Rose Under Fire

by Elizabeth E. Wein

  I remember that flight as if I had the map sitting on my lap with the route outlined in china pencil and a great big ‘X Marks the Spot’ over Épernay. That is where I met the flying bomb. Was it aimed at Paris? Was it one last attempt to destroy Paris? It must have been air-launched, but I don’t know where it was heading. It was too far inland to be aimed at London. I think about this a lot . . . Where that bomb was heading. Other than on a collision course with me, I mean.

  I thought it was another plane at first. It looked like another plane. I had a perfectly clear view of it as it came slowly closer and closer, seeming to hover in the same spot just ahead of my wing tip, an unbudging speck in the distant sky like a little black star, or a bug. It didn’t scare me. I assumed it was an Allied plane because I was over Allied territory. So I did exactly what Maddie said she’d done when she saw a flying bomb in the air – I waggled my wings at it. And of course got no response.

  I thought, gee whiz, the pilot must be looking at his map – or blind – or asleep – Or there isn’t any pilot.

  I should have made a steep turn to get out of its way. This is what I dread telling Daddy. That I went after it on purpose.

  I was so sure it was headed for Paris, beautiful Paris. Still intact. And if this bomb hit its target there would be a gigantic crater, broken glass everywhere, dust, summer trees that looked like winter, just like London – I couldn’t stand it.

  I pushed the Spitfire’s nose down and went into a screaming downhill dive to gain speed, and the bomb sped straight on about a hundred feet over me. I glanced up and saw it, huge, in silhouette for a fraction of a second, a black cross of wings and fuselage blotting out the sky. Then I thrust on full power and pulled out of the dive in a climbing turn.

  Then I was chasing it.

  I wasn’t thinking about engine pressure or fuel or anything – I was just hell bent on getting every extra second possible of power and speed out of that Spitfire. And yard by yard, I gained on the bomb.

  I must have been going 400 miles an hour. But it didn’t feel fast. It felt like getting your teeth pulled.

  ‘Come on – come on –’

  I talked to the plane like it was a racehorse. I couldn’t hear a thing with full power; I couldn’t hear the sound of my own voice.

  ‘Come on – nearly there!’

  And then I’d overshot it. Getting the speed right was the hardest thing I have ever done – probably the best flying I have ever done too. I overtook the bomb four times before I found that sweet place on the throttle that let me scream along beside it in the air. And then I got my wing under the bomb’s wing on the first try. I didn’t even touch it. I saw the bomb wobble in the air and I thrust full power on again to get out of its way. Then I looked back over my shoulder and saw the bomb tip down gently, gently into a spin, just like Celia’s Tempest.

  I let out a scream of nerve and fury and exhilaration, and cut the power and set up the Spit for a straight and level cruise, and began to battle the first wave of guilt.

  Do you have ANY IDEA how much fuel you just wasted?

  I didn’t even see the stupid bomb hit the ground – I was so busy trying to re-establish myself in real life. It must be what Superman feels like after racing through the sky after a speeding locomotive and then ten seconds later peering at the world through Clark Kent’s near-sighted glasses.

  How much fuel have I wasted and where the heck am I?

  How much fuel have I wasted and where the heck am I and did I damage the engine?

  I was starting to panic. I knew I had to calm down, so I began to orbit – long, lazy ovals over rolling French crazy-quilt fields and woods. I was too high to see where my bomb hit – or maybe I was already too far away to see it. I knew I had to figure out where I was and how to get to Caen from there. I’d been relay-racing with the bomb for about a quarter of an hour, which meant I was now ironically south-west of Paris, about halfway between Paris and Dijon – that bomb wouldn’t have hit Paris anyway. I thought and scribbled on my map for ten minutes while I circled. I knew that all the time I was circling I was wasting still more fuel, but I needed to get it right.

  I guess Daddy would say I had my head down in the cockpit for too long. He’d say I didn’t keep enough of a lookout. It’s true I didn’t see them coming. But I don’t think I could have done anything about it even if I had.

  I didn’t know what the intercepting planes were. I knew they were German and I could tell they had jet engines, but I didn’t have a clue what kind of plane they were. They were in Luftwaffe camouflage, with black crosses on their fuselages and swastikas on their tailplanes. Their engines hung down from their wings like bombs. I’d never seen anything fly that fast.

  I know now that in German they’re called Schwalben, swallows. They were Messerschmitt Me-262s. Those planes did fly just like a couple of swallows, great big enormous swallows with jet engines strapped under their wings. The first one came at me from below and behind, and the other from above and behind. They corkscrewed around me with their engines roaring and suddenly they were gone, one of them breaking left and the other right – but I was still in my wide, slow orbit and they came screaming back at me, one passing me on each side. It was exactly like watching swallows flying.

  I did two things. I levelled out and headed north-west, straight back towards England as fast as I could go, and I flashed every single light I had – landing lights, nav lights, cockpit floodlights – and I pulled the flares out, something I’ve never, ever done before, to let them know I wasn’t armed. They came at me again and one of them settled on my tail – I could see him over my shoulder as I tried frantically to urge the speed up and flash lights with the same hand. I was so afraid he was going to blast me out of the sky that it took me a while to notice the other one flying calmly ahead of me, deliberately keeping pace with me. He wasn’t aggressive. He just flew along and let me set the speed. He was so close I could see the pilot’s head in the cockpit. After a moment he rocked his wings at me: ‘HI.’

  I let go of the lights and kept my hand on the throttle. I pushed the control column gently from side to side. Light touch, one finger, trained in me from the age of twelve. ‘HI’ yourself.

  God.

  He made a wide, level turn to the left, practically a U-turn, and headed off back in the other direction.

  I actually sobbed aloud with panicked relief, praying that I would never see him again, that I’d never see another Luftwaffe aircraft in my whole life. But then I glanced back over my shoulder and the other guy was still there, stuck to my tail.

  ‘GO AWAY!’ I screamed pointlessly at the sky.

  In about a minute the first guy was back in exactly the same deliberate position ahead of me and to my left, and when he knew I was watching he rocked his wings again.

  And I figured out what he meant: ‘FOLLOW ME.’

  ‘No no no,’ I sobbed at the indifferent sky.

  I knew what I was supposed to do. I was supposed to rock my wings to answer him and let him know I was ready to follow his instructions. But I didn’t. I wasn’t ready to follow his instructions. So I just kept flying stubbornly straight in the direction I was heading and ignored him.

  And the other guy, the one flying behind me, fired at me.

  Actually, he fired into the empty sky above me. Just one burst, a warning shot of automatic cannon fire. He didn’t hit me; I didn’t feel it in the airframe like I felt the hailstorm last summer, but the shock of the sky erupting around me had the same effect as being punched in the stomach. For a moment I couldn’t breathe. My hand forced the throttle automatically, but I couldn’t make the Spit go any faster.

  The pilot in front of me rocked his wings a third time – last warning.

  I was gasping for air now. I didn’t have a choice. I couldn’t outrun them and I couldn’t fight them. So I had to go with them.

  I took a shuddering breath and rocked my own wings again: ‘I’M COMING.’

  The pilot ahead of me made another
long, lazy U-turn. This time I turned after him. The pilot on my rear end followed me around. I could see them wave casually as they passed in the air.

  We lined up in formation flying straight and level in the wrong direction, with me in the middle, one hand shaking on the throttle and one hand shaking on the control column, both feet shaking against the rudder pedals, half-blinded by tears and terror. I tried to imagine the report I’d have to file. Controlled flight into terrain was all I could think of. That’s what they call it when you’re flying in a cloud and you crash into a mountain you didn’t see – controlled flight into terrain.

  We avoided overflying cities. We avoided overflying camps and troops. We flew high over the front and then over the German border, which was marked on my map as the Siegfried Line. We crossed the Rhine north of Mannheim, where my map stopped. But I didn’t. I kept flying, with a pair of Luftwaffe jets escorting me deeper and deeper into Germany.

  I flew with them for 200 miles. They kept taking turns to zip ahead of me and circle back. There was always one of them with me, behind or ahead.

  After the first fifteen minutes, once I got used to the whole nightmare weirdness of what was happening, there wasn’t really anything for me to do except keep the Spitfire pointing in the direction they chose for me, and try to figure out where the heck we were and where the heck we were going. I realised this was the most important thing I could do – exactly what you’d do if you accidentally flew into a cloud. Pay attention to your heading, the time and how fast you’re going, so you can turn around and find your way back.

  It looked so much like Pennsylvania! All fields and farms and woods and rivers, and there at the edge of the map was ‘Mannheim’, which is the name of the nearest town to Conewago Grove – Mannheim is where we always go for our groceries in the summer. But it’s not the same Mannheim. I can’t remember how to convert my indicated airspeed to true airspeed. I’m not being accurate. I am in Germany. I am off the map.

  I reached the point where I started to wonder if I were really still alive. I thought maybe I got killed in my attempt to tip the flying bomb, or when the Swallow shot at me, and now I was in purgatory, doomed to fly forever and ever over fields that looked like Pennsylvania without ever being able to land. The only way to prove I was still alive was to land in a field, or to turn round and fly in the other direction. But if I was still alive, and this was really happening, then the Luftwaffe aircraft on my tail would blast me out of the sky if I tried to get away from them. So I couldn’t risk turning or landing in case I was still alive. I had to keep flying.

  I think it’s taken me about the same amount of time to write this as it took me to fly it. That’s kind of incredible. I am writing at a rate of 170 miles an hour and going nowhere. I’m getting tired now. But my brain is still in the air over Mannheim so I’d better land before I try to sleep again or I’ll be counting the miles and reciting the headings in my dreams.

  I don’t know the name of the aerodrome where they led me. The leader pulled out ahead of me over the runway with his landing gear lowered. He didn’t touch down though; he went screaming away for another circuit. I was so stupid with fear and confusion that I just followed him back up into the sky. The other guy was orbiting above us now, watching the show from 2000 feet.

  They wanted me to land ahead of them, leaving them behind in the sky while I came back to earth all by myself IN GERMANY. I refused to play. They were the only friends I had any more. I was not going to land without them.

  We went round and round the aerodrome. Finally the leader landed. I tried to land behind him, but the turbulence of his horrible jet engines knocked my wings around so much I thought I was going to stall, and by the time I straightened out the runway was behind me and I had to go around AGAIN. I was on my fifth circuit now and I was sick of it.

  Show ’em how to land a plane, Rosie.

  I wish Daddy had seen it. I floated down with one finger on the control column and I had only a third of the runway behind me when I stopped rolling. I didn’t bother to get off the runway. I didn’t want to get out. I didn’t want to look. I rested my forehead on the control panel and waited.

  I can’t stay awake another second. It is getting light.

  Three hours’ sleep. That’s about as good as it gets. I did dream about flying – I guess that’s no surprise. It wasn’t a bad dream. I was over wooded mountains somewhere – it looked like the foothills of the PA Alleghenies, but it could just as easily have been south-western Germany. It was snowing. I wasn’t scared.

  It is a beautiful, beautiful spring morning out there in Paris – my windows are all wide open and the air and sky are wonderful. I woke up because I was cold, sleeping in my birthday suit with no covers. I don’t even try to pull up the covers in my sleep – I just assume there aren’t any. My sleeping brain tells me of course that I am cold. I am always cold, right? Curl up in a ball and try to go back to sleep before the next siren.

  I am so lonesome. I thought I’d want to forget last winter’s hell, but now I am in a panic in case I do forget. So busy remembering that impossible list of Polish prisoners, and the flight times and headings, that the faces of my friends, and their kindness and strength and bravery, are fading into a tangled blur of exhaustion and hunger. I am going to write it all down in order, the best I can do. I think writing helped me to sleep this morning – at least it tired me out so much I did sleep. I have really missed being able to write things down. I never thought of writing as a luxury or a privilege. But of course it is. An unalienable right.

  So there I was, on the ground in Germany at the unknown airfield, clenching my hands shut for the first time in two hours and waiting for the storm to break.

  It didn’t take long. I didn’t see what was happening, because my head was down and my eyes were closed, but after a few seconds the plane started rolling again. I stomped on the brakes, but got unexpected resistance, and I jerked my head up wildly to find out what was going on because the engine was off and the brakes were on and the Spitfire was still inching forward.

  Twenty men were pushing and pulling at it. One of them saw that I was up and not dead, and he waved at me frantically and pointed overhead. I looked up – the second Swallow still hadn’t landed and my plane was in his way. They were trying desperately to clear the runway for him. I think he was out of fuel.

  I let go of the brakes and the men around my plane rolled it off the runway at racing speed, just like a bunch of kids getting a go-cart or a sled moving. The other plane came roaring in past me just as I felt the bump as I went over the rough ground at the edge of the concrete.

  Someone jumped up on the wing and banged on the canopy with his fist, shouting at me to open up. He pointed a pistol at me with his other hand.

  I didn’t fight. I really didn’t want them to kill me. But also I had no idea, no idea what they were going to do to me, so I cooperated very, very slowly. My hands shook so much I couldn’t get that stupid cranky catch on the cockpit door in the right position, and the guy banged on the canopy again and shouted, ‘Schnell!’ Hurry up. That was the first time I heard German spoken on the ground in Germany. Schnell! Schnell!

  I knew what it meant because Mother and Grampa say it when they want the kids to hurry. Grampa is very Dutch. We say we are Pennsylvania Dutch, but we are not Dutch. The word is just American for Deutsch; it means German in German. I am Pennsylvania German. ‘All men are created equal.’ We are all the same.

  I got the sliding hood open and the man on the wing yanked the canopy back. He gestured with his gun – get out of the plane. I still couldn’t get the door open and had to climb out the open hood, trying to keep my hands up and my skirt down and not fall off the wing at the same time.

  It is a pain in the neck climbing in and out of a Spitfire in a skirt.

  In a million years, I bet, those German airmen would not have guessed a girl was going to climb out of that plane. They must have thought all along that they’d captured an RAF reconnaissance pi
lot, taking pictures or on his way to suss out German airfields full of jet-powered Swallows so we could bomb them. Someone doing something secret and interesting. And here I turned out to be a boring old transport pilot – and a girl.

  I stood on the wing with my hands up. They all backed away respectfully, their mouths open.

  Somebody started to clap. Then they all joined in – a brief burst of applause for the perfect landing. The guy with the gun suddenly stuck it back in his holster, jumped to the ground and held out a hand to help me down. He mimed taking my flying helmet off, so I did, and the curls came tumbling down. I was a mess with my hair sticking out in all directions and my eyes all red – I’d spent a lot of the last hour sobbing to myself. One of the mechanics respectfully whipped off his cap.

  The man who had the gun gave an order, and somebody climbed up to the cockpit to get all my stuff, my parachute and maps and flight bag. They let me take off my life jacket too, and someone took it from me so I didn’t have to carry it. Then we all trudged across the airfield, everybody muttering and whispering to each other, till we got to a crop of concrete buildings and temporary hangars, all draped top to bottom in camouflage. The gunman took me to an office and pulled out a chair for me. Then he dug into the pocket of his tunic and pulled out a mirror and a tortoiseshell comb. And he gave them to me and made a little bow and left the room.

  For a moment I started giggling hysterically. A mirror and comb!

  You know, it was like putting on armour. I combed my hair and then I realised how awful my face looked, so I dug out a handkerchief – it was one of the ones Aunt Rainy embroidered for me, with a rose in the corner – and I wiped my eyes and then spat on the hanky and scrubbed at my face, and then I dug out a lipstick and did my lips and faked some colour in my cheeks, and then I felt better. Less pathetic, more grown-up. On one wall of the office was a huge map of France and Germany and the Low Countries. I sat staring at it, finding the names of cities I’d heard of, and plotting course headings from each of these cities to Paris. It was better than thinking about what was going to happen next.