Tracie Peterson (26 page)

Digger’s own nickname was born out of a previous occupation of helping to dig graves with his grandfather. As the groundskeeper for the local cemetery, Digger’s grandfather had shoveled out graves until into his sixties. He’d be there still, Digger mused, had he not rolled the tractor over on top of him. The accident, now five years past, had come as a shock to the family. Digger’s grandfather had been driving tractors for even longer than he’d been digging graves. It seemed a senseless accident and had angered Digger as an even more senseless death.

“
It was just his time
,” Digger’s mother had said. “
God has called him home
.”

The idea of God robbing a sixteen-year-old boy of his idol and only father figure didn’t sit right with Collin. He thought God harsh, unjust, and unkind. And then Collin went one step further and decided not to think of God at all.

“Tail to Pilot,
Stormy Weather
just took a hit!” The call came over the plane’s intercom system and jerked Digger out of his morose thoughts.

“Roger, Tail,” John replied, touching his hand to his throat mic. “How bad is it, Del?”

“They’re on fire, Deacon!” The usually cocky eighteen-year-old sounded rather frantic. “They’re dropping out of formation and there they go!”

“Pilot to Navigator, mark the time of
Stormy Weather’s
loss.”

There was no time for the navigator to reply, however. Another burst of flak exploded somewhere to the left of the plane. Pieces of hot metal tore through
Circuit Rider
like soft butter. Digger and Deacon both jumped at the spray of crystallized glass from the instrument panel as it showered the cockpit.

“You okay?” Deacon questioned his co-pilot. He glanced quickly at the man to reassure himself that he was still alive.

“I’m fine!” Digger exclaimed, taking visual assessment of the control panel.

“All stations check in, report damage,” Deacon called over the intercom.

“Bombardier, check, clear” came the first confirmation from the crew.

Digger heard Deacon give a sharp intake of breath. “I’m hit, Digger,” Deacon said as the rest of the crew began reporting.

Digger’s face contorted before settling on what he knew was an expression of disbelief. “Where? How bad?” His gaze ran up and down the full length of his captain before settling back on Deacon’s face. He didn’t see blood and yet knew Deacon wasn’t the type to jump to conclusions.

But Deacon had no chance to answer, nor to assess his wound. Something out the left window caught his attention.

“Dig, number two engine’s on fire. Kill the power and feather the prop! Hit the fire extinguishers.”

Digger quickly went into action, his mind still on Deacon’s injury.

“Top Turret, check. Hey, Captain, number two is smoking!”

“Roger that, Top Turret,” Deacon replied.

“Engine two, off. Feathering two. Fire extinguishers, on,” Digger announced as he went through the procedure.

The number two engine coughed and sputtered before dying. Deacon cast a quick glance out the window, and Digger strained to see the results of his actions. Like an oversized rendition of a child’s whirligig, the propeller continued to turn as it met the onrushing air.
Circuit Rider
began to shake fiercely, causing Deacon to grip the yoke even harder.

“Radio compartment, check, no damage here, sir.”

“Left Waist Gunner, check. I’m clear.”

“Right Waist Gunner, check.”

“Ball Turret, check, undamaged.”

“Tail Gunner, check, A-OK here.”

“No go, Deac, number two isn’t feathering. It’s windmilling!” Digger said as he repeated the procedure for feathering.

The plane’s vibrations were an increasing worry. Digger knew the news wasn’t what Deacon wanted to hear.

“Okay, Digger, let’s increase throttle to number one and decrease to three and four. We’re starting to crab,” he commanded as he fought to keep the B-17 from its sidewise pull. “I’ll see if I can trim us up.”
His words came through rattling teeth as he looked to the aileron tab control on the floor panel to his left.

Touching his throat mic, he said, “Pilot to Radio. Pilot to Radio.”

“Radio here, sir.” The reply was crisp and concise.

“Call the lead ship, advise them of our situation and tell them we’re dropping out of formation. We can’t keep up.”

The windmilling prop continued to reduce the
Circuit Rider
’s speed, and Digger could see for himself that the formation was already pulling away at a noticeable rate of speed. His heart dropped and his adrenaline increased. There was safety in numbers as everyone on the bomber knew. Their flight formation was specifically designed to benefit the group and allow the B-17 gunners to cover one another, and while far from foolproof, the formation gave them at least some security against the formidable German fighters.

“Wilco.” The radio operator’s voice sounded less sure.

“We’ll need a course for home,” Deacon said. “Pilot to Navigator. Pilot to Navigator.” He waited for a moment, and when no reply came he called to the bombardier. “Pilot to Bombardier. Tex, check on Lawrence.”

“Wilco” came the drawl of the Texas-born bombardier.

Suddenly an excited voice broke onto the intercom. “Ball Gunner to Pilot! Ball Gunner to Pilot!”

“Pilot here, go ahead, Ball.”

“Deac, that flak burst must’ve put some holes in the left wing. We have a fuel leak right behind number two engine!”

“How bad?” Deacon asked. Things were quickly going from bad to worse.

“Bad enough. There’s a bunch of fuel in the slipstream.”

Digger shook his head. If fuel was leaking out that badly, then the hole or holes had to be large enough that they’d defeat the self-sealing fuel tanks. He tried to steady his nerves, knowing that Deacon would know what to do.

“Pilot to Top Turret.”

“Top here, sir.”

“Davis, start transferring fuel from the port inboard tank,” Deacon commanded.

“I’m already on it” came the clipped reply.

Digger knew Davis to be a good man, but he had a chip on his
shoulder big enough to land an overloaded B-17. Davis had left a good life back in the States and never let anyone forget it. He resented the war and often appeared to resent his crewmates as well.
At least he knows his job
, Digger thought, with no more time to worry about Davis’s attitude.

The increased vibrations caused by the windmilling prop gave Deacon and Digger more to concentrate on than a surly crew member. If they didn’t get the prop under control, it could spell real disaster for them.

“Digger, keep trying to feather number two.”

“I’m on it!” Digger snapped, the frustration of the moment putting an uncharacteristic edge to his tone.

Digger had always been rather nonchalant and easygoing, even in the face of adversity. His cavalier attitude was born out of figuring he had nothing to lose in trying whatever it took to stay alive. Getting home to Melody and his soon-to-be-born child was the only thing in life worth fighting for, as far as he was concerned. But this time, faced with a seriously crippled plane, Digger worried that his main objective might be compromised by circumstances beyond his control. Fear washed over him in waves of despair.

“Bombardier to Pilot!” Tex’s normal slow drawl came across the radio unusually hurried, almost panicked. “Deac, it’s Matt. He’s been hit bad. He’s losing blood! Oh . . . I mean . . . there’s a lot of blood, Deac! Somebody get down here to help me!”

Digger felt his stomach tighten. They must have taken a much bigger hit than he’d figured.

Deacon appeared to be considering the matter before replying, “Davis, slip down and help out.”

“Can’t, sir,” he replied. “I’m still transferring fuel.”

“Pilot to Radio. Pilot to Radio.”

“Radio here, sir.”

“Come forward and help Tex.”

“Wilco.”

The bombardier’s frantic voice interrupted the silence again. “I didn’t know he was hit! I thought he was working a problem at the table. He was slumped over. I didn’t know he was hit! There’s blood everywhere, Deac!”

“Pilot to Bombardier. Settle down, Tex. Smitty’s on his way forward
to help you,” Deacon said, his voice calm and reassuring.

“Hurry, he’s bleeding to death. It looks like he got hit in the throat! He’s bleeding bad.”

“Keep the intercom clear, Tex, that’s an order!” Deacon’s authority rang clear.

Digger tried to focus on the job at hand. No doubt Deacon was already praying over the matter—not that Collin thought it would do much good. He could almost hear one of Deacon’s speeches about God watching over them and seeing them through. Every time there was a crisis of any sort, Deacon always resorted to a moment or two of silent or spoken prayer before he pursued the matter any further. Digger always shook his head in disbelief. Moments of trouble called for action, not hokey religious mumbo jumbo.

As worried as Digger was about the navigator and plane, he knew they had other things to consider. Luftwaffe fighters loved to look for crippled or damaged bombers they could pounce on and shoot down. To the bomber crews these were the “boogeyman,” more fearsome than flak because this enemy had eyes and could see you.

Digger might not have confidence in Deacon’s prayers, but he had the utmost of confidence in the man as a pilot. He refused to make it easy on the enemy. He wouldn’t give up without a fight. Digger figured Deacon would fly low and make it harder on the German fighters. Attacking at lower altitudes would increase the danger. The fighters wouldn’t be as likely to dive on them for fear of being unable to pull up before crashing into the ground. The fighter’s loss of speed would also give Deacon’s
Circuit Rider
a better chance of hitting their target.

Then, as if reading Digger’s mind, Deacon announced, “If we’re going home single, then let’s make it harder for the boogeyman to get us. Let’s take her down to the deck nice and easy. We don’t want to put any more strain on number two’s prop than we have to. Also, keep an eye on number one—I’m not sure but it might be damaged too.”

“Wilco,” Digger replied, already working to comply. “So where are you hit and how bad?”

“It’s my left leg and it doesn’t seem too bad. Hurts some, but I’m all right.” Deacon grinned from behind the oxygen mask and added, “You could always say a prayer for me—better put one in for Matt as well.”

Digger frowned. “I don’t think God would much appreciate my talking to Him, especially seeing as how I don’t believe in Him.”

“I think right about now might be a good time to start.”

Digger turned away and pretended to check the instrument panel. He didn’t want to admit that Deacon had a good point.

“Radio to Pilot. Radio to Pilot.” Smitty’s voice sounded through the headset.

“Pilot here. Go ahead, Radio.”

“I’m up front. Sir, Lieutenant Lawrence is hit pretty bad. Looks like a piece of shrapnel went through his throat. There’s a hole in the fuselage up here big enough to put my head through.” Digger marveled at the calm and businesslike sound of Smitty’s voice. “I’ve administered morphine and Tex is holding pressure to the wound. I’m thinking the artery in the neck has been severed. I don’t know what we can do.”

“Is there any way to clamp off the bleeding?” Deacon called.

“I wouldn’t know, sir. We can try, but every time Tex releases pressure, blood goes everywhere. As it is, the bandages are getting soaked pretty fast. The cold air seems to slow it down a little, but it’s not enough to keep him from bleeding to death.” He paused as if to give Deacon a moment to take in the news before adding, “Another problem, sir, his oxygen mask has been perforated—it’s like a sieve. He’s not getting much oxygen. I’m using the walk-around bottle, but that won’t last for long. You’re going to need to get us below ten thousand.”

“Roger that, Smitty. We’re working on it.”

Digger tried not to let the news distract him. Lawrence was dying. The crew would have heard everything over the intercom and now they’d be worried. It wasn’t a good way to be when your life depended on staying focused.

Digger watched as Deacon glanced out his left window. “She’s still windmilling,” Deacon informed.

Digger knew if they dropped altitude too quickly, the strain might well cause the propeller shaft to break. This in turn could send the propeller cartwheeling through the fuselage like a giant buzz saw. Not a good thought at all.

Glancing back at the control panel, Digger noticed something alarming. The turn bank indicator and artificial horizon were out.
Glancing upward he noted the compass had been shattered as well. Minor problems except for the fact they were needed for negotiating the undercast of clouds that stretched out below them.
Shrapnel must have hit the instrument panel
, he thought.
That’s just what we need
.

“Deac, the TBI and artificial horizon are gone. Compass too. It just doesn’t get any better than this, does it?”

“I’m havin’ a ball!”

“Tail Gunner to Pilot! Tail Gunner to Pilot! The excited voice of the tail gunner filled Deacon’s headset.

“Pilot here.”

“Bogey, five o’clock high!”

“Keep an eye on him, Tail Gunner,” Deacon replied.

“Maybe it’s a Little Friend,” Digger offered, hoping the plane was an American P-47 or perhaps a British Spitfire catching up to them to shepherd them home.

“Tail to Pilot. Make that a bandit at five o’clock high. Looks like an ME-109!”

“I guess we’re about to have someone crash our party.”

Digger had just about had all he could take of war and its surprises. “Maybe it’s just God sending an angel to take you home,” he threw out snidely.

“Or the Devil coming for you,” Deacon replied.