Blue Skies Tomorrow (37 page)

“Pardon?” She faced the seaman.

He shrugged thin shoulders. “Sorry, ma’am. Heard you praying to St. Jude, figured you was sick.”

“Is he—is he the patron saint of the sick?”

“The sick, the hopeless, all sorts of folk. He’s the patron saint of lost causes.”

Lost causes? She turned slowly and made her way to the PX, her left foot dragging slightly. Vic called the case a lost cause.

Helen wrapped her arms around her middle. Maybe she did feel sick after all.

37

Lechfeld
Thursday, March 22, 1945

Ray hunched behind a tree in sight of the Me 262 farthest from the control tower.

His breath hitched in his dry throat, but the items tucked inside his flight jacket spurred him on—the manual and wooden model for Walt, the poetry book for Jay-Jay, and his Bible.

In a short time he’d be with his family and the woman he loved, or he’d be with the Lord.

Yesterday the Germans had scrambled, but Ray chickened out when he saw the pilot in the distance. He wouldn’t do that again.

Something stirred on the western front. Activity had mushroomed the past week, and Lechfeld appeared to be down to ten functioning Me 262s. Ray’s strength fell even faster.

The scramble siren blared in the distance, and his heart lurched. “Lord, this is it. Give me strength, courage, and speed.”

He stood, but his gut went into a spasm, and he doubled over, gasping from pain. Then he wrenched himself upright. Dysentery or no dysentery, today was the day.

“Time to be bold.” Ray dashed onto the field and hooked a turn for the triangular fuselage of his plane.

By the left wing stood a ground crewman in black coveralls, the first hurdle.

Ray lifted a hand in greeting. He hoisted himself onto the mottled green wing, stuck one foot in the toehold labeled “Einsteigklappe,” and swung his right leg into the open cockpit.

“Entschuldigung?”

Ray froze. Time to act like Gideon in battle and break his pitcher, shine his lamp, and blow his trumpet to make himself look fierce. He drew up tall and looked down his nose with what he hoped passed for Prussian arrogance.

The ground crewman adjusted his black cap. “
Entschuldigung
, Herr Oberleutnant. I have not seen you before. You are not one of my usual pilots. Who—who are you?”

Ray puffed up his cheeks as if appalled at the man’s nerve and whipped out Johannes’s identity papers. Adrenaline tightened his muscles.

“
Ja! Jawohl
, Herr Oberleutnant.” He snapped a salute.

Ray lowered himself into the seat, and his breath tumbled out.

A scan of the cockpit layout—just like the manual. Throttles on his left, electrical switches on his right, and on the dashboard, flight instruments to the left, engine gauges to the right.

In the distance—the Luftwaffe pilot? Ray’s stomach twisted. He turned to the ground crewman. He’d better be ready or Ray was dead.
“Bereit?”
he barked to conceal his accent.

“
Ja
, but I thought Leutnant Schmidt was to fly today?”

“Nein. Bereit? Links.”
He pointed to the left engine, then flipped on the switches for the battery, inverter, and generators.

The man in black frowned and cocked his head.

Oh no, the accent. Could Ray dispel doubt with fear? He glared at the crewman and thrust his finger toward the engine.
“Links!”

The man blinked.
“Jawohl.”
He grasped a ring in the tip of the engine and yanked a cord like a lawnmower. The little two-stroke starter engine sputtered to life.

Ray pulled the cockpit canopy down and locked it. With his right hand on the starter, he wrapped his left hand around the throttle. For the first time ever, he was about to start a jet engine.

He engaged the clutch and pressed the fuel ignition button. A low throbbing noise added to the cockpit sounds. Ray nudged the throttle forward until he reached 2000 rpm, then released the starter.

He pointed the ground crewman to the right engine.
“Rechts.”
At least the turbine’s whine would conceal how badly he said
R
s.

About a hundred yards away, the rightful pilot stood with his mouth dangling open. Ray’s heartbeat rose with the engine’s rotations. He still needed the ground crewman to start the right engine and to remove the wheel chocks.

“Start rechts!”
Ray yelled, and the man obeyed.

The pilot sprinted to the plane, waving his arms.

“Lord, help me.” Ray concentrated on the complex start-up for the right engine.

The pilot ran up to the ground crewman, yelling and gesturing.

The tachometers read 4000 rpm. He had to run both engines up to 7500 then back off to 6000 for taxiing.

The conversation outside intensified. The pilot stomped his foot and hurled down his parachute, a piece of equipment Ray lacked.

He cringed. The ground crewman didn’t deserve to get in trouble.

At last, 7500 rpm. After he drew back the throttles, Ray pounded his fist on the window, got the man’s attention, and swung his thumb like a hitchhiker to signal for the wheel chocks.

The pilot stepped in front of the man in black and yelled at him, and the ground crewman swiveled his gaze between the two pilots.

Ray had to prevail. He balled up his fear and hunger and desperation and shot a look of fury. He knifed his hand toward the wheels and flung his thumb back over his shoulder.

The ground crewman nodded. He shouldered past the pilot and removed the wheel chocks.

The plane rolled forward. Ray’s hands shook from the sudden drop in adrenaline. “Thank you, Lord.”

The Luftwaffe pilot tore off his flight helmet, flung it to the ground, and stomped away, spewing what had to be German curses.

Taxiing was the next hurdle. Instead of using rudders and throttles, he had to use the brakes to maneuver the jet.

The plane bumped over the unpaved field. The fume-filled air of the cockpit swirled about him. Every detail stood out—the dark green band of trees where he’d lived for two months, the Me 262s converging on the runway, and the control tower in the distance. He had to take off before the other pilot notified the tower. At first they would think a simple mix-up had occurred, but if they checked their records, Johannes Gottlieb wouldn’t be on the roster.

Ray’s lips dried out. There was no turning back. His fate would be decided within the next half hour. “Lord, what have I done?”

The runway approached. Five fighters passed. Ray would be the last. His plane bumped up onto the runway. He depressed the right brake, and the Me 262 pivoted to the right. Too far. He tapped the left brake to straighten out.

The next hurdle—clearance for takeoff. Ray plugged the cord dangling from his helmet in to the radio by his right elbow. His headphones filled with static and German phrases, and he picked out,
“Vierundzwanzig? Vierundzwanzig?”

Twenty-four—the last digits of his plane’s serial number. They were calling him, but he wasn’t about to respond.

Ahead, a woman in military uniform waved off each plane with a flag. One by one, they sped down the runway. The air shimmered behind their engines, and the blast buffeted Ray’s plane. Each one broke free into the sky.

An invisible cord tugged on his heart. “Lord, help me join them.”

He hit the brakes and gave the flag lady a smile and a salute to help his case.

She smiled back and gazed up to the tower.

Ray pushed the button to lower flaps to twenty degrees and ran the engines up to 8500 rpm.

The woman frowned and waved at Ray. She tapped her ear and her throat and mouthed,
“Funkgerät?”

Radio. Ray tensed, but he grinned and tapped his headphones.
“Ja, ja. Alles gut.”

Commands filled his ears. He couldn’t make out much except
“Nein”
and
“Nicht.”
They weren’t clearing him. With good reason. If they knew his identity, they’d torture him to death.

The lady raised a hand to tell Ray to wait and frowned at the tower.

His heart pounded his ribs like a wild animal trying to escape its cage. Time was up. The runway lay clear. He pushed the throttles up to 8700 rpm and checked jet pipe temperature, burner pressure, and fuel pressure.

“Lord in heaven, help me.” He released the brakes.

The plane lurched forward. Where was the speed? The power? Was the runway long enough?

Fumes and noise built to almost unbearable levels, and gradually the speed climbed.

At 160 kilometers per hour, Ray pushed the “Ein” button to retract the nose wheel. The nose tipped up.

He grimaced. How many Me 262s had he seen crash on takeoff? “Oh Lord, here we go.” Two hundred kilometers per hour, and he pulled back the control stick.

No more bumps. Airborne. Ray pressed the brakes to stop the spin on the wheels and raised the landing gear. Flaps to ten degrees, stick forward a bit. He needed more speed.

At 290 kilometers per hour, he raised the flaps.

A laugh burst out. He’d done it. He’d stolen an enemy jet fighter. Wouldn’t Jack and Walt be jealous?

He trailed behind the formation, gaining altitude and speed. He played with his new toy. She responded well, with good aileron control. If only the tower would stop yelling in his ear.

Time for the next step, one he thought he’d never reach. He had to fool the other pilots and break away before the tower figured out this was more than a case of a mixed-up rookie with a broken radio, before the other pilots suspected enough to turn their guns on him.

“Have to play innocent.” He picked out the empty slot in the formation and slid in.

The lead plane slipped back to fly level with Ray. Disgust warped the squadron commander’s face. “
Was ist los?
What is wrong with you? You weren’t cleared for takeoff. Your radio isn’t functioning.”

Nope, the radio functioned, but Ray refused to push the transmission button on the control stick.
“Nichts ist los. Es funktioniert.”

“
Nein.
I can’t hear you.”

“Ich höre Sie.”
Not a lie. Ray heard him perfectly.

“
Dummkopf
. Return to base. Never take off without permission again.”

Ray made a face as if disappointed.
“Jawohl, Herr Hauptmann.”

The captain grumbled about pilots so new he hadn’t met them and so stupid they didn’t deserve to fly.

Ray didn’t care. His heart tapped a victory dance as he lowered the Messerschmitt from formation and pointed her southeast toward Lechfeld.

At the cruising altitude of two thousand meters, he worked his speed up to 750 kilometers per hour. As soon as the formation disappeared from sight, he wheeled west. The Rhine lay a little more than a hundred miles away, about fifteen minutes at that unbelievable speed. Ray had never been one for stunts, but the exhilaration of the moment made him want to do a barrel roll.

Nope. He’d leave that for some American test pilot.

A smile edged up. Sure. All he had to do was avoid Allied fighters, land an unfamiliar plane behind Allied lines, and convince American soldiers he was one of them. Piece of cake.

Piece of
Schwarzwälderkirschtorte.
The Black Forest and its famous cherry-covered chocolate cake couldn’t be far, but Ray headed farther north, where he believed the Allies would cross the Rhine.

A river came into sight, flowing west toward the Rhine, curving through a wooded, hilly valley, and Ray followed it.

A castle flanked one of the hilltops, a large castle that looked an awful lot like the pictures he’d seen of Heidelberg Castle. Wouldn’t that be something?

If so, that meant the Rhine was close. Ray eased the stick forward to descend. A plain spread open with plenty of activity, as tanks and troops headed west. German territory.

“Not for long,” he said. At one thousand meters, he flew over a city with streets in a square grid within a semicircle. Like a gumdrop cut out of graph paper.

“Mannheim.” Ray had seen it on bombing missions, but he’d never been so glad to see it. On the far side of Mannheim flowed a wide, gray-blue river.

“The Rhine.” Freedom lay on the other side. And maybe a good square meal.

Down to five hundred meters, and he lowered flaps to fifteen degrees.

He sailed over the Rhine. Soon the tanks and troops faced east, and cracks of gunfire greeted him.

They were firing at him, but Ray whooped for joy. “Americans! Hey, it’s me. I’m one of you.” He laughed at his foolishness. But he’d made it. He’d made it to Allied territory.

Almost. He still had to land. Alive.

Speed down to 420. A bit slower and he could lower landing gear, the universal sign of surrender, like a white flag.

He scanned the ground and turned south toward a field.

A crack. The nose kicked up.

“Swell. I’ve been hit.” Could he blame them? They thought he planned to strafe.

Ray hit the “Aus” button for the landing gear, and the nose tilted up momentarily as the wheels threw off the plane’s center of gravity.

The ground drew nearer, and he lined up the landing field. Men pointed, but the firing stopped. Either they thought he was damaged or defecting.

A smell rose, sweet but acrid. Last time he’d smelled that odor, he’d ended up in a parachute. “Fire? Not again.”

Ghostly tendrils wormed out of the dashboard, and flames licked out, aiming for his hands as if the plane, German to its core, recognized him as an imposter.

“No. Not now.” He set his jaw and worked through the heat to adjust throttles and flaps. His leather gloves didn’t help much.

He reached through the flames to lower the nose wheel and screamed from the pain, but a crash would hurt more.

The ground sped up to meet him. He hit hard, banged his head on the window, and stomped on the brakes. “Stop!” Ray shouted, his hands on the heated controls.

Soldiers ran toward him, rifles leveled.

The plane rocked to a stop. Ray closed the throttles and turned off switches to save his trophy. The lever to open the canopy lay deep in the flames. He gritted his teeth, plunged his hand in, and yanked the lever. He cried out and pitched open the canopy to fresh, cool air.