Defiant Heart (34 page)

Out over the ocean, the gunners checked their weapons by firing a few rounds. All were in working condition. Through the port side window, Jon noticed one B-17 drop out of formation and turn for home. Must have been some sort of mechanical problem, he thought. The crew of that plane would not receive credit for a mission.

As they crossed over the coast of the mainland, Jon got his first glimpse of flak, the bursts of anti-aircraft shells fired from artillery pieces on the ground. They looked like small harmless puffs of black smoke. However, what each of those little innocuous looking puffs actually represented, Jon knew, was a powerful explosion that sent hundreds of irregularly shaped pieces of metal out in all directions, metal that would, depending on the proximity of the explosion, tear through wings, engine cowlings, fuselage skin and, worst of all, flesh.

They were now over German-occupied Europe, and everyone in the crew was searching the skies around them, looking for enemy fighters. Jon manned the .50-caliber machine gun mounted in the radio compartment facing up and aft. His was a limited view of the sky. In comparison, Reyes, in the top turret, had an unobstructed 360-degree view from above the plane, while Graham in the ball turret had a similar view below.

The interphone was quiet, a good sign, as it meant no German aircraft in the vicinity. Kovalesky finally announced that they had reached the initial point for the bomb run. The voice of Reyes came on. “Top turret. Flak ahead. Sorry, boys, looks heavy.”

Around them, the tell-tale puffs began to appear. These were much closer than the ones they’d encountered over the coast, and there were a lot more of them. The plane suddenly jumped, then dipped. It leveled, but then shook side to side. Jon could hear the explosions now. Some muffled, others loud and sharp.

There was a sudden cracking sound, and a hole about the size of Jon’s fist appeared in the right fuselage wall, two feet away from him. Above him, a B-17 from the 302nd took a direct hit on its number two engine. Flames appeared beneath the wing, and the plane began to drop back and lose altitude. As Jon watched, the left wing dipped, and the plane began to nose over. It dropped out of Jon’s view. Jon wondered if, by chance, the stricken plane was the one he’d flown out on from the States. He hoped not.

The bomb bay doors opened, accompanied by a grinding sound, and there was a sudden drop in the plane’s airspeed. The engine roar increased as Roth sought to compensate for the additional drag. Roth, Jon knew, would set the autopilot in preparation for turning over controls to Ambrose for the bomb run. The pilot then announced that the bombardier had control of the aircraft.

The plane continued to buck and roll as the flak burst around them. Suddenly, a bright light filled the window on the left hand side of the plane, and, when Jon turned to look, he saw with horror that the B-17 next to them had just disintegrated into a huge fiery ball. It hung, suspended for a moment, then fell away.

“Aw, man,” he heard Graham say over the interphone, “that was the Silver Bullet.”

“Any ‘chutes?” Gooch asked.

After a moment, Graham’s voice came over again. “No.”

“Pilot to crew, keep the chatter down. Do your jobs.”

“Bombs away,” came Ambrose’s voice, and Jon could hear a rattling sound as the bombs in the compartment just forward of his slid out of their mountings. The plane jumped with the sudden lessening of weight. The wings waggled, then settled back into smooth flight, or as smooth as possible given the concussive effects of the flak bursting around them.

Jon heard the bomb bay doors closing, and, a moment later, the entire formation began a long, slow turn. After another few tense minutes, the bursts from the anti-aircraft guns fell away behind them, and they were in the clear.

Roth’s voice came over the interphone. “Pilot to crew. Keep a sharp eye out for enemy planes.”

The words were no sooner out of his mouth, when Jon heard an excited cry. “Bandits. One o’clock, low.” It sounded like Kovalesky. It meant he’d spotted German fighters ahead of them slightly to their right‌—‌where the one would be if the face of a clock were laid horizontally around them and they were flying toward twelve o’clock‌—‌and below their current altitude.

Shim’s voice announced, “Bandits six o’clock high. I count at least a dozen.”

The interphone became alive, several men talking at once. “Bandits. Twelve o’clock level. Coming straight at us. Bandit at four o’clock. Get this guy coming by. Passing on the right. That’s a hit. Flight of three coming in at eight o’clock level. Passing overhead.”

Jon rotated in anticipation of the planes in the last report. A trio of fighters appeared above him, traveling fast. He picked the lead plane, squeezed the trigger and watched as the tracers reached out from the end of his barrel and stitched a pattern in the belly of the German plane. Swiveling quickly, Jon kept the fire on the fighter as it soared past, moving from Jon’s right to left. There was a loud whoosh, and the plane that Jon had been shooting at exploded. The suddenness caused him to jump back. He lost his grip on the gun and almost fell.

Jon straightened quickly, grabbed the gun and swung it back up, looking for more fighters. As he did, the Deuces Wild shuddered, and there was an abrupt change in the engine sound behind him to his left. Jon shot a glance out the window on the right hand side, and he could see smoke trailing along the base of the wing. Fortunately, as he watched, the smoke petered out. He realized with a shock, however, that they’d lost the use of the engine.

They were now flying on only three engines. Roth, he knew, would have feathered the dead engine, flattening the pitch of the blades to minimize power absorption. Jon could hear the other engines being throttled up, as Roth struggled to keep the plane with the formation. The last thing they wanted was to drop out from the protection of the other bombers, where they could be picked off by the German fighters at will.

Somehow, Roth managed to keep them in the formation. The attacks from the fighters continued for another several minutes, but then they all suddenly seemed to vanish, and the skies around them were clear again.

“Pilot to crew,” Roth’s voice came across the interphone, “check in.”

One by one, each of the crew reported in. They’d avoided casualties. Gooch, Jon would learn when they landed, had a piece of flak rip open one of the sleeves on his jacket, but he’d not even received a scratch.

Back at the base, the Deuces Wild was given priority for landing as a result of the damaged engine and a dangerously low fuel situation. One of the tanks in the right wing had been punctured, and Roth had used a lot of fuel running the other three engines at war emergency levels.

When the engines were finally shut down, the men of the Deuces Wild made their way to the hatches and jumped to the ground.

“How about that,” Gooch said, waving his torn sleeve around for all to see.

“What about Meyer?” Reyes exclaimed. “Gets a Messerschmitt on his first mission.”

A couple of the guys thumped Jon on the back.

Try as he might, however, Jon could not join in the revelry. In his mind, he kept seeing the fireball that had been the Silver Bullet. One moment it was there. The next, it was gone. And now there would be six empty bunks back in Hut 51.

How, he asked himself, could he possibly go through that another twenty-four times?

#

Mary opened the front door, and, when she saw who it was, she cried out with delight.

“Penny!”

Penny reached out her arms, Mary stepped into them, and they embraced.

It was only when she stepped back that Mary realized how differently Penny was dressed. She was wearing a brown overcoat, double breasted, with two rows of gilt buttons down the front. Perched jauntily on top of Penny’s head was a cap with a short brim and a stiff crown. Mounted on the front of the cap was a gold insignia.

“Penny, what’s this?” she asked. Then she immediately amended, “Oh, where are my manners? Please come in.”

Penny bent her knees slightly, gripped the handle of a suitcase sitting at her feet, and followed Mary into the house. Mary showed Penny to a seat by the fireplace. When Penny removed her coat, Mary could see that she was dressed in a uniform of some sort.

Mary perched herself on the edge of the opposite chair.

“Penny, tell me everything,” she said, and she waved a hand indicating Penny’s outfit. “Starting with this.”

Penny laughed. “No, Mary. First, you have to tell me how you’re feeling. You look good. You got your color back.”

Mary raised a hand to her cheek in a reflexive gesture. “Oh, I feel fine. All the dizziness is gone.”

“And you’ve got your memory back.”

“Yes,” Mary said, brightly. “You received my last letter.”

Penny nodded. “So, have you heard from Jon?”

Mary shook her head. “No. And it’s killing me. He must think I’m awful, ignoring him for so long.”

“But you couldn’t help it. You’d lost your memory. He’ll understand.”

Mary looked down at the floor. “If it’s not too late.”

Penny reached a hand out and put it on Mary’s knee. “Don’t worry, he’ll understand.”

Mary nodded uncertainly. Then she straightened. “So tell me. Have you heard from Andy?”

“Yes,” Penny said, smiling. “He’s on an island called New Caledonia. It’s somewhere in the South Pacific. He says he’s very safe, though I don’t know whether to believe him or not.” A somber look washed over her face. “Anyway, I finally realized that, if I want to get Andy home soon, I need to do something to help finish this darn war. That’s when I joined up.”

“What, exactly, did you join?”

“The Women’s Auxiliary Army Corps. For the last four weeks, I’ve been in Des Moines, undergoing basic training.”

“You’re in the army,” Mary said with surprise.

“I am,” Penny said, nodding. “I’m on my way to New York. From there, I go to England.”

“England,” Mary repeated, her heart pumping faster. “Really?”

“Yes. I wanted to go to the South Pacific. I had this crazy idea that maybe I’d wind up somewhere close to Andy. But they don’t let wives do that. So,” she shrugged, “England it is.”

Mary sat back. The wheels in her head were spinning.

#

“So,” Sam said, studying Mary, “your plan is to go find Jon.”

Mary nodded as she continued folding the clothes she’d laid out on the bed.

“Do you have any idea where he is?” Sam asked.

“Yes.”

“Really? And where is that?”

“England.”

“England,” Sam repeated, nodding. After a moment, she said, “You do know that’s a pretty big place, right?”

Mary took a sweater that she’d folded and set it in the open suitcase. “I’ll find him.”

“Uh huh. You’ll just hop off the boat and say, ‘Hey, anyone seen Jon Meyer around?’ That ought to work. I can’t believe you didn’t think of it earlier.”

Mary gave Sam a wry smile. “Ok, I know it sounds a little far-fetched. But, I have to do something. It’s been almost two months. I haven’t heard anything from Jon. I can’t just sit around twiddling my thumbs. There’s nothing for me here in Jackson.”

There must have been something in her expression, because Mary suddenly leaned over and touched her shoulder. “Oh, I don’t mean it like that. Of course I’m going to miss
you
. Very much. But otherwise, really, what is there to keep me here? And my father? I’m so angry with him, I’m afraid of what I might say next.” Mary shook her head. “So, no, I can’t just stay here doing nothing.”

“Ok,” Sam said, deciding she’d try a different tack, “how about the fact that you’re still only seventeen? Has it occurred to you the army might think that’s just a tad too young?”

“They didn’t think it was too young for Jon. And anyway,” Mary said, a sly smile playing on her lips, “I’ve already taken care of that.”

“Really, how?”

With a mischievous look, Mary reached for her purse, took out an envelope, and handed it to Sam.

Curious, Sam opened the flap and extracted the single sheet of paper. Unfolding it, she could see that it was an official looking document.

“Your birth certificate?”

Mary nodded. “Look at the date I was born.”

Sam ran her eyes down the page until she found the appropriate entry. It was smudged, but she could just make out the date. April 23, 1921. She started to look up at Mary, then she quickly looked back down at the certificate. “What. How can that be?”

Mary pointed to the square in which the date of birth had been typed. “It took me a while to get it just right. I used an eraser and my father’s typewriter. Then I blurred it a little with my finger. If you look really closely, you’ll see the last digit isn’t quite the same as the others.”

Sam looked at it again, and, sure enough, she could see it now. The vestiges of the number 5 were just visible under the darker number 1.

“Don’t you think they’ll notice that?”

Mary grinned. “They didn’t.”

“What?”

“I already showed it to them. That’s where I was yesterday. In Indianapolis. I’m all signed up. I’ve got my orders.”

“The army thinks your twenty-one?”

Mary shrugged. “They didn’t seem to care all that much. They were happy to have me.”

Realizing she was out of arguments, Sam sat back in her chair. “When do you leave?”

“Tonight. I’m catching the 6:10.”

“And you’re on your way to England.”

“Well, no. First, I’m on my way to Georgia for basic training. A place called Fort Oglethorpe. That should take four weeks. From there, hopefully,” she held up a hand with fingers crossed, “I’ll go to England.”

“Where you think you’ll be able to find Jon.”

“I’ll find him,” Mary said quietly.

#

Jim Dahlgren stared absently into the fire. The flames in the firebox seemed to him to be dancing on top of the logs, brightly colored figures gyrating merrily to a tune only they could hear. He took another sip of scotch and envied them their apparent happiness.

The past two and a half months had been a blur aided, in large part, by alcohol. Thank God for alcohol, he mused, and he raised his glass in a mock toast.