Beyond the Call (5 page)

The colonel glowered. ‘Listen, Bob, if you take this job, you'll be out of the combat zone – just flying back and forth, absolutely safe. It'll take you maybe a few months to ferry those planes. After you get that done, you could tell them you're going home. Then, after your 21 days are up, maybe the war will be over.'

Robert was silent. Colonel Helton was trying to help him out, and the colonel was right – if he went home now, the system would scoop him right up and send him back to the fight. Another tour – another 35 missions. He'd beaten the lottery once – could he count on being a Lucky Bastard twice?

‘You know the score as well as I do,' Helton went on. ‘Yesterday was almost a milk run by all accounts.
⁷
Right this minute the group is on the way to hit the refinery at Misburg, and I'm not expecting to see them all back tonight. How would you reckon your chances if there were another Magdeburg? Nine ships out of 36 went down that day.'

Robert felt a chill at the mention of the Magdeburg mission – a name invested with dread. It had been mid-September, and the 493rd had only just completed the transition from B-24 to B-17 bombers. Poor formation flying over the target (oil industry facilities at Magdeburg/Rothensee) opened the door to attacks by two squadrons of German Fw 190 fighters. They came from front and rear, raking the straggling Fortresses. The 493rd lost nine bombers that day – four exploding in flames before their crews could get out. Only half a dozen parachutes were spotted from all the stricken planes.
⁸

Captain Robert Trimble had not taken part in the Magdeburg mission; it had been his squadron's turn to stand down.
⁹
He figured it
just wasn't his day to die. That day could come anytime, though, and Colonel Helton's offer showed a way to put it off.

But Robert wasn't the kind of man who could be stampeded so easily. He looked his commanding officer in the eye. ‘What if I turn it down?'

Helton shrugged. ‘I pass it on to the next fellow on my list. But I was asked for the best, and you're the best I've got available.' The colonel finished his whisky and stood up. ‘Listen, go call your wife. Talk it over with her. When you're done thinking, come back and talk to me again.'

Robert walked across to the communication building, turning the proposal over in his mind. It was a big thing to take in. He didn't want to go to Russia (or the Ukraine or wherever the hell it was), but maybe it would be for the best. He and Eleanor had been apart for much of their two-and-a-half years of married life. She had followed him dutifully from state to state as he progressed through his pilot training, and then bravely said goodbye to him when he went overseas. That was nine months ago now. Would she be willing to wait another who-knew-how-long, when she'd been hoping to see him any day now? But how could he expect her to wave him off to war again, after only a brief respite? He just didn't know what to think.

 

Harrisburg, Pennsylvania

E
LEANOR
T
RIMBLE WAS
hard at work, enveloped in steam and sweltering heat. It leaked through even into the side office where she worked at the company accounts. Tonight was New Year's Eve, and the whole world wanted their dry cleaning this minute. She'd been back at work in the laundry for several weeks now, even though it was only two months since the baby's birth. She needed the wages. Even sharing a rented house with Robert's mother, Ruth, money was tight. Ruth and the landlady took turns looking after little Carol Ann, while
Eleanor caught the bus each day from Lemoyne to Harrisburg to bring home her meager $12 a week.

It was hard enough living without her husband; harder still to know what a dangerous calling he'd followed. (It was as well, perhaps, that Eleanor didn't know just how dangerous it was: that flying bombers was the most fatal military occupation in Europe.
¹⁰
) She carried the worry day after day, the fear that one morning a War Department telegram might arrive and explode its payload of grief in her home. Eleanor had already lost her brother to the war; she couldn't bear the thought of losing her husband too, or that Carol Ann might never know her father.

The days passed in a forgettable blur of routine. Apart from the seasonal rush, this morning was no different than usual. As Eleanor worked, her mind was far away, oblivious to the distant ringing of the phone in the next-door office. She was startled out of her daydream by the office door slamming open and her boss leaning out. ‘Eleanor! Call for you – it's your old man!'

Eleanor froze. Every repressed fear instantly loomed up in her mind. Her heart thumped and her skin prickled as she hurried across to the office. She was out of breath by the time she picked up the phone. ‘Hello?'

‘Eleanor—'

‘Robert! Is that you?'

The voice that came down the line sounded thin, crackly, and unbearably distant. ‘It's me, I—'

‘Robert! Are you okay? Are you hurt? They scared me when they said it was you. I thought something had happened. When are you coming home?' She had known that the time was drawing near when he would finish his tour, and it had heightened her anxiety as well as her hopes.

‘Eleanor, that's why I'm calling. Colonel Helton made me an offer …'

‘Robert, first tell me you're not hurt. When are you coming home?'

‘I'm okay, Eleanor, I'm fine. Now listen …' Robert's voice took on
a serious tone that Eleanor didn't like at all: even across thousands of miles of ocean it echoed with foreboding. ‘Colonel Helton has given me a tough decision to make, and you and I have to decide what we want to do. And we have to decide right now.'

‘I don't like the sound of this …'

‘I'll get right to it. I've finished my last mission. My tour is over and I can come home.' Eleanor's heart lifted, although she suspected it shouldn't. ‘I'll get 21 days and then I'll likely be called back to do it all over again – another 35 combat missions. Or I can accept the colonel's offer and go on a mission—'

‘
Mission
? What are you talking about? Robert, I want you home!'

‘I can't talk about it. Listen, it's overseas, but it's outside the combat area. Just flying and light duty. The colonel singled me out for this. I'd be safe until the end of the war.' He paused. ‘What do you say?'

There was a deathly hush on the line, filled with crackles and the ghostly echo of aching distance.

‘Eleanor?'

She found her voice, and it shook with emotion. ‘No, Robert. No. I need you home with me. I need you now; I can't take this anymore.'

A gusty sigh came down the line. ‘All right then,' said Robert. ‘I'm coming home.'

His tone was so heavy, so resigned, that Eleanor wished she could unsay what she had just said. ‘Robert, no. I've changed my mind. You have to do the right thing. I'm being selfish. I'm hurting, but I know you are too.' She lacerated herself with every word. ‘I think I can stand life like it is for just a while longer' – even though she couldn't – ‘if it means you being safe. But I know I couldn't stand to think of you going back into danger.'

‘Eleanor, are you—'

‘Stay; do what you have to do. Then come home to me alive, and never leave me again. Do you hear me?'

‘Are you sure?'

‘You heard me, soldier.' Eleanor's eyes were prickling with tears. ‘I love you.'

‘I love you too. How's Carol Ann?'

The tears overflowed, and a little sob escaped Eleanor's throat. ‘She's fine! She's fine …' Eleanor could feel the knot tightening in her chest now, threatening to choke her. ‘Robert, I have to go now. I love you. Goodbye.'

‘Goodbye.'

Eleanor put the phone down, fumbling to set it on its cradle as the weeping flooded out of her and her vision dissolved in a blur.

H
ALF A WORLD
away, in a freezing, concrete-paved field in Suffolk, Captain Robert Trimble stood under the lowering, slate-gray East Anglian sky – one of the biggest skies in the world, and at this moment the gloomiest. It matched his mood. Oh well, there it was – Eleanor had decided for him. He would be going to Russia.

Later that day, he walked across to the control tower to report his decision to Colonel Helton, and to watch the squadrons fly in from their mission.

Helton had been right – they were pretty beat up, and not all of them had come back. One ship had been lost somewhere over Germany. Altogether, more than 500 bombers from the 3rd Air Division had gone to bomb Misburg; 27 had been lost, ten times that number damaged, and more than 250 men would not be coming back to their bunks that night.
¹¹
Robert could picture the whole thing vividly: the puffs of black flak, the shreds of torn metal falling from hit planes, the blossoming parachutes, the big silver bird turning helplessly over and sinking down to death. And one of the worst sights of all: a chute blooming prematurely, snagging on the falling bomber, and the entangled dot of a man being dragged down toward the distant earth.

Maybe he really had made the right decision; better to postpone his homecoming than go through all that again. Assuredly the right decision. Robert felt better – resigned to his future, resigned to temporary unhappiness and permanent safety. As he watched the lumbering
planes taxiing to their dispersals, he reflected that he was indeed a Lucky Bastard.
¹²

It was to be a while – more than a month, in fact – before Robert discovered the full extent to which both he and Colonel Helton had been lied to.

Had he been able to see into the future, Robert might have gone to headquarters that minute and willingly signed up for a second combat tour. But even if he'd been granted a sight of what was to come, he might not have believed it. The creaking footfalls in the snow under the winter pines … the wild, demonic shapes of Cossacks cavorting around a flickering fire … the terrified, hate-filled eyes of the Russian colonel over the leveled barrel of the Colt … frozen corpses laid in rows along the lonely railroad tracks … the controls of the patched-up bomber shuddering in his grip as the blizzard battered her … the mystery of a freshly filled grave in the woods … and those lustrous Slavic eyes smiling into his amid a haze of perfume:
Captain, you are so handsome
… yes, there were good memories in there, too, but he would pay for them with the nightmares.

Robert knew none of this as he watched the last of the Fortresses touch down on the runway. He patted his breast pocket, where he'd placed the neatly folded Lucky Bastard certificate, then turned, went down the tower steps, and walked away into the gathering English dusk.

Chapter 2

AN AMERICAN IN LONDON

JANUARY 1945: LONDON

T
HEY CALLED IT
‘Little America'. Grosvenor Square, in the heart of Mayfair, with its palatial Georgian townhouses surrounding the huge public garden, was older than the United States itself and had deep ties with the former colonies. John Adams had begun the first American mission in the square right after Independence, and now it was home to the United States Embassy, which loomed over one corner.
¹
Near the opposite corner, an elegant red-brick mansion had been commandeered for General Eisenhower's headquarters (‘Eisenhower Platz,' some people called it). Next door to that was the HQ of the American Red Cross. Less conspicuously, the London headquarters of the secretive Office of Strategic Services, nest of spies, saboteurs and secret agents, was a short walk away in Grosvenor Street.

Ike and his staff had moved to Paris a few weeks ago, but the square still teemed with American military and diplomatic activity. The former residences and gardens of the cream of Britain's ruling classes now buzzed with the accents of Texas and Virginia, West Point and Annapolis, and every state, city, and homestead.

On this cold January evening the gardens were dusted with a fresh fall of snow, which glowed in the starlight – the only illumination in the blacked-out city. A car drew up in front of the embassy, and a young officer stepped out; he glanced up at the forbidding façade, and shivered. Captain Robert M. Trimble was already wondering what in the world he'd got himself into. In the past eight hours he'd had one
strange experience after another. And if not strange, at least somewhat embarrassing …

R
OBERT HAD CAUGHT
the early afternoon train from Woodbridge, the nearest station to Debach, and settled down to enjoy the ride, still feeling the inner glow of a man who knew he was safely but honorably out of combat for the rest of the war.

Sharing the compartment were two English girls, wearing the blue uniform of the Women's Auxiliary Air Force. Born with a susceptibility to feminine charm, and feeling pleased with himself, Robert struck up a conversation. He liked the girls; they had an attitude that was common among the British – the phlegmatic determination to carry on serenely in spite of the pounding they'd taken from Hitler. They were cheerful and talkative. Not overly concerned about the danger of loose lips sinking ships, they chatted freely about life in the WAAF. They were stationed in London, assigned to RAF Balloon Command, where they helped crew one of the city's hundreds of barrage balloon wagons.

Talking blithely, they didn't notice that the American had fallen silent. At the mention of barrage balloons, Robert felt suddenly very uncomfortable, recalling an incident just over a month ago which he hoped they hadn't heard about – or, worse, witnessed first-hand.

It had happened on his last visit to London – an unorthodox and entirely unscheduled visit from the air. The 493rd were returning from a mission to Germany near the end of November. Debach was socked in by freezing rain. Fortresses were skidding off the runway, and the squadrons still airborne were diverted to another airfield, hundreds of miles away in Cornwall. The next afternoon, with the weather improved, they set off on the return flight, on a route that took them near London. Robert, in a rush of high spirits, figured they were technically on a three-day pass after yesterday's mission, so maybe they ought to divert and take a fly-by to look at the sights of the capital.

He ought to have known better. Even his co-pilot, Lieutenant
Warren Johnson, said it was a bad idea. Warren was a fun-loving guy; a singer and jazz trumpeter, he always brought his horn on missions, stowed beside his seat, and liked to entertain the boys with swing tunes over the interphone during the long, tedious mission flights. He kept the mouthpiece on a chain tucked inside his suit to keep it warm, and smeared it with Vaseline to prevent it freezing to his lips. Warren had nerve; on one memorable occasion, on the approach to a bomb run, with the Fortress shaking and battered by a storm of flak, losing altitude with a gaping hole in her wing, he boosted the men's spirits with a verse of ‘Amazing Grace'. But even Warren balked at the idea of a pleasure flight over London. There were rules – very strict rules.

But Robert had a reckless streak in him, and it was in control right now. He had a gift for persuasion, and it helped that he was also the airplane commander. ‘We can spot where we want to go at the weekend,' he said. ‘Tell you what, we'll fly over St Paul's Cathedral. Eleanor always wanted to see it; she'll be excited to hear what it looks like.'

With this unwise idea in mind, he turned the bomber off the planned route and headed toward the capital, easing down to low altitude for the best view. The gray River Thames snaking through London's urban sprawl was their guide. For a major city, London had hardly any tall buildings, and the landmarks were easy to spot – Big Ben, Tower Bridge, and then, rising immaculately among the bombed-out buildings of the City, the great dome of St Paul's. Dotted here and there, mostly over toward the docklands in the east, were the silver blobs of barrage balloons.

‘Not bad,' Warren admitted. ‘We'll have to see her on foot when we get the chance. Now can we get the hell outta here?'

Robert wanted a better view right now. He turned the plane's nose toward the dome, about half a mile away, and eased the control column forward, intending to drop down to about 300 feet. He looked down at the instrument panel, then back up – and swore. Directly ahead, rising rapidly into the previously empty sky, was the fat, gleaming bulk of a barrage balloon. And there was another, off to one side, and another, and another … all trailing the steel guy wires
that were designed to snarl the wings of bombers. The only way to go was up, but the balloon ahead was a hundred feet higher than the B-17 already, still ascending, and getting closer by the second. Robert pushed the throttles to full emergency power and hauled back on the control column. The bomber lifted, and the men inside prayed. The silvery mass of the balloon flashed beneath the plane's nose, and there was a gentle bump and scrape as it dragged along the fuselage.

They weren't clear yet. As the balloon passed beneath, Robert was conscious of a sporadic pinging noise – the familiar sound of bullets hitting the plane. Robert's assumption – that London's defense forces would recognize the B-17 as an American aircraft – had been wrong, just like his assumption that the barrage balloons parked permanently in the sky over the city were the only ones available. Balloon Command had quick-response wagons too.
²
To the defenders on the ground, any bomber was the enemy; they didn't have time to distinguish friend from foe. Even if they had, rumors abounded of captured bombers flown by devious Luftwaffe crews; no chances were taken, and the tendency was to shoot first and think later. As Robert and his crew climbed and steered away from the city, they were lucky not to be fired on by the anti-aircraft batteries that were everywhere.

Somebody – probably an RAF plane on patrol – must have identified the aircraft, and got a clear enough view to note the group ID and call sign; a report was passed immediately to VIII Bomber Command, and then down to 493rd headquarters. As the Fortress flew on toward its proper destination, the tourist atmosphere having long dissolved into grim silence, an irritated voice came over the radio from the Debach control tower.

‘This is Whitewash to Pillar 366.
³
You are reported off course and in London airspace. Explain yourself.'

‘Compass malfunction,' said Robert. ‘Lost bearing and descended below cloud base for visual navigation.' It wasn't a bad attempt under the circumstances, but the tower wasn't buying it.

‘Not good enough. Report to HQ immediately on landing.' The voice added peevishly: ‘And no more sightseeing – that's an order.'

There was an official inquiry. The crew backed Robert up (even though they were furious with him), and Colonel Helton decided to accept the ‘compass malfunction' story. If Robert hadn't been such a favorite of the CO, things might have turned out differently. He'd have been grounded at best, maybe even busted down a rank. When he wrote his next letter to Eleanor, he judged it best not to mention his visit to St Paul's. She would have seen it as disrespectful to the church, and maybe regarded his narrow scrape as a just warning from God. Colonel Helton might have forgiven him, but Eleanor and the Almighty were another matter.

Listening to the two young WAAFs chatting gaily about the life of a balloon wagon crew, Robert felt the heat of shame rise up his neck, turning his cheeks red. He had the absurd thought that they might have heard of him, or even recognize him. But if they knew about the incident, they made no mention of it.

Evening was coming on as the train pulled into Liverpool Street station (just a short walk from St Paul's, had Robert had time to revisit the scene of his shame). In his pocket was a slip of paper with an address written on it. His orders were to report there immediately on arrival. He managed to hail one of the small number of black cabs that still plied the wartime streets. Gasoline was rationed, and many of the drivers had been drafted. The few that remained scraped a living mostly from US military personnel.

Like many American tourists before and after, Robert discovered the marvelous ability of London cab-drivers to know their way, without hesitation, to any address in the metropolis, no matter how obscure. Even in the blacked-out city, with only hooded headlights to guide him, the cabbie found the street requested, and drove without hesitation right up to the door.

As the taxi rumbled off into the night, Robert looked in bewilderment at the building in front of him. He thought he must have come to the wrong place. He'd been expecting some kind of military facility or other official building. What he was looking at, as far as he could tell in the darkness, was a modest terraced house in a residential street. But
the number checked out. There must have been an error somewhere. He'd been given a wrong address, or the cabbie had deposited him in the wrong street. There was nobody about. He figured he might as well knock on the door; maybe they'd have a phone he could use to call for instructions.

He knocked. There was a pause, and then a muffled voice called out, ‘Who's there?' A female voice with an English accent, which rather confirmed that he'd come to the wrong place.

‘I'm an American officer, ma'am. I'm lost, and hoping to use your telephone if you have one.'

There was a click of a latch, and the door opened. Against the darkness of the blacked-out hallway, Robert could make out the dim shape of a woman. Before he could apologize for disturbing her, she spoke: ‘Are you Captain Trimble?'

He was stunned. ‘… Why yes, yes I am.'

‘Do come in,' she said warmly. ‘I've been expecting you.'

Mystified, Robert stepped inside. The door closed, and the hall light was switched on. Smiling pleasantly at him was a tall, middle-aged lady.

‘Come in and sit down,' she said, leading him into the front room. She guided him to a chair by the unlit gas fire. The house was even more modest inside than outside, with bare walls and hardly any furniture. The lady's cut-glass accent seemed bizarrely out of place in this shabby setting. She fed a shilling into the gas meter and lit the fire. ‘There. Now I need to make a telephone call. Cup of tea?' Robert nodded mutely.

The mysterious woman was gone for a few minutes and came back with a tray on which were cups and a teapot, and a plate of ham sandwiches. ‘You must be hungry after your journey,' she said. ‘Do take a sandwich.'

‘Yes ma'am. Thank you.'

She turned away to pour tea. ‘I suppose you must be wondering what this is all about,' she said sympathetically.

‘Well, ma'am, I was told I was going to Russia to fly airplanes.'
He looked curiously at her, wondering if she was about to offer him an explanation. She wasn't.