. If they fight Hitler as fiercely as their old ladies judge their cake baking contests, then we’re going to win this war easy!

  Please don’t worry about me. My crew are all really good buddies and I feel safe up there in the sky in our Flying Fortress.

  Every day brings new excitement and amazing experiences. We’re all looking forward to having a chance to get back at Hitler. I’m taking everything one day at a time, wondering what tomorrow will have in store.

  Your loving son

  Harry

  He was quite pleased with that. He hoped he’d make them smile and stop them worrying about him for a brief time at least. He knew that as their only remaining son they must be terrified of losing him too.

  Harry had always felt guilty about his brother and wondered if he had been responsible for his death. The two of them had been out in Manhattan in the high summer of 1941 – on a trip to the Museum of Natural History. It had been a few months before Pearl Harbor. Harry had been fifteen, David sixteen. On the subway there, David had started to feel ill and Harry had cajoled him into staying with him. They had been on their way to see some new exhibits in the Museum’s Akeley Hall of African Mammals. They had both been talking about it all week and Harry didn’t want to miss it.

  Throughout their childhood David had always taken his elder brother duties very seriously so he stuck it out, keeping his younger brother desultory company as Harry admired the herd of elephants and the pride of lions – marvels of modern taxidermy.

  It was only when Harry noticed David had gone white and there was a sickly film of sweat on his forehead that he realised he needed to get his brother back to Brooklyn. By the time they got home, David was feeling dizzy and having trouble standing up. Harry was beginning to feel sick too, but he didn’t mention it. He was feeling bad about the way he had behaved.

  The Friedmans had taken their elder son to the Beth-El Hospital and when they got back Harry was delirious with a fever. He was taken in too. Harry and his brother were among the first casualties of the 1941 polio epidemic.

  No one really understood how it was transmitted. Was it touch, was it airborne in the breath or a sneeze, or was it something unknown? The hot weather seemed to stir it up and every few years the summer months would be blighted by an awful dread as the disease scythed through the children and teenagers of the area.

  Its effects were completely unpredictable too. The great strapping athlete who played in the school football team would die in a couple of days; the delicate boy who was always ill would shrug it off with barely a scar. Sometimes polio left you with withered legs that could no longer support your weight. Some were left paralysed, or brain damaged. Sometimes you had to spend the rest of your life in an iron lung, when the disease stopped the muscles that made you breathe from working.

  Harry had been one of those polio victims who’d been unmarked by the disease once it had worked its way through him. David had died. Harry had never told his parents he’d persuaded his brother to stay at the museum. And ever since he’d wondered whether they could have saved David if he’d got to hospital a few hours earlier.

  That was the thing that made him volunteer for the air force. It was to make amends for that. If God wanted to punish him, then He would have a perfect opportunity.

  That afternoon a fresh breeze blew in from the North Sea and the sun came out. Harry walked to the airbase perimeter and stared through the wire fence over a late crop of golden barley. He wanted to reach out and touch it as it rolled and rippled in the wind. He loved the way you could see the wind when you were watching a field of crops or wild grass. The chimes of Saint Mary’s, the local village church, drifted over the field and he was seized by a painful awareness of the passing of time and his own little place in the world. Soon the crew of the Macey May would find their names on the combat roster. Who knew what would happen then?

  CHAPTER 5

  September 12th, 1943

  That evening, as they assembled for a final inspection on the concrete in front of their B-17, Holberg outlined their flight plan.

  ‘We’re flying north-west to Birmingham, then over the Pennines and up to Edinburgh, then we have a long trail back over the North Sea. We’ll be making our way up to a final height of twenty-five thousand feet so you’ll be on oxygen. We’ll stay up there until the final hour, when we’ll descend to nine thousand and you’ll be able to breathe without your masks. We should be home about 2.30 a.m.’

  The Macey May took off just as the first hint of dusk began to colour the edge of the sky. Ten minutes into the flight, Harry squeezed into his ball turret, from where he had a wonderful view of an English autumn evening. Flying over a network of waterways in Norfolk he saw a painted canal boat making its leisurely passage east, a thin stream of white smoke trailing behind it. Harry considered for a moment whether he’d rather swap places with the boatman. No, he decided boldly. For all the dangers he faced, who could imagine seeing the things he was seeing?

  There on the underside of the ascending B-17 he felt invincible. As they headed north, the shadows crept across the fields and he peered in wonder until they were too high to distinguish such detail on the ground. Holberg’s voice came over the
interphone: ‘Beautiful, isn’t it? But don’t get distracted, you gunners. There’s always the chance the Krauts will have some random patrols up here.’

  By now night was almost upon them. After it got dark, if there were Nazi night fighters to contend with, they would not know they were there until the Macey May shook with the impact of cannon shells.

  After half an hour they flew over a great urban conglomeration, just visible through the gloom. The city was observing the blackout well enough, and when it got properly dark it would be almost invisible from a height. ‘We’re just flying over Birmingham,’ a voice came through his headphones. It was Warren Cain, the navigator. He had a busy night ahead of him, trying to maintain a sense of where they were, with nothing more than the stars, dead reckoning and radio-positioning signals to help him.

  A great flash of light burst then faded below. ‘Bomb explosion on the ground, three o’ clock,’ said Harry.

  Stearley replied. ‘Birmingham’s a big industrial town – lots of iron and steel down there – just like Birmingham in Alabama. That’ll be a blast furnace, not a bomb.’

  Sure enough, there were several more bright bursts of light on the ground, as they headed over the great industrial belt to the north of Birmingham. Then they were out above open countryside again and there was nothing to be seen at all.

  After an hour’s flying Harry was getting cold and stiff in his cramped little perch in spite of his heated suit. He pressed his communication button and asked Holberg if he could come back into the aircraft for a brief period.

  ‘No,’ came the terse reply. ‘Wait until it gets properly dark. I want you gunners on full alert. We all heard what happened to those guys over Molesworth.’

  A few days ago, a flight of B-24 Liberators had been coming back from a raid at dusk when they were pounced by German night fighters. They had their landing lights on, and the runway lights were also switched on. It had been a massacre.

  Twenty minutes later, Holberg’s voice came over the interphone. ‘OK, Friedman, you can come out for a few minutes. Go help Lieutenant Cain. See if you can get a position with the sextant.’

  Harry squeezed out and made his unsteady way past the radio operator’s compartment, the bomb bay catwalk, the pilots’ cabin and finally to the bombardier and navigator’s station, with its great Plexiglas nose cone, at the front of the plane.

  Holberg was keen for his crew to widen their experience and had encouraged Harry to try his hand at navigation after Harry had told him he was a straight A math student. Harry realised that Holberg had asked him because he wanted his men to be able to do anything on the plane in case there was an emergency. If Cain was killed in their forward position, Holberg would need another navigator to plot a route home.

  Harry had quickly got the hang of it. Plotting your position by the stars was something mariners had been doing since the dawn of history. And here they were now in the most technologically advanced aircraft, practising those same techniques – sextant pointing to the stars, getting their bearings in a manner invented by the ancient Greeks.

  Holberg squeezed down into the nose.

  ‘We should be over Edinburgh in about an hour,’ Cain told the captain when he noticed he was standing behind them.

  Holberg put a hand on Harry’s shoulder. ‘Back to your turret now, Sergeant. You’re going to have to get used to long stretches in there. When we’re over enemy territory, we’ll have to be combat-ready for hours.’

  Harry knew Holberg was right. Their final training would be over in a matter of days. They could be in combat by the end of the week. Then he would be living a life where you could not expect to survive from one day to the next.

  The rest of the flight to Scotland was uneventful and they arrived over Edinburgh just after midnight. Harry could see the whole of a great estuary by the city illuminated in the moonlight. ‘Firth of Forth down below,’ said Cain over the interphone.

  Once past the Firth, the B-17 began to bank as it took a leisurely turn through 180 degrees towards the south. Harry peered through the gloom to the dark city below. A big rock loomed large in the middle and he could see elegant curving streets and squares.

  Cain’s voice came over the interphone with navigation instructions. ‘South by south-east …’ This was the course intended to take them over the sea. He sounded utterly relaxed. Cain had been a surveyor before he joined the Eighth Air Force and Harry found it difficult to imagine him doing such a dry job. He was a friendly guy and he never pulled rank on the non-coms. Harry was struck by how much he liked him.

  Once over the water, the weather abruptly changed and the ride got bumpier.

  ‘We’re just catching the end of a storm front here,’ announced Holberg over the interphone.

  Skaggs came over. ‘Weather report says it’s heading north, so we shouldn’t have to put up with this turbulence much longer.’

  Harry had flown enough to not mind a bit of turbulence. When he’d first been up in a B-17, the shaking and rattling during a bad storm had frightened the pants off him. He kept thinking the wings would fall off or the plane would break up in mid-air. Holberg had told them the Fortress was immensely sturdy and he was even sure he could even fly the thing upside down if he had to.

  Skaggs’s radio report on the weather had been wrong. The storm they flew through did not let up and the aircraft continued to shake and jolt violently. This was the worst storm any of them had been in. The next hour was marked by increasingly tense exchanges over the interphone between Holberg, Stearley and Cain.

  A dull thud shook the fuselage as a bright flash passed through the aircraft.

  ‘We’ve been hit,’ called Skaggs over the interphone.

  ‘Krauts can’t be out in this?’ screamed John in disbelief.

  Holberg cut in. ‘Anyone see anything?’

  There was silence.

  ‘OK, report.’

  The crew called out their names, working from nose to tail. Harry listened intently. They were all there. No one had been hit.

  ‘Well, that’s something,’ said Holberg. ‘I think we were struck by lightning.’ There was a pause, then Harry heard him say, ‘Hey, look at that, Lieutenant. The directional giro has gone haywire.’

  Then he said, ‘We’re going to climb to rise above this turbulence. Cain, I think we need another fix on our position. Check it out as soon as we break through the clouds.’

  Harry thought Cain would be hurt that Holberg was clearly questioning his directions. But his instant response on the interphone sounded like he was in a really good mood.

  ‘Wilco, Captain. Those stars are sure gonna look pretty after all this.’

  Harry, isolated from the crew in his turret, was startled by loud crashes above him. ‘It’s OK, guys,’ said Skaggs. ‘Nothing to worry about. That was just a bit of stored equipment falling out of its locker.’

  Holberg cut in. ‘We’ll be up at twenty-five thousand feet in the next ten minutes, and that should give us a smoother flight.’

  When they did level out, the engines stopped screaming and clawing for height and settled into their deep familiar drone. The whole sky below was covered in cloud. It looked beautiful in the moonlight – like a fluffy white sea. Occasionally lightning would spark beneath the clouds, giving them an eerie glow.

  The next ten minutes passed in silence until Harry realised he had accidentally unplugged his headphone socket. When he patched it back in he was alarmed to hear Cain giving increasingly confusing directions to Holberg.

  The captain was unable to hide his impatience. ‘Warren, take another reading from the astrodome for God’s sake. See if you can establish a more accurate position.’

  A few minutes later, Cain’s voice crackled in Harry’s ears again. ‘Current estimate: landfall over Scarborough approximately twenty minutes.’

  ‘OK, Lieutenant Cain,’ said Holberg, trying to sound calm and casual. ‘Attention, Macey May,’ he continued, ‘it’s looking calmer down there so we’ll take her down
to five thousand feet and check our bearings.’

  As they began their slow descent, Harry’s ears popped until he swallowed. Soon the glowing cloud tops were just below them. It seemed magical to him, slung beneath the B-17, to suddenly start skimming the clouds’ surface but not feel a thing. If he could have stuck his feet over the side of his turret, he could have dipped them in, like a sailor in a little boat, trailing his feet in a river.

  Now the Macey May was enveloped in cloud and darkness was complete. It was very unsettling, not being able to see a thing all around. A few minutes later they were out the other side and Holberg was on the interphone again. ‘Hey, Friedman, any landmarks, towns or cities, church steeples, rivers? We should definitely be over the east coast by now.’

  ‘It’s a complete blank, Captain,’ said Harry. ‘Cloud must be blocking all moonlight. Blackout below is total.’

  ‘We’ll take her further down. Friedman, keep your eyes on the ground – shout if you see any hills, trees, whatever.’

  They descended some more. Holberg kept asking, every few minutes. He was obviously getting concerned. ‘Friedman, you awake down there? We’re at one thousand feet now, going down to five hundred. Shout the second you see anything.’

  Harry felt indignant. He was straining to see anything at all in the darkness. He was feeling especially vulnerable in his ball turret and wanted to ask Holberg if he could get back in the plane. If they hit the ground, he would be the first to know about it – in the split second before he was mangled to death. But no one could see the ground better than him, and he knew Holberg would order him to remain at his station.

  Harry continued to slowly rotate his turret 360 degrees around its axis, tilting it almost 90 degrees so he could look straight down. It was tiring hanging from his straps as gravity pulled on him. Then he levelled the turret to take in the wider horizon. Perhaps ten miles to the east, Harry spotted a shaft of moonlight.