“I’m hit! I’m hit!”
Buckley called out, “Hang on! You’ll be okay!” Into the intercom now, “Wounded man up front! I need some help here!”
In short seconds the engineer was there, shouting into Buckley’s ear. “Drop the damn bombs! Let’s get out of here!”
Buckley was unnerved by the man’s panic, saw his face, the handheld oxygen bottle. “Help Davy! He’s hit!”
The lieutenant leaned down, did something to Goodman’s foot, and Buckley ignored him, was furious at the older man. You’re supposed to be the big rough-ass. Don’t tell me my job.
The lieutenant was up again, shouted into his ear, “Bad cut! He’s bleeding! Can’t stop it! The pilot’s been hit too! Cockpit busted all to hell! Get us out of here!”
“You son of a bitch! Get up there and help them! I’ve still got a bomb load!”
The man was gone quickly, and Buckley was shaking, furious, the lieutenant’s panic becoming contagious. He heard Goodman cry out again, but there was nothing he could do, not yet. He strained to see, too much black smoke, flashes of fire, far to one side a B-17 exploding, pieces, one wing flipping away. There were more flashes now, distant, the others absorbing the punishing terror from the ground. He saw a plane, far to the front, bombs dropping from its belly, his brain reacting, yes! Dammit! Thank God! He waited a long second, one more, one more, then grabbed the bomb release, jammed it forward. Behind him, the bombs fell away silently, and he felt himself lurching upward, the loss of the weight lightening the plane.
He shouted into the intercom, “Bombs away! Copilot, you okay? Take the controls! Let’s go!”
“Got her, Bombardier. Good job. Engine two just went, the prop’s gone. I’ve got her.”
The plane banked sharply, more smoke, another blast ripping through the fuselage behind him, voices in the intercom, one of the gunners, shouts, nonsense. Go, dammit! Go! He thought of the lieutenant’s words, The pilot’s hit. It’s all right, the copilot is a good guy. He can get it done. He looked over to Goodman, the blood in a sickening pool on the deck, flowing forward under Buckley’s feet. He ripped at the safety belt, freed himself, was down quickly, kneeling in blood, saw a bandage, the lieutenant’s feeble attempt to dress the wound. Idiot. I’ll bust that son of a bitch in the mouth.
“Hang on, Davy! Gotta make you a tourniquet!”
Goodman didn’t respond, stared at him past the oxygen mask, wide-eyed, terrified.
Buckley grabbed at the first-aid kit, thought, Flight Engineer, you jackass. You didn’t think to use the kit? He ripped it open, saw the strip of rubber, the tourniquet, said, “Got it! This’ll help!”
He sealed off the wound above Goodman’s ankle, tightened the tourniquet, looked to the kit again, saw the syrette of morphine.
“Something for the pain, Davy! Right here!”
He pulled Goodman’s pant leg up, above the tourniquet, jabbed the needle into the man’s calf. That’s gotta help. Okay, now what? Nothing else here. He felt the plane rocking heavily, realized his face was bare. He had left his oxygen mask behind. The dizziness was growing and he cursed aloud, fumbled toward his seat, found the hand bottle, pushed it into his face. Stupid!
He sat for a moment, focused on the Plexiglas, gashes and holes. Gotta get us out of here. The whole damn nose could come apart. He stood, and with his free hand he opened Goodman’s safety belt, grabbed his arm.
“We gotta go, Davy! Let’s get out of here. You can do it!”
Goodman seemed to understand, reached for his own hand bottle, unhooked himself from his headset and mask. Buckley waited while Goodman put the bottle to his face, then nodded to him. “Good. Let’s go!”
The plane rolled hard to one side, Goodman coming down on him, Buckley’s head smacking into the bulkhead. Smoke was filling the plane, the smell of burning metal, a hard cold wind, pain in his back. He struggled to lift Goodman, but the man was limp, no effort, more blood on the man’s chest, a deep gash through the jacket, sweet sickening smell. Buckley pushed hard, rolled him away, the wound clean through Goodman’s back. Oh God … Davy. He saw fire now, behind the bomb bay, but heard no sound, just the roar of the wind, the harsh hum of the two remaining engines. Buckley tried to fight the panic, the screams in his mind, saw the fire extinguisher, struggled to reach it. The plane was still in a steep bank, slowly rolled back to level, and he grabbed the fire extinguisher, saw a man on the other side of the flames, the foam covering the fire. In a few seconds the fire was mostly out, charred wires, the hard stink, and Buckley moved out from the nose, the man calling out to him, one of the gunners.
“The copilot’s dead! Pilot’s wounded bad! That Cajun’s flying the plane! The tail gunner isn’t answering! I think he’s hit too! How’s Goodman?”
“He’s dead.”
Buckley moved through the bomb bay, the narrow catwalk, saw a body, facedown, the copilot, sprawled out on the deck. There was debris through the waist of the plane, rips in the fuselage, but the ball turret was unopened, the man there still inside. He looked to the gunner again, Granger, said, “Man your position. I don’t know where the hell we’re heading, but we might need you.”
He turned away, stared back toward the cockpit, blood on the steps, and he moved forward quickly, climbed up, saw the flight engineer, hands on the controls, the pilot still in his seat, head down, unconscious.
The lieutenant glanced back at him, blood on his face. “We’re not going to make it. Damn eighty-eight shell blew a hole straight through the left wing. Leaking everything, fuel almost gone. How in hell we didn’t blow to pieces, I don’t know. We’re losing hydraulics fast. Two engines gone. Where the hell is your chute?”
Buckley realized now, his parachute was still in the nose. He cursed to himself, backed away from the cockpit, dropped down into the icy wind, saw his chute on the floor, lying in Goodman’s blood. He struggled to breathe, realized the portable bottle was running out, took a long breath, held it, thought, it’s time to get the hell out of here. He yanked at the flak jacket, tossed it aside, slid his arms into the parachute’s straps. There was another blast, deafening, the plane tilting forward, and he looked back, no one, just sky, the tail of the plane gone completely. He held tightly to his own seat, stared at the Norden, tried to reach the pistol, but the plane was spinning now, and he thought, no time to mess with that. Sorry, General.
He was out of breath, fought to see in the harsh wind, grabbed at the emergency hatch to one side, and dove through.
He hit in thick grass, felt a jolt of pain in his knee, rolled over, tried to breathe. Above him, the sky was a chaotic mess of smoke and fire, the sound of popping shells, white trails, B-17s high above. He gasped, but there was no pain in his chest, and he twisted himself, slid out of the chute, tried to bend his leg, more pain in the knee. Damn! Is it broken? He sat up, put a hand on it, probed, felt nothing out of place. Good. Need some of that morphine, though. He caught a glimpse of fire, a plane diving, big, another of the B-17s. Good God, they’re killing us. At least I got the bombs out. What the hell difference does that make now? I don’t even know if I hit anything.
He knew the Big Gator had gone down badly, had watched it as he hung from his chute, a sheet of flame that blew past him, a swirling mass of metal. There had been other parachutes, and he thought of that now, how many? There were … three? I hope to God, maybe more. The gunners, probably. The lieutenant. No, not him. I’ll bet he flew the damn thing right into the ground. He scanned the land around him, trees close on two sides, thick black smoke rising beyond. That’s gotta be us. Need to get there, see if anyone else …
He saw them now, men running toward him, one with a rifle, another with a long sword. They were civilians. The talk began in a fast flow, all in German, the man with the rifle pointing it at Buckley’s head. There was fury in them all, magnified by the words they screamed at him, a chorus of hate. And now another voice, more men coming from the trees: soldiers. Buckley felt a burst of fear, saw one man in a black uniform,
surely an officer, and the man was among the civilians now, shouts of his own, but not at Buckley. The civilians were arguing, seemed reluctant to obey this man, continued their shouts, but it was clear the man in the black uniform had the power. After sharp words between them, they backed away. There were parting curses, and Buckley could feel the anger, tried not to look at them. They shouted still at the soldiers, but it was muted, more soldiers coming out of the woods, running toward them, toward this newfound prisoner.
The officer moved close to him, bent low, pointed to his belt. Buckley realized now, I’m still wearing the .45. The officer said something, one soldier putting his rifle under Buckley’s chin. Buckley felt the steel, tried to force a smile, raised his hands slowly above his head. The officer grabbed the pistol from Buckley’s holster, rolled it over in his hands, admiring. My pleasure, you Kraut son of a bitch. But the words stayed in Buckley’s mind, and he still forced the smile, fought to keep from shaking.
The rifleman backed away, and the officer motioned for him to stand, said something Buckley didn’t understand. Then one word he did.
“Cigaretten?”
“No thanks.”
But the man was not offering, he was pointing to Buckley’s pockets.
Buckley nodded, motioned with his head. “Oh yeah, got a pack of Luckies here. All yours, pal.”
The officer reached into Buckley’s pocket, found the prize, returned the smile now, gave an order to the soldiers, who gathered close to Buckley, the clear signal it was time to move. The officer led them away, and Buckley saw the man light one of the cigarettes. Buckley said in a low voice, “Hope you enjoy those, you bloody Kraut bastard.”
The officer stopped, still smiling, said, “Yes, I will.”
SHAEF, VERSAILLES, FRANCE
NOVEMBER 28, 1944
I’m sick of hearing about this, Ike. Those damn bomber barons are still spouting off about ending this war by Christmas, and it’s bull.” Doolittle glanced toward Tedder, stiffened a little. “No disrespect intended, sir.”
“None taken, General. Your frankness is necessary. I’m not such a fan of those chaps either. It’s an unfortunate coincidence that I do happen to be one of them.”
Eisenhower knew that Air Marshal Tedder respected Doolittle as much as he respected anyone in the American command. Eisenhower pressed the stub of a cigarette into the glass ashtray on his desk, said, “Jimmy, we need the facts. Hap Arnold wanted you in charge of the Eighth Air Force because he knew you’d energize those boys.”
Doolittle looked down for a long second. “I know, Ike. I’m grateful to General Arnold, just like I’m grateful to you. But Hap is one of the problems. So is Eaker. Both of them are right there cheering alongside the Brits. Hell, General Eaker still believes that if you can bomb it, you don’t need bullets.”
Eisenhower knew exactly what Doolittle was referring to. Ira Eaker, Doolittle’s predecessor in command of the Eighth Air Force, had been instrumental in implementing the strategy that established round-the-clock bombing of German cities, the strategy firmly supported by the senior air command in Washington, headed by General Hap Arnold. Many of the bomber barons had insisted, and continued to insist, that the war should be fought almost entirely from the air. Even before the Luftwaffe had virtually disappeared as a major threat to Allied ground forces, the air commands had blithely dismissed ground and sea tactics as a waste of time and manpower. Doolittle’s protests had seemed carefully measured, and Eisenhower knew that even with Doolittle’s credentials, and three stars on his collar, he would tread carefully with Tedder in the room.
Doolittle continued, “For months now, a bunch of the senior air commanders have been spouting off, telling anyone who will listen that our bombers alone will win this war by Christmas. Have you seen the stateside papers? Well, hell, Ike, you know what’s being said over there more than I do. The problem is that the American people are believing this stuff. I keep getting … well hell, Ike, what do I call it? Fan mail? I get letters through HQ, farmers in Iowa, shopkeepers in New Jersey. Great stuff. I’m their hero. Nice, I appreciate that. But then they tell me their sons are over here, and by God, with this war sure to end any day now, they know their boys are coming home alive. It’s all thanks to me.”
“You’ve got to ignore that stuff, Jimmy. You’re a damn hero, whether you like it or not. I haven’t had a single Medal of Honor recipient come through my office since this war began. Except you. Live with it.”
“All right, Ike, that calls for a thanks. So, thanks. I’m living with it fine. It’s my bomber crews who are being shot to hell. Sending a thousand planes over German cities in broad daylight wasn’t my idea. Yeah, I understand it’s part of the plan, but for God’s sake, bombers alone aren’t going to win this war. Can’t you at least tell these air people in London to shut the hell up?” He glanced at Tedder again, who held up a hand.
“No apologies, General. I’ve been trying to get Harris and his brethren to understand the same thing for three years. Ike knows this. They don’t seem to have the foggiest idea that the army and navy have a part in this little tiff as well.”
Eisenhower flexed a pain in his knee, a stubborn injury, reached for another cigarette. “Look, Jimmy. We’re doing all we can to cut down on the bomber losses. The fighter escorts have been a huge help. You know that.”
“Of course. But there’s another issue. When I took command in January, our fighters were already kicking hell out of the Luftwaffe. It got to the point where two or three hundred of those birds would go out with the bombers and most of them would end up sightseeing. I had to figure a way to make better use of those boys, keep them from spending all day just burning gasoline.”
Eisenhower knew that Doolittle’s change of tactics was something the fighter pilots had welcomed with raucous enthusiasm. With fewer and fewer German planes willing to confront the Allied fighters, Doolittle had issued an order that the P-47s and P-51s should take the opportunity to do more than just watch the bomber formations. If there was little sign of German fighters, the American fighter pilots were authorized to perform strafing missions, to drop to low altitude and search for targets, truck convoys, tanks, small-scale enemy activity that the high-altitude bombers were not designed to deal with. Eisenhower had welcomed the order as enthusiastically as the fighter pilots. It was a large dose of common sense that he realized had been missing from Eaker’s command. Eaker was a good man, as were many of the air barons. But Eisenhower was as annoyed as Doolittle that those commanders seemed utterly devoid of flexibility. Although Eaker had made great use of the fighters as protection for the bombers, the thought of using them as more than escorts had simply never occurred to him.
Doolittle clamped his hat under his arm, the sign he had spoken his piece.
Eisenhower said, “Nothing you’ve said is out of line, Jimmy. You know more about this air war than any man in Europe, and I want your opinions. Besides, no matter what some of those other people think, you outrank most of them. As far as I’m concerned, you can damn well run the Eighth Air Force any way you want to, for as long as you want to.”
“Thanks, Ike.”
Doolittle stood, nodded to Tedder, no smile, still formal. “Sir. Thank you as well.”
Doolittle was gone now, pulling the door closed behind him, and Tedder stared that way, then said, “Chap doesn’t fully trust me. Can’t say I blame him.”
“You might be my second in command, Arthur, but you’re still an air force man. And a Brit. Jimmy’s learned that command sometimes requires more than common sense and good tactics. He doesn’t like being ass-deep in politics and diplomacy.”
Tedder laughed. “Do you?”
“I’m used to it. Well, mostly. But he’s right about one thing. You remember those New York papers back in September? Some damn opinion poll said that two-thirds of Americans thought we’d be home by Christmas. Two-thirds. And, dammit, I was right there with them. I thought the enemy was whipped completely. I never thought they’d make ano
ther fight. We let a bunch of them escape out of France, and I thought they were done for, running home with their tails between their legs. Surely Hitler could see the foolishness of going any farther. The Russians are pushing him just as hard, maybe harder. I didn’t expect … son of a bitch, Arthur. I didn’t expect they’d still put up such a hell of a fight.”
“None of us did, Ike. But don’t go the other way with this. I know we won’t end this by Christmas, but we’re not losing either. No commander I’ve spoken to expected the Jerries to have this much fight left. But consider why, Ike. Look where they are. Look where they’re fighting. I thought we’d march right into Aachen, no problems. Instead, Hodges had one hell of a tussle taking that place. Monty thought he’d trot on over to the Rhine, and the Jerries would scatter in front of him like a bunch of pigeons in Piccadilly. But Hitler built that damn Siegfried line for a reason, and his troops are making good use of it. Defense, Ike. They’re defending their own soil now. Every army is a better army when they’ve got their own families close behind them.”
Eisenhower stood, moved to the map, tacked to the makeshift plywood wall. “You’re right. I know all of that. One thing the damn newspapers don’t understand … hell, Arthur, nobody seems to understand. Not Monty, not Patton, not even Bradley. I don’t command troops, I command situations. I know we’re going to win this thing, no matter how long it takes. Unless he comes up with some odd-assed secret weapon, Hitler can’t survive. I’m as confident as anyone, but my job isn’t to be a cheerleader. My job is to avoid disasters.”