American Under Attack

by Jeff Kildow

  “End of the line, boys. Get out, now.”

  They stood to the side, pale, shaking with adrenaline, thinking of what might have been. The emergency crews checked the aircraft over; with no fire or leaking fuel, the danger seemed to be over. Joel walked a bit unsteadily towards the right wing tip, unzipping his brown leather A-2 jacket.

  The damage the single rocket shell had caused was amazing and terrifying at the same time. At least four feet of the wing was missing, not just the wingtip. As Johnson had said, there was structure exposed on the underside of the wing, the bright yellow-green of the zinc chromate anti-corrosion paint starkly contrasting with the olive drab exterior. An anti-collision light bulb from the missing wing tip swung forlornly at the end of a long frayed wire. The aluminum on the wing’s lower surface was curled back like a banana peel. He saw rivets popped loose all over the bottom of the wing.

  This was a very close thing, he decided, his knees feeling weak. Thank you, Lord.

  Hillborne walked up, an unlit cigar clamped in his mouth. “That was a close call, Colonel,” he said as he surveyed the damage, “I can fix her up,” he said with forced bravado.

  A crew arrived with a tug and tow bar, and hauled the battered P-61 toward a hanger. As its shaken crew watched, a canvas topped Dodge weapons carrier rolled up, and they climbed in. Seeing their ashen faces, the driver drove wordlessly to the debriefing room. Before they walked into the building, Joel hurried off to the side and noisily lost his breakfast. It didn’t make him feel any better.

  Johnson looks like he might lose his as well, he thought, wiping his mouth. Even the doughty Hillborne was pale as the adrenaline began to wear off. As Joel was answering the de-briefer’s questions, a runner came in and handed him a note. Fearing the worst, he opened it.

  “Colonel, Miss Johansseson called to say she is OK, and is staying with her friend Mildred. Would you please call her when you can.”

  A phone number was written below the message, above Bill’s signature. Joel felt a flood of relief.

  Thank you, Lord, he breathed.

  Suddenly, a frightened young soldier slammed open the door, his voice cracking, “There’s another attack! They’re hitting Baltimore!”

  Joel leapt from his chair and raced to the situation room.

  Chapter 71

  10 April 1944

  The Outskirts of Baltimore

  Onboard Gotha Go 460 Serial Number 303173

  0903 Hours

  Baltimore Afflicted

  Oberleutnant Johan Braun gripped the control wheel of his Gotha so hard his knuckles turned white. His heart pounded, his mouth was dry, as it always was going into combat. Despite the naps he’d taken on the long transatlantic trip, fatigue hung on him like a heavy blanket. He’d have to be especially alert as they approached the target. He wished, belatedly, that he had taken a Benzedrine tablet.

  The flak was heavy, but not very accurate. Several shells had gone off nearby, but his plane was unaffected. They were only two minutes from their targets in the harbor. The cloudy air at 14,000 feet was bumpy, and he was having a little difficulty maintaining his spot in the formation.

  “Fighters dead ahead!” yelled his top gunner, and the flying wing vibrated as he fired the rocket gun. Braun saw them now, one coming straight at him at terrific speed.

  “Thunderbolt P-47,” an analytic part of his mind cataloged. He remembered all too well how hard these barrel-chested American fighters could hit; he’d been on the receiving end of their tender attentions before, in a Heinkel HE-111 over England. He’d barely been able to limp home.

  The enemy aircraft loomed huge in his windshield, unaffected by his gunner’s firing. Deadly, bright flashes winked along the American’s wings. Suddenly, Braun was slammed hard back into his seat as the instrument panel exploded in a shower of sparks and smoke. Huge hammer blows hit his chest, he felt incredible pain. His world went black.

  Baltimore Police Patrolman John Kryszka strained his neck upward, watching in horrified fascination as the huge German bombers wheeled overhead. The throbbing, beating of their engines combined with the wailing air raid sirens to make a terrifying din. He’d been hurrying several civilians towards the bomb shelter when the airplanes thundered into sight. They had an eerie, unworldly aspect as they roared along, occasionally hidden by the clouds. Only blocks away, anti-aircraft guns pounded away with a terrifying racket. He gasped as American fighter planes flew right into the formation from the front; he winced, hoping they wouldn’t collide.

  Even this far below, he could hear machine guns hammering away, accompanied long seconds later by a disconcerting clatter of spent cartridge cases rattling down on the street. The big planes were turning south, toward the harbor. All but one; one of the bat-winged bombers continued westward, toward the farm country. It left a shimmering trail as the sun reflected off the fuel cascading from ruptured tanks. The fighters were oblivious to the lone breakaway bomber as they continued to savage the formation. Kryszka was puzzled; there’s nothing in that direction worth bombing, that I know of.

  Shrugging, Kryszka ran for the nearest police call phone, mounted in a silver box on a telephone pole. He had to report this. His was one of dozens of reports on the errant German, but for now, the focus of Baltimore’s defenders had to be on trying to stop the rest of the formation.

  Leutnant Arnt Schmidt, Braun’s co-pilot, had been struck simultaneously with Braun. His left arm was nearly severed, he was bleeding profusely. Through intense pain, he felt his life ebbing away. Struggling, he keyed the intercom.

  “Crew! Abandon the aircraft! Bailout! Bailout!”

  The last word was whispered as he died. The two gunners, radio operator and navigator wasted no time; within seconds, they scrambled out of their assigned hatches, and fell on parachutes toward the scattered houses on the western outskirts of the city. The abandoned Gotha shuddered slightly as the open escape hatches added more drag to that caused by the shattered pilot’s compartment. In moments, it settled into a slightly nose down attitude, and continued westward over the Maryland countryside.

  Chapter 72

  10 April 1944

  Rural Frederick County, Maryland

  1011 Hours

  Surprise Visitor

  John Garfield got up before dawn, of course, like farmers since time immemorial. His crops were in the ground, and the hard work was over for a time until they came up. He was headed down toward the river where trees were sprouting along the edges of his fields by the hundreds, limiting what he could plow. He pulled a low trailer behind his green John Deere tractor as he bumped around the perimeter of the big field; he’d cut down the saplings and haul them to the dump. He’d sharpened a heavy hoe to a razor-like edge; the less he had to bend over, the better. If he had to, well, there was the saw.

  He heard the beating drone of the engines, then muffled backfires. Puzzled, he stopped and craned his neck trying to see.

  The nearest road’s a couple of miles away, and besides, nobody around here has anything that makes sounds like that.

  He nearly fell off his tractor seat in shock as the noise swelled, and a huge gray-green aircraft suddenly burst through the top of the trees and flew nearly over him. Before he could react, the monster backfired again and settled onto his freshly planted field with loud, hollow, metallic noises and a billowing cloud of dust.

  “Dear God in Heaven, have mercy!”

  In an instant, Garfield was running toward the smoking aircraft, fearful it might burst into flames or explode. A vague question stirred as he ran – where’s the body and tail of this strange airplane?

  As he got close, he heard the ticking of the hot engines as they cooled, and a gurgling, liquid sound somewhere, but no cries for help. The airplane was much bigger than it seemed when it flew over him.

  I can’t believe something so big can get off the ground. He was puffing with the exertion of running across the soft field. The sight of the propellers, now bent and distorted, confused him.


  Never heard of an airplane with propellers on the back of the wing. He ran around the left wing tip toward what he could now see was a crew compartment.

  Like all farmers, Garfield had slaughtered his share of animals and the sight of blood didn’t particularly bother him, but that didn’t prepare him for the carnage he saw through the shattered, blood spattered cockpit glazing. The man in the left seat had been all but cut in half, his torso leaning at a crazy angle from his legs. Blood was splashed all around on the cockpit walls. The other man seemed to be untouched as he lay on his left side, then Garfield saw the dark pool of blood at his feet.

  He bled to death, Garfield thought in shock. He’d never seen humans dead from violence. It wasn’t until he saw the strange lettering in the cockpit that it suddenly hit him.

  This is a German airplane! That realization shocked him to the soles of his feet; my farm is at least forty miles from the Chesapeake, and close to seventy-five from the Atlantic. How’d this thing get here?

  Just as shocking was the sudden thought; if there are survivors, I’m liable to get shot! His gun was back in the barn, and the hoe he’d been using was still on the trailer. Quickly, he hid under the wing and waited, listening, his heart pounding. The aircraft was silent and he finally got up the courage to check it out some more.

  Within minutes, Garfield determined that the two dead men in the front of the airplane were the only occupants. He ran to the tractor, disconnected the trailer, and drove as fast as it would go toward his house.

  I’ll get Millie, and we’ll drive the Buick over to Barn’s Grocery & Supply for a phone, ‘cause the Army has gotta be very interested in that plane in my field.

  Chapter 73

  11 April 1944

  Bachelor Officers Quarters

  Millville Army Air Field

  0432 Hours

  Moment of Truth

  Joel had not slept well. Every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Gotha exploding and falling into the sea.

  I don’t how many men are in a German crew, but I killed them all. Search and Rescue didn’t find any of the men we saw parachuting. I killed at least five men on that plane, men like me, men just doing their duty. The same for the other three bombers that crashed; that means I’m responsible for the deaths of close to twenty men.

  He sat on the edge of his bed, his mind reeling. All his adult life, he’d gloried in being a pilot, and he especially loved the glamour of being a fighter pilot. The looks of admiration for his uniform and its silver wings, especially from women made it worthwhile. The idea of being a dashing warrior of the skies had charmed him since he was a kid.

  Now, though; this wasn’t at all what he had expected. He’d tried repeatedly in the past to get transferred overseas, thinking he’d become a true hero in aerial combat. He’d seen the far-away, blank look on the faces of bond tour Aces, but had dismissed it as fatigue. The feeling in the pit of his stomach wouldn’t go away any more than the images. He’d tried to pray, but couldn’t find the words. More than ever, he felt the gulf between himself and God. He felt dirty, despoiled, unworthy.

  When the clock finally, mercifully, read 0630, he went to the Day Room and called Susan’s boarding house. He put on his most professional voice when the landlady answered.

  “Good morning Mrs. Morris, this is Colonel Knight at Millville Army Air Field. I need to speak with Miss Johansseson immediately, if you please, on official business.” She fussed at him about the early hour, but seemed to hear the urgency in his voice. Without much argument, she fetched Susan.

  “What is it, Joel?” Susan’s voice was concerned.

  “I—,” His voice cracked, despite himself. “I need to see you, right away, about yesterday. Can we meet for breakfast, or can I pick you or—” His voice trailed off with an almost plaintive tone, he noticed with annoyance.

  “Of course,” she said quickly. “I won’t have classes for a few days until they decide what to do about the school. Why don’t you pick up me up and we’ll go to the diner?” There was warmth, concern in her voice; it comforted him that she cared.

  Thirty-five minutes later, they sat in the little diner, steaming cups of coffee in front of them, waiting for their breakfasts. He’d hardly said a word. Susan sensed she shouldn’t ask what the problem was; he’d tell her soon enough.

  He looked at her, with a haunted look in sleep-deprived eyes. He was pale, she saw, which made the scars on his face stand out more than she’d ever seen before.

  “Susan, I killed twenty men yesterday,” he blurted out in anguish. “At least twenty. They never had a chance. One airplane just blew up, and—.” He stopped, a look of shame on his face.

  Susan blinked her eyes in surprise. I thought this might happen some day; he’s “play-acted” the valiant aerial defender for too long, she thought.

  “Joel,” she said firmly, but softly, “get control of yourself. You are in a public place, in uniform.”

  He looked up at her in surprise, eyes widening; she’d never spoken to him with such firmness before. Before he could say anything, she steeled herself and went on.

  ”Joel, all of your life you have trained for this; you are a warrior. You haven’t committed a crime, you haven’t violated any of God’s commandments. You acted in defense of your country, literally. You shouldn’t feel ashamed, you should be proud that you faced an enemy for the first time, and acquitted yourself well.”

  His face was still contorted with anguish, “But those men—”

  “Those men were trying to kill your countrymen; you stopped them. It’s too bad that they had to die, but it was them or you, or some fellow citizen.” She surprised herself at what she was saying. She regarded him in silence for a moment to let her words sink in. He seemed to be responding; his head came up and he looked at her. She pressed on.

  “I’m not saying you should relish the death of your enemies, but you mustn’t unduly mourn them either. You’ll have to do this again, you know, and send your men to do the same or die themselves. Reconcile yourself to what you’ve done, and go on.

  “If you think you must, pray and repent; present it to God, and let Him be the judge. I think you are judging yourself too harshly.”

  He sat motionless, staring past her, even when the aging waitress brought their breakfast plates. Susan waited, then said, “Joel, it’s all right. You’re going to be fine. Do you hear me?”

  “Yes,” he said, his voice a little less flat and emotionless now.

  She’d been tough, now it was time for softness. She put her hand on his cheek.

  “Joel Knight, you’re a good man, and you did your duty. I’m so thankful you are safe.”

  He blinked in surprise; “You were worried about me?”

  “Of course, you silly flyboy!”

  She smiled in the way that brought out her dimples; he was a sucker for that.

  “What do you think a girl’s going to do when her man’s out running around chasing the nasty Germans?”

  He smiled faintly, and she knew things were better. He confirmed it when he picked up his fork and began attacking his breakfast.

  Chapter 74

  12 April 1944

  Joel’s House, Millville, New Jersey

  0330 Hours

  Repentance and Reconciliation

  Joel sat at the kitchen table in the small house he’d rented in Millville after General White insisted he move out of the BOQ following his promotion.

  “You’re part of senior command now, Joel,” he’d told him. “You need to keep yourself more aloof from your men. You are no longer one of them, you are their leader. Too close a relationship with those men can taint your ability to command.”

  Joel knew it was true, but that didn’t make it any easier. Some of the guys were old friends, long time flying buddies. The forced separation contributed to the sense of isolation that he felt in this house by himself. And, he couldn’t sleep. The words that Charles had said to him that night at the restaurant still nagged his conscien
ce. Charles had been right; he was a backslider in every way.

  Without really thinking about it, he found and opened his Bible, worn from his travels all around the world. It still felt like a dear old friend, though it had been months since he’d actually spent time in it. Randomly, he opened to Luke and began to read. When he got to Chapter 15, the Parable of the Prodigal Son leapt off the page and grabbed his heart.

  That’s me, Lord, he thought. I’ve taken you for granted all these years. I’ve squandered the riches you gave me.

  It had been a long time since Joel had gone before the throne of God seeking forgiveness. He thought of his father’s words from years past.

  He had been eleven or twelve, and his dad had caught him; the exact transgression was lost in the passage of time. He stood, rubbing his backside, having received what would be his last spanking.

  “You haven’t just sinned against me, son; you’ve sinned against God as well. I’ve already forgiven you.” His dad was serious but loving. “Now, you’ve got to make things right with Him.”

  “How can I do that,” Joel had asked miserably, “I don’t even know how.”

  “Let me teach you, then,” his father had said. “There’s no fixed, absolute way to do this – we aren’t bound by ritual. But there is a thoughtful approach, an attitude that you should take whenever you pray, whether for forgiveness or anything else. Remember, Psalms 100 says, ‘Enter into His gates with thanksgiving and into His courts with praise; be thankful unto Him and bless His name.’ That’s a good way to begin: thank God for what He has done, and praise him for His mighty attributes. That establishes who God is, what your relationship with God is.

  “Then, remind God that you accepted his salvation; He knows that, of course, but again, that puts you in proper relationship to Him. That means you are no stranger to him, you are part of his family. His heart is predisposed to you.”