Bomber (8 page)

The non-coms were divided over Cain.

‘He could have killed us all,’ said Dalinsky.

Corrales nodded. ‘I don’t wanna fly a long mission with someone who’s gonna screw up. We got enough to worry about with the flak and the fighters.’

‘It wasn’t all down to Cain – you can’t blame him for that storm blowing up,’ Skaggs said.

‘Cain knows his stuff,’ Harry said. ‘He was acting kinda strange. We shoulda realised he wasn’t getting enough oxygen. I think we should give him another chance.’

Corrales and Dalinsky still looked uncertain.

John spoke next. ‘I like Cain. He doesn’t hold himself above the rest of us like some of the officers. I’m for giving him another chance.’

Harry chipped in again. ‘We’re a good team. We’ve been training together for five months now. I don’t want to go into combat with a stranger. It wouldn’t be the same.’

‘Yeah, there is that. We could get someone even worse,’ said Corrales.

‘How about it, fellas? Are we gonna back Cain up?’ Harry asked.

John Hill and Clifford Skaggs nodded, then Corrales.

‘I guess so,’ said Dalinsky finally.

Harry’s face lit up. ‘I’ll go tell the captain.’

Soon after midday Harry and his hut mates were disturbed again. This time it was Bortz. ‘Shift yourselves, boys,’ he called through the door. ‘We’ve all got to report to the MO.’

They sat together in the base hospital, in a stark waiting area, all feeling deflated, almost despondent. On their way there they passed the intensive-care section. They’d all glimpsed the guy in there, wrapped head to toe in bandages and plaster. John whispered he must be a burns victim or something. Or maybe he had burns and a lot of broken bones. ‘Even if he survives he’s going to be a real mess,’ he said. It was a fate none of them wanted to think about – utterly helpless, surrounded by doctors and nurses talking in concerned, hushed voices.

The co-pilot was missing. ‘Is Lieutenant Stearley all right?’ Harry asked.

‘He’s on a ward. Twenty-four-hour observation,’ said Holberg. ‘That was a nasty bump he got when we landed. Concussion. I’m sure he’s going to be OK though.’

The station medical officer, a gruff civilian doctor who had come out of retirement to serve with the air force, checked each of the crew over – the usual battery of tests for reflexes, heart rate, pulse …

Harry’s turn came to enter the examination cubicle.

‘Any aches, pains you’ve noticed? Anything unusual?’

‘I slept pretty bad, sir, last night,’ said Harry, and he mentioned his dream.

The doctor took out a brown glass jar and shook out a little black pill. ‘That’ll sort you out, son,’ he said. ‘Take it just before you turn in for the night. You’re lucky not to be suffering from exposure after a midnight ditching in the North Sea.’

In a few minutes, the doctor had declared him fit for active service and Harry rejoined the others back in the waiting room.

‘Ditching should be worth at least twenty-four hours on the observation ward,’ Corrales grumbled.

‘There’s a war on, Sergeant,’ Bortz said wearily.

Harry was surprised to find himself agreeing with Bortz. Putting them on the ward would have been unnecessary mollycoddling. He was proud of the way his crew had got through their ordeal. They were tougher than he had realised.

But he hoped this didn’t mean he would lose that survival leave Holberg had mentioned. John Hill had asked if he would like to go to Edinburgh with him and he didn’t want to miss out on that.

As they waited for the all-clear from the MO they hunched together to speak in low voices.

‘I’ve got to see Kittering this afternoon,’ said Holberg. ‘I know what he’s going to say to me.’

Corrales mimicked the colonel’s gritty voice. ‘Uncle Sam pays quarter of a million dollars each for a B-17 …’

Holberg silenced him with a stern look.

‘I wanted to talk to you all together, and this seems like the best opportunity. If they grill us all in debriefing, we’ve got to have the same story. Cain, you flew us over the Atlantic, you flew us all that way from Nebraska, for Chrissakes; you’ve always been spot on. Tell us all again what happened last night.’

‘I still don’t really know how I got it so wrong.’ Cain looked desperate. ‘Like I said, I wasn’t feeling myself on that flight. I was fine to begin with, but a few hours in I started to feel light-headed. I don’t know if it was the cold, but I just felt really detached from everything …’

LaFitte spoke up, barely able to contain his hostility. ‘Lieutenant, didn’t you recognise anoxia symptoms from your training?’

‘I guess I should have realised, but I was having a hell of a job trying to keep our bearings in that storm and I suppose I just didn’t think about it.’

‘Sounds like a faulty oxygen mask to me.’ Holberg put a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. ‘Lieutenant, in other circumstances I’d be recommending you for a Congressional Medal of Honor. Lieutenant Stearley and I would both have gone down with the
Macey May
if you and Friedman hadn’t come to rescue us.’

He turned his gaze to the rest of the crew.

‘Well, we all screwed up in our separate ways. Even Stearley and I. We were so caught up in landing the Fortress level we didn’t even tell you when we were about to make contact.’

‘Hey, chief,’ said Skaggs. ‘You saved our lives. I heard B-17s can disintegrate if you don’t get that landing right.’

‘Well, I’ll level with you. I don’t want any of this to get back to Kittering. If the colonel finds out how bad we messed up, we’ll all be on the next transport back to the States. So are you with me?’

They all nodded, even LaFitte, although he was looking pretty sour about it. Harry suspected some of them might relish the opportunity to get out of this, but no one said anything.

At that moment, the MO came into the waiting area. ‘You can all go back to your huts and rest for the day. You’ve had a lucky escape.’

Holberg called them together again, outside the hospital entrance, and spoke quietly. ‘OK. Good. I’ll have a word with Lieutenant Stearley when I go and visit him. As far as I’m concerned, we blame this on exceptionally rough weather and faulty equipment. That, and the lightning strike. Assuming they buy it, and assuming they keep us here, I want you all to read up on oxygen failure and how that makes you feel. And as soon as we’re back on duty we’ll be running those ditching drills until we can do them blindfolded.’

Kittering was due to see Holberg at three that afternoon. He wasn’t looking forward to the encounter. He liked Holberg. He had a fresh-faced openness, almost an innocence, and the idea of sending a man like that to face almost certain death gnawed at the colonel in the dead of the night. He’d been a junior pilot himself, back in the first war, flying with the American Air Service over Flanders.

That had been a fiasco right from the start. For every pilot killed in combat, two were killed in training. And the ones who lived long enough to fly in an operational squadron rarely lasted more than a month. The only thing that held them together, that kept them flying, was that they were more frightened of their commanding officer than they were of death itself.

Kittering modelled himself on that man – Colonel Carl Bufford. The airmen had hated him at the time, and everyone on the base called him ‘Iron Ass’. But afterwards, when it was over, and Kittering was the only one of his intake to survive, he began to think Bufford was just the kind of man you needed to lead a bomb group in wartime.

The planes were safer now, but combat was just as dangerous. In the First War Bufford had flown with his men, shared their danger, and that was something that had really impressed Kittering. He would have liked to do the same now, but the Eighth Air Force commander-in-chief, General Eaker, had expressly forbidden him to do so. Some bull about being too valuable to lose. He should have felt flattered, but he thought it made him look like a coward to the men.

Kittering decided he was going to have to give Holberg a roasting. He might like him, but he seriously doubted he had the mettle to command a B-17.

There was a knock at the door.

‘Come the hell in,’ he bellowed.

Holberg put his head round the door. He looked unsure of himself, almost sheepish.

‘I hear things are a bit slack on the
Macey May
, Captain,’ said Kittering. ‘How else can I account for the loss of a quarter-million-dollar airplane on a training exercise?’

‘My crew did their best in difficult circumstances, sir,’ said Holberg. ‘We lost out way in a storm on our return from Edinburgh. Our Fortress was also hit by lightning, which affected our navigational instruments. And I have very strong reasons for suspecting Lieutenant Cain had a faulty oxygen supply.’

The colonel listened in stony silence.

Holberg felt compelled to continue. ‘Cain has performed extremely well until now. In training he brought us over the States, and then over the Atlantic to Kirkstead, with no
trouble at all, and his ETA has always been right to the minute.’

Kittering cut in. ‘Any damn fool navigator can estimate an aircraft time of arrival when all you have to worry about is getting a sunburn and what sort of chow you’ll have to eat when you arrive there. You need a man who isn’t going to crack under pressure. I’m going to take Cain off combat duty. If he wants to continue to fly, he’s going to have to retrain as a gunner.’

‘Colonel, I’m convinced there’s some explanation for what happened. Cain showed exceptional courage after we had ditched, returning to the aircraft with Sergeant Friedman to rescue Lieutenant Stearley.’

Kittering liked the way Holberg was sticking up for his navigator. The man had nearly killed them all, yet his captain was trying to keep him. But Kittering’s mind was made up. Bomber crews needed loyalty. That was how they got through the hell of combat operations. But a weak link would get them all killed.

‘Cut the bullshit, Captain. Cain messed up. And even if it was his oxygen, he should have recognised the symptoms of anoxia. He’s off this base by the end of the day. There’s a Liberator flying back to New York this evening. I want him on that plane.’

Holberg opened his mouth to complain. Kittering butted in. ‘Stow it. And I want to see your crew saluting you and addressing you as an officer. You’ll thank me for it when you go into combat.’

Kittering was interrupted by a sharp knock at the door.

‘Sorry to disturb you, sir,’ said an orderly. ‘Urgent message from High Wycombe.’

Holberg got up to go.

‘Sit down,’ Kittering snarled. ‘We aren’t done yet.’

The colonel scanned the message he’d been given from bomb group headquarters. It called for an immediate change of plan.

‘Well, well,’ he said, ‘I changed my mind. I need twelve Fortresses combat-ready for imminent operations. Cain’s on probation. You’re all on the combat roster as of now.’

‘But, sir, we were told we were due survival leave,’ blurted Holberg.

‘Cancelled,’ said the colonel. ‘Dismissed!’

Harry was reading a month-old copy of
Time
magazine when Holberg came over to the hut later that afternoon. They all looked up from their beds and chairs. Harry could tell Holberg was milking the moment, trying to look inscrutable. But he couldn’t keep the smile from his face. ‘We’re off the hook!’ he announced with a grin.

The non-coms looked at him quizzically. Then they noticed Stearley was right behind him.

‘Lieutenant!’ asked Dalinsky. ‘What’s the story?’

Stearley gave them all a winning smile. ‘Doc says I’m OK. Another day and I’m A1 fit.’

Holberg continued with his news. ‘Kittering’s assigning us a new aircraft and we’re all staying together.’

They gave a cheer.

‘He also told me we’re now on combat duty. So congratulations, guys. We passed the audition!’

Their faces fell.

‘What about our survival leave?’ asked Dalinsky.

Holberg put on a brave face. ‘I’m sorry, boys – that’s been cancelled. We’ve got a war to fight.’

The men let out a collective moan of disappointment.

He turned to John Hill. ‘Sergeant Hill, you did a great job with the nose art on our previous Fortress. Can you paint
Macey May II
on the side of our new airplane as soon as you’re able? Lieutenant Stearley can help you if he feels up to it. We can worry about a picture later, but nothing too racy this time, if you don’t mind.’

Holberg had them walk over to see their new aircraft at the end of the day. Ernie Benik and his boys were already working on it, changing spark plugs and cleaning oil filters, balancing giros and clearing the static from the faulty interphone system. Holberg had been surprised how calmly his chief mechanic had taken the news that they had ditched
Macey May
in the North Sea.

Ernie told them it was his job to ensure none of the crew even thought they were flying a different plane. And if Holberg came back and told him the number-three engine was running warmer than usual, or the
hydraulics still needed work, then he’d know exactly who to blame.

The
Macey May
boys had quickly realised how lucky they were to have Ernie Benik looking after them. The ground crew hut was close to the one Harry shared with his crew mates and the guys often popped in and out of each other’s quarters when they were off duty. Ernie had hung a notice over the door of his hut:
The more trouble found on the ground, the less in the air
. And they knew he worked the ground crew day and night to make sure the
Macey May
was not going to let them down.

Ernie was especially good at getting spare parts, and he let the guys who didn’t smoke know that their unused cigarette ration could be put to good use with local garages and supply depots, where he could get stuff quicker than the official air force channels.

It was getting dark by the time Holberg dismissed them. ‘I don’t know exactly when we’re due to fly our first mission, but if you guys have letters to write, then get writing them sooner rather than later. And those of you who want to go to confession, or take Holy Communion – well, you all know where the pastor is.’