Under a War-Torn Sky (2 page)

Henry was mortified to feel himself blush. He tried to seem nonchalant. “To tell the truth, Sarge, that picture kills me, because she looks so ladylike. What I love about Patsy is that she's no sissy. She's a real spitfire. We could use her fighting the Germans.”

Henry could tell from the Sarge's smile that his attempts to seem indifferent to Patsy's beauty were failing. He was just so confused about Patsy these days. Until right before he'd joined the Air Corps, they'd been buddies, best friends. But somehow their relationship had changed when he'd received his orders. And her letters, well, her letters brought out a longing in him he'd never felt before. Henry couldn't sort out if the longing was for her or home or just peacetime. But it was a strong feeling. She wrote him and he answered every week. He started to ask Sarge what he thought about the wisdom of romancing a girl through letters, but changed his mind.

“When I was about ten I was in a fight in the school yard,” Henry continued. “This dopey boy, Jackson, was giving me trouble because my family raises chickens and the farm smells of them. He thought he was better than all us farmers. His dad hauled cargo at the Norfolk docks and didn't have to work the dirt the way we did. He was yelling: ‘Henny Penny, what a chicken.' Well, I'd given him a sharp punch like my dad showed me. But he'd knocked me down and was kicking me good. Patsy came tearing up out of nowhere. Her face was red as a tomato. She kicked Jackson's shins so hard he cried!”

Henry paused to look at Patsy's face and felt his own flush again. “Anyway, she's…special, you know, Sarge?”

Before Bromsky could reply, Henry rushed to wrap her up with a safe comment. “I mostly appreciate how Patsy checks up on Ma for me. Dad doesn't talk much except when he's mad. Living on a hundred and fifty acres all alone with him and two thousand chickens could drive anyone crazy.”

“Two thousand chickens! I'm not sure I've ever even seen one live chicken,” said Bromsky, who was a native of New York City. He gave Henry a quick clap on the back. “Good luck today, Hank. I gotta roust the rest of the crews.”

Henry dressed hurriedly to prevent the concrete floor's icy cold from seeping up through his entire body. He kept his blond head low as he pulled on his mission gear. The ceiling was eight feet high in the centre of the Nissen hut but it curved downward to the ground from there. Henry was a lanky six feet tall and still stretching, as his ma always said.

Over his long johns, he pulled blue flannel underwear that was wired to connect to the airplane's electrical system and protect him from severe frostbite. If thick clouds and enemy flak forced them to fly at twenty-four thousand feet – four and a half miles up – the temperature inside the bomber's open bays could be thirty below zero.

Next came wool trousers and shirt, plus a black wool tie. Over that, Henry pulled flying overalls and fleece-lined boots. Finally, he picked up his fleece-lined bomber jacket and strapped on a .45 pistol. He'd need the gun if he had to bail out somewhere over Nazi-controlled Europe.

Across the aisle, Billy White, another copilot, was inspecting his beard. Dark-haired Billy was just six months older than Henry, but his beard grew thick. Henry had to look close to find anything to shave. Still, he did it. During a flight even the slightest stubble caught condensation that could freeze and leave a string of icy beads right where the oxygen mask gripped his face.

Billy rubbed his smooth face and grinned. “Gotta be close, boys,” he said to a bunkmate who cat-whistled at him.

Billy was peering into a tiny mirror hung next to a sultry photograph of movie star Rita Hayworth. He caught Henry's dimpled, babyfaced reflection in the mirror. He tapped Hayworth's photo and said, “Hey, Hanky, this is a real woman, no prudish kid sister. But would you know what to do with a real woman if you ever caught one?”

Henry straightened up. He'd gotten used to the raunchy humour around the barracks. He'd also flown a lot more missions than Lieutenant White. “You know what, Billy,” he said. “I've learned a thing or two flying
all
my missions. When guys are scared, they talk big.”

“Whooaaa,” laughed a few of the men as they scrambled to get ready.

Billy White shrugged. “We'll see who flies the most missions, farm boy.”

“All right. Save the spit for the Germans,” interrupted Henry's pilot, Dan MacNamara. Dan was twenty-five years old, married, and the father of a baby girl named Colleen. He'd been the oldest brother in a rowdy clan of seven Irish siblings in Chicago. He could control the barracks and crew with just a few words.

“Billy,” Dan said. “We'll let it stand that you've danced with every girl this side of London. Of course, whether you've gotten anywhere with them, we don't know.”

He turned to Henry. “Hank, you're one hotshot pilot. Nobody flies a tighter formation than you do. Let's just get over there, drop our bombs, get home, and I'll buy you both a beer. That's root beer for you, right, Hank?” Dan winked at Henry as he said it.

“Yeah, yeah,” Henry said and smiled.

Today would be Dan's twenty-first mission. He had even survived the legendary raid on the Ploesti Oil fields in Romania the previous August. Dan had told Henry how the bombers had gone in at treetop level to avoid detection as long as possible. They didn't know about the anti-aircraft guns hidden behind haystacks. A third of the planes went down in flames, too low in altitude for any of their crews to bail out.

After hearing that, Henry was certain Dan could survive anything. Henry's first four raids had been under a different pilot, last name Cobb, a real wildcat flier. He'd bled to death on their fourth mission, as Henry fought on alone to get their plane up and over the Dover cliffs and crash-land on English soil. Only then had he realized he was covered with Cobb's splattered blood. Henry had crawled out of the cockpit and vomited for fifteen minutes solid.

With Dan in command, no matter how bad the flak or fighters were, Henry knew he at least had a chance.

Dan threw open the door to a wet wind and a sea of slippery, icy English mud. “Let's get to Group Ops,” he said. “Briefing's in ten minutes.”

“Jeez,” said Billy, pushing his way out past Henry. “It musta poured last night.”

“Isn't it always raining in England?” muttered Dan. “Let's hope the weather officer knows what he's doing.”

They all looked up at the black sky, trying to assess the clouds. No stars visible and no sunrise yet. The only lights were on the distant airfield. Out there, the ground crews were loading bombs and fuelling the aircraft. If it wasn't mechanically perfect, a B-24 loaded with two thousand pounds of bombs and glutted with gasoline was a flying deathtrap. “God bless the ground crew,” murmured Henry aloud, without thinking.

Then he wanted to kick himself for opening the door to a put-down. He'd been dismissed as “a Boy Scout” before and knew some of the older fliers were merciless with a devout Baptist gunner who got down on his knees to pray before getting into his plane. Henry could see a jeer forming on Billy's face and braced himself.

But instead Billy agreed: “Amen to that.” The ground crew and their work were sacrosanct for everyone.

“Hey, didya hear Lord Ha Ha last night?” asked Henry's navigator, Fred Bennett, as they slogged across the mud-washed base.

“Naw, I never listen to that guy,” said Henry, even though he did. “He's full of baloney.” Broadcasting in English almost every night, Lord Ha Ha was a Nazi trying to unnerve the British and American fliers.

“I don't know, Hank,” said Fred. “He seemed to know we'd be flying today. He said the Luftwaffe would be waiting for us.”

Fred was a small guy, a washout from flight school, a real worrier. He'd finished two years of an English literature major at Harvard before volunteering. He was always quoting some writer named Thomas Hardy – very depressing stuff. But he was a great navigator. He seemed to have a sixth sense for direction, even in heavy cloud cover. And Henry just liked him. “You know what we can do tonight when we get back, Fred?” said Henry.

The navigator shook his head.

“I'd love it if you'd read aloud some more of that Dickens, that
Tale of Two Cities
. I've got to keep up my studies, you know. Virginia said they'd keep my scholarship active for me for two years as long as I don't go stupid on them.”

“I didn't know you were going to be a college boy, Hank,” said Dan.

“When I get home. I promised Ma. It about killed her when I joined up two weeks after graduating high school. Schooling is real important to her. She's the one who taught me there's more to the world than chicken coops. She used to read to me even when I shelled peas and beans, so my mind was working too. The Bible, Sherlock Holmes, a poet named Emily Dickinson she loved. My personal favourite is Jules Verne,
Around the World in Eighty Days
.”

“Good for you, Hank,” said Dan. “I dropped out of high school when the Depression hit. I needed to work to help Da. Seven kids need lots of shoes. Read to us, Fred. Gotta get me some book education to impress my baby girl when I get home. Rose wrote that she said her first word.”

“What was it, Dad?
Goo-goo blah-blah?
” It was Henry's turn to tease.

“No,” said Dan goodnaturedly. “It was
wa-wa
.”

“
Wa-wa?
” Henry laughed. “I don't seem to have
wa-wa
in my vocabulary, Captain. What's it mean?”

“She was asking for water,” Dan said, laughing at himself. “A budding genius, she is.” Then he grew quiet. “I tell you what, though. The first word I'm going to work on her saying when I get home is
Daddy
.”

“You guys are making me sick,” Billy interrupted. “You know what I did last night? Some important scientific research. I figured out that these flight get-ups have thirty-six feet of zippers. I'm getting mighty good at unzipping fast. That'll come in real handy with the girls someday soon, boys, if you know what I mean. Do you have any idea what I mean, Hank?”

Patsy's pretty face came to Henry. He knew how much Billy's off-colour jokes would insult her. And he was startled and mad with himself that for a few fleeting seconds Billy's crude comment had sent Henry imagining Patsy in a vivid, not particularly respectful way.

“Stow it, White,” Henry snapped. “I feel sorry for any girl who gets stuck with you.”

The group had reached the operations building. Billy turned to ridicule Henry in a forced Southern twang: “And whom do you all date, farm boy? Some bucktoothed swamp queen?”

Henry's nightmare had left him feeling thin-skinned and homesick. He stepped in front of Billy to block his path. Leaning towards him, Henry whispered in a menacing manner, “Y'all want to see some swamp-boy boxing?”

“Hey! Cut it out,” yelled Dan. He pushed them apart with a big, practised shove. “Remember what you're here for. Shake hands.”

“No way,” muttered Billy. “The guy's a lunatic.”

“Shake hands. That's an order.”

Reluctantly, Henry extended his.

Reluctantly, Billy took it.

As their hands touched, Henry regretted his outburst. That was the kind of threat his dad would have made. Henry had always promised himself that he'd never be like his volatile father. He took a deep breath and tried looking at things from Billy's side, the way his ma forever told him to. Heck, Billy was probably just as nervous as he was. And what could you expect from such a jerk on a morning like this, anyway?

“Tell you what,” Henry said as he let go of Billy's hand. “When the war's over, I'll come to Philadelphia to meet those country-club lady friends of yours. Then you come to Richmond. My ma will fix a meal that'll melt in your mouth and teach you some manners without your ever realizing she's doing it.”

Billy seemed to relax. “Done.” He opened the door and whistled as he walked through. “Off we go, into the wild blue yonder…”

Dan followed behind Henry. “What's the matter with you, Hank?”

“Sorry, Captain.” Henry's green eyes hit the ground. “I don't know what's wrong with me this morning. Got the jitters, I guess.”

“Don't get flak-happy on me, boy,” Dan said, putting his hand on Henry's shoulder. “I mean it. You're the steadiest copilot I've ever seen.”

Henry nodded, bolstered.

“I want to get home, too, Hank. I've only got four more to go. Let's make sure we both get back today.”

The pilots' eyes held each other's for a moment. Dan's belief in him made Henry feel years older, stronger. He wasn't just a scared farm boy away from home for the first time. He was someone Dan could trust. “I'm with you, Captain,” Henry answered.

Dan smiled. Then he resumed his flyboy swagger. He called after the group, “Okay, boys, let's see what part of hell we're visiting today.”

Henry followed Dan and Fred to the front of the briefing room. Their bombardier, Paul Sabatino, trotted up the aisle to squeeze in with them on the wooden bench. Paul was always late.

“Nice of you to make it, Sabatino,” said Dan.

“Aw, I was here before you guys.” Paul pointed his thumb towards the back of the room. “I wanted to get a doughnut from Abby.”

Abby was one of the Red Cross girls at the door handing out doughnuts and coffee as the fliers filed in. Even at 4:30 in the morning she was fresh, her lips perfect with red lipstick, a ready smile, and a kind word. Half the base was sweet on her, especially Paul. But she had a beau in the 303rd, flying B-17s.

Henry stared nervously at the wall ahead, covered with a white curtain. Behind the curtain hung a map of Europe. Henry knew that a red piece of yarn traced their flight to the day's target. But the curtain still hid the map. Henry checked the position of the yarn pulley to the left of the curtain. If the pulley were near the top of the curtain, that would mean all the yarn was used up to point their way. It'd be a long mission deep into Germany. If the pulley were hanging pretty far down, they'd have a short flight, a “milk run”, into France or Belgium. Today the pulley was rammed up to the ceiling.