Under a War-Torn Sky (5 page)

“What the heck are those?” asked Dan.

“No idea,” Henry answered. “Look how they rip past the Junkers.”

“Remember to report that at debriefing,” said Dan.

But the pilots had little time to think about Hitler's new planes. The Junkers and Messerschmitts were now concentrating their firepower on the outer ribs of the American bomber formation – on them and
Battling Queen.

“Pull in snug, Hank,” Dan spoke sharply. “They're coming for us.”

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

The Junkers spun and came at them, hurling lead. Most of the bullets bounced off, but one broke through the cockpit's Plexiglas armour.
Zing, zing, zing, zing.
It rattled around and around until it found its mark: Dan's leg.

Dan screamed and slumped over, breathing hard. “Sweet Jesus!” He grabbed his calf.

“Dan!” Henry reached towards his captain.

“Keep your hands on the wheel, Lieutenant,” Dan snarled. He groaned as he straightened himself. “I'm all right. It's not deep enough for me to bleed to death. Focus, Hank. They'll be back any second.”

On this swing, the Luftwaffe targeted
Battling Queen.
Four fighters veered towards her, guns blinking. Then they loosed something else Dan and Henry had never seen before. A small rocket shot out from under one of the Junkers' wings.

BOOM!

The rocket hit
Battling Queen
's number three engine. The bomber lurched wildly, but somehow Billy and Dick kept the B-24 level. Henry knew, though, that a number-three explosion meant that Billy had lost his hydraulic system. The electrical was probably out, too.
Battling Queen
had no chance of making it home now.

The wounded bomber slid out and away from the squadron. Smoke trailed out of its blackened engine and the number-two propeller swung around uselessly. The bomb bay door opened. One, two, three crew members jumped out. Then another two. Five little white chutes popped open and were scattered by the wind. Clouds swallowed them.

Did Billy make it out? Lord, I know he can be a jerk
, Henry prayed silently.
But look after him now.

Empty of her crew,
Battling Queen
seemed to just hang there for a moment, dead in the air. Then it burst into flames and –
BOOM!
– blew up.

“Hold on!” shouted Dan. He and Henry gripped their wheels as debris clattered across the shell of their plane.
Out of the Blue
pitched around violently in the explosion's wake.

“They'll be on us now,” Dan warned.

Henry nodded grimly and locked onto his control wheel even tighter. He placed his life in the hands of his gunners. “Get me a bird, guys,” he called through the intercom.

It all happened faster than Henry expected. Just as Dan radioed: “Little Friends, Little Friends, we've got a bee's nest back here,” Messerschmitts swarmed them. Four whirled around, looped up over
Out of the Blue
and came back, straight on, rolling.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

Another bullet pierced the cockpit window.

Zing, zing, zing.

Henry felt it whiz by his ear to lodge somewhere behind him.

CRRRRACK.

Glass shattered. A scream of pain came from the bombardier's compartment below.

“God, oh God,” Paul cried out over the intercom. “Fred's hit! There's blood everywhere! Oh, God.”

Other cries of agony shrieked through the intercom. Henry started to lift himself out of his chair to help.

“Sit down! They're coming around again, Hank.” Dan steadied Henry with his commanding voice.

A thousand yards ahead, Henry could see American Mustangs closing in. “Come on, boys,” he urged.

A Messerschmitt streaked by the cockpit.

BANG, BANG, BANG.

Henry heard the sound of bullets puncturing metal, of engine gears grinding and cracking.
Out of the Blue
quaked and dipped. Its number two engine was on fire. The edge of its left wing was sheered off.

BANG!

Henry looked to the right. Their number three engine sputtered and shook. Its propeller grated to a stop.

“Dan!” Henry cried.

“I know. We're cooked.” Dan called to the crew, “Bail out. Everybody out NOW!”

Out of the Blue
began to whine and drift away from the formation, falling like a leaf on a strong wind. Henry knew it was only a matter of a minute, seconds maybe, before her nose would go down. Then she'd start spinning, generating a centrifugal force that would lock all of them inside until she exploded. But he and Dan clung to the controls for a few more moments to give the crew – whoever was still alive – a chance to get out.

“Now you,” Dan ordered Henry. “I'm right behind you.” The entire left wing was ablaze.

Henry pushed himself up, fighting the plane's wild bucking. He glanced down at Dan's leg. It was drenched in blood. Dan would never get himself out with that wound. “I'm not leaving without you, Captain.”

“Go on!” shouted Dan. “That's an order!”

Henry had disconnected himself from his oxygen supply to get out. He could feel himself getting lightheaded. Hurry, he told himself. Hurry!

He started out of the cockpit, following orders. Then he looked at Dan's leg again. This man had saved his skin plenty of times. Henry couldn't leave him behind. He grabbed Dan by the arm and yanked him up. “Sorry, Captain. You're coming.”

Waddling in his fat, fleece-lined suit, Henry dragged the two of them out of the cockpit. He could hear the wings tearing apart. The plane rocked like an earthquake. Dan cried out with each step.

Somehow, Henry got them to the bomb bay. He lowered Dan into the opening. Clouds rushed below. Dan clutched Henry's collar. It was the first time Henry had seen fear on Dan's face.

“Thanks, Hank,” he said. Then Dan let go and dropped into the sky.

Henry wriggled down among the four five-hundred-pound bombs. He squeezed his way through and fell into the blue.

Henry waited before pulling the parachute's red handle. Pull the release cord too soon and the chute might snag on the plane's tail.

One one thousand, two one thousand… In flight training, Henry had been taught to count to ten by thousands before pulling. If he let his freefall go long enough, the friction of his body against air would slow his descent, making the chute's snapping open more merciful. Many an airman had broken ribs, collarbones, and even their necks from the jolt of the chute surging open.

Three one thousand, four one thousand, five…

Henry couldn't see much but mist.

Six one thousand, seven one thousand, eight one thousand…

His ears felt like they would explode from the changing air pressure.

Nine one thousand, ten.

Henry pulled the cord. His chute billowed open and jerked him up into a float. He was cocooned in a cloud. He couldn't hear the battle's explosions, the roar of planes, the screams of men. Nothing. For a blissful moment, Henry felt like a hawk skating on the winds above his farm.

When he was blown clear of the cloudbank, he looked down. If he were over a town, or a river, or a forest, he'd be in trouble. His parachute could drag him under water and drown him; trees and church spires could lynch him.

Below stretched a hilly landscape of snow.

Snow? Maybe he was in Switzerland. Henry scanned the sky. In the distance, he could just make out another chute. That had to be Dan.

Something black was zeroing in on his captain. “Oh, no!” Henry cupped his hands to his mouth and shouted from his belly, “Dan! Look out!”

They'd been warned that German fighters, sensing the Allies' momentum, sometimes strafed fliers drifting to safety in parachutes. One began circling Dan, like a buzzard looping over a hurt animal.

Henry could hear a faint popping sound as the Messerschmitt fired. He strained to see. He couldn't believe the fighter would go after a man hanging helpless in a parachute. With horror, Henry watched Dan twist and swing back and forth, desperately trying to make himself a moving target.

The fighter took a final, razor-close pass. Dan's parachute turned inside out, blown by the backwash of the Messerschmitt. Instantly, Dan plunged towards earth, a worthless plume of white canvas streaming above him.

“NOOOOOOOOO!” Henry screamed. They had to be a mile up in the air. When he hit ground, Dan's body would shatter like a glass hitting pavement. Henry covered his eyes and heaved wrenching sobs. He thought of the baby pictures that Dan had shown him dozens of times. Baby Colleen.

Then he heard it – the whine of a plane closing in. The Messerschmitt was coming after him.

“You've got to be kidding!” Henry wrestled his pistol free and pointed it at the dark smudge that was getting bigger and louder by the second. “Come on!” he yelled. “This is for Dan.”

Blinded by anger and grief, Henry didn't think about the futility of trying to shoot down a plane moving at such speed with a handgun. He sucked in the freezing air to clear his vision. He thought of how his dad had taught him to shoot a quail: never take your eye off it. Track the bird, then squeeze the trigger gently so your hand doesn't jerk and spoil your aim.

Henry lined up the pistol's nose with the fighter's oncoming cockpit. “I've got you,” he muttered.

Pop, pop.
Henry squeezed the trigger. The .45 spat uselessly at the gleaming, roaring machine.
Pop, pop.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

The Messerschmitt's machine guns thundered back at him.

Henry could feel bullets zinging past him. He aimed again.
Pop, pop.

Six shots. He was out of ammunition. Henry helplessly threw the pistol towards the Messerschmitt and watched it tumble aimlessly through heaven. He faced the oncoming machine, naked.

Rat-tat-tat-tat-tat-tat.

The fighter's machine gun bullets ripped through Henry's parachute. He felt the chute dip, felt the air rushing faster up his body to his face. He looked up and saw holes peppering the chute's canvas.

Henry looked down and saw the earth roaring up to meet him. The chute's pinholes were tearing open. Would it hold long enough to get him to the ground? The snow might cushion his landing.

“Please, God, please.” Henry braced himself for impact.

Ka-thump
. A snowdrift swallowed him. Searing pain ripped up his left leg. Henry pulled the chute down over him and didn't move, hardly breathed, as he listened to the sound of other planes buzzing by overhead.

At last it was quiet. Still Henry waited until he was shivering inside all that fleece before kicking himself free of the wet, melting snowdrift. It was twilight and the rose-washed countryside looked oddly serene. Bury the chute, he remembered, bury it so it can't be seen. He staggered to a bramble, stuffed the chute into its roots, and covered it with muddy snow.

Henry sat down. His left ankle was already swelling and straining his boot. Sprained? Broken, maybe. Could he walk on it?

Henry opened the escape kit and pulled out one of its three morphine syringes. Taking a deep breath, he injected the painkiller into his leg. Then he crammed part of the kit's C-rations into his mouth. It tasted awful. He had no appetite. But Henry knew he wouldn't get far without something in his stomach. He hadn't had anything to eat since 5:30 that morning.

Henry stood, winced, and began limping west, towards the sunset. He had no idea whether he was in Germany, France, or Switzerland. All he knew was that west was the way home.

Henry clenched his fists to keep from crying out as he skidded down the hillsides. He swore he could feel the bones of his left ankle scraping together with each step. Whenever he came to level ground he hopped on his right foot. But he certainly couldn't outrun any Nazis this way.

He scanned the horizon to see if he could spot another American limping along. Could any of his crew be alive? Did they need help? Could they help him?

He saw no one. He was completely on his own.

Move on, boy. They'll be out looking for you.

Henry came to the edge of a pine forest and picked up a fallen limb to use as a crutch. But it was heavy to drag and soon his vision began to blur with exhaustion. Finally, he found the beginnings of a road. It was narrow and muddy from the March thaw. He followed it, not knowing what else to do. He berated himself for throwing away his .45. What a hothead, what an idiot. If he still had his gun he could at least put up a real fight. Now all he could do was hide.

At a crossroads, a wooden sign of arrows pointed the way to several towns: STRASBOURG, NEUF-BRISACH, GUEBWILLER, MULHOUSE. Henry was not reassured by the names. Strasbourg and Guebwiller sounded distinctly German. He couldn't tell about Mulhouse. Of the four, Neuf-Brisach was the only one that sounded French. He clung to his hope that if he was not in France, he was in Switzerland. He knew that both German and French were spoken in that country. He chose the path to Neuf-Brisach.

Within a few minutes Henry saw a scattering of houses. They were half-timbered, held together with mortar and a latticework of wooden beams that made diamond patterns. They looked just like gingerbread houses pictured in a book of fairy tales his mother used to read him.

He thought of Lilly reading books at bedtime, and the way the moon shone through his curtains. Henry's eyes welled up with tears. How was he ever going to get out of this mess? He could barely walk.

As he stood worrying, Henry spotted a solitary bicyclist. It was hard to make out the rider in the spreading gloom of nightfall. But the sharp lines of a rifle didn't break the silhouette. He pedalled stiffly, as if he were old. The man had to be civilian. Maybe he'd help. But then again, if he was in Germany, could Henry really expect a German to aid an American flier?