Chapter Thirty
The Morse Code Clickers Were Kept Busy
The lines were humming as we got to work. We sent a number of telegrams to nearby aerodromes. Questions and clarifications shot back and forth. The commanders of the aerodromes immediately to our north and south informed us of their own operations in this area, and the times of their takeoffs, and the expected duration of certain missions.
The Morse code clickers were kept busy. A proper phone might take a little longer…
All up and down the hangar line, men were busy with aircraft up on sawhorses. A dozen aircraft were in various stages of preparation. The machines could have been flown across the Channel. This was good practice. We were still using our old planes, for the most part. My men could take apart and re-assemble planes in their sleep.
They also thoroughly understood their machines.
We had three Bristol fighters fueled up and ready to go, with a full load of machine-gun ammunition, and three rockets mounted on each outer pair of wing struts. Normally, the French used them against Zeppelins, but our job was trying new things.
The Avro was all bombed-up with four 12-pound Hales bombs.
I planned to fly the Avro and be lead navigator. I was to fly top cover in the cone above the enemy airfield, where air defense is oddly quite thin. That’s just my private theory. Even experienced enemy formations tended to neglect this area, simply because they’re either taking off or landing. To attain ten thousand feet straight up above your own field takes time, precious time. It’s a very vulnerable time. Just try and convince Higher Authority that it’s useful, and not just cowardice.
Inexperienced enemy formations are even more vulnerable. If they haven’t been taught, if the lessons have not been learned. If they’re not thinking, or are ruled by bad habits. I knew who we were dealing with here, and my boys didn’t. They would find out later.
The Germans ate dinner about six, maybe seven at the latest. The British, the French, the Americans flew offensive patrols, timed to begin at dawn, or end at dusk.
The Germans knew what time to knock off for the day, and of course they could provide alternate squadron coverage. They switched off amongst themselves, for a given period of the day. Lunch, or dinner, or whatever. They were good at covering for the guys next door in terms of air defense, if the neighbors had to escort a deep strategic photo-shoot.
I picked the most-improved pilots and not necessarily the best pilots.
The three pilots were Snotty, Powell, and Dempsey. They all had the machine gunner of their choice. We sat around the briefing room, which was separate from the office, and discussed the mission.
“It’s a little place called Les Erables. The Maples.” I began.
Then I further explained that we needed to look the place over thoroughly, watching for the sort of landmarks and features that could be seen later that night.
They were attentive.
“We’re coordinating with Blake’s boys to the north and Jackson’s to the south. They like to be home by dark. The enemy harasses them with light bombers at night. Nothing unusual. Blake’s crew is fairly new and inexperienced. Jackson’s crew has more combat experience. Both units have been very hard hit, and have suffered serious casualties.”
They listened well.
“We’re going to help them out, by raiding the enemy aerodrome, here.”
I showed them a little red ‘X’ on the map.
“Now, when you see me fire a flare, a green one, I’ll begin to climb. The first one, that’s you Snotty, you go in with your nose gun blazing. Launch your rockets when your bullets match the three-hundred-yard sighting. You should be at one thousand feet and diving at about five or six degrees. You two guys watch where the shot and rockets fall. Snotty has extra tracers, so you can see where he’s shooting.”
They would be separated by a few hundred yards. The other two planes would be off to one side, and they would modify their approach accordingly. That way, we could all watch Snotty’s attack.
They made notes and studied it in their minds.
“So we’re using the guns to sight for the rockets?” Said Powell.
The trajectories were about the same at three hundred yards.
The gun pointed straight out the nose, but the rockets were inclined slightly upwards on their firing rails.
“At some point the arcs converge. They have to. You just wait until the tracers are coming up on the target. I’ve done the math fifty times.”
The explanation was simple enough.
It took a half second to push a button, including a small reaction time for the fuse. All they had to do was to fly at a hundred miles per hour until they began the dive.
“Just walk your tracers right up to the front door.” I said.
“Yup, okay.” Powell said.
It was their first mission, and a tough one for all of us. Then I continued.
“After firing, Snotty rolls left, and begins to climb in a big circle, a three-sixty. One guy fires, then goes left, then the next guy fires. As you guys climb out in an arc, the rear gunners get to shoot at the enemy. Tell them to be careful not to shoot the tail off the plane.”
I looked them all in the eye, oozing confidence.
“One thing will surprise you. Bullets bounce. You’ll see tracers come flying back up. Don’t shoot your buddy down. Don’t be too fucking close behind when they open fire. I know it’s tempting to all go in at once. Make sure your gunners know that bullets bounce.”
They all nodded seriously.
“When you break off the target, pull fairly hard to get out of the line of fire. Then ease up a bit and go for a good climb rate. Don’t pull too hard, or you’ll stall. You’ll be aiming at a big stone farmhouse. Powell, you go last. Make sure to get a good picture.” I added. “Some of your bullets will come right back at you. It’s just the cost of doing business.”
All eyes were on me. The room was very quiet.
“At some point the enemy may try to launch. If they do, just keep climbing. They can’t catch up. I give you my word on that. Trust me. Follow the plan. Watch for other enemy formations. That’s our real danger, here.”
Not a word.
“When ready, I’ll drop my little bombs to discourage the enemy from taking off. You boys are climbing in a circle around the aerodrome. I drop my bombs through the hole. Everyone knows their jobs, right?”
They all nodded seriously, eyes intent on the CO’s face, i.e., me.
“Then we go home, in a zigzag course to discourage the enemy from locating our ‘drome immediately. We stick together, make like the birds and flock off.”
“Any questions?”
None so far.
“Write these numbers down. That’s our course for home.” Indicating the blackboard.
“Stick with your partners, and support each other, and we can pull this one off.”
I tried again.
“Questions?”
None. They seem to know what I want. Absolute silence, in fact.
“Make sure you know what this area looks like. Look behind you once in a while on the way over, to see where you came from. Stay alert at all times.”
Damn. Next time I’ll have the tail gunners here, especially for a small, unique operation.
“We should be crossing the line at about five-fifty p.m. Blake has agreed to focus his efforts to the north, and Jackson promised to put his boys here, a little further south than usual. They’re going to try to keep it up high if they can.”
They also agreed to begin their last patrol just a little later than usual. That would give us a window of opportunity. The enemy didn’t know we were here yet. They’d mistake us for one of the other squadrons, or not see us at all, and act accordingly.
“They’ll keep the enemy busy. We go in at fifteen hundred feet, weaving through the Archie belt. Then we just head straight for the target, and the way should be pretty well clear for us.”
On the way home, four thousand feet, diving down to three thousand at the Archie belt. Maximum range for machine gunners, kind of low for ‘flack.’ To the big guns, we would appear ‘fast,’ relatively speaking. We wanted the minimum exposure of ‘time in the zone.’ Diving, full throttle across the Archie belt. It was the best I could do.
I let them go. Then it was time to wait. In my office Bernie, Dawley, and others sat.
No nap for me. No rest for the wicked.
Instructions to dig trenches, instructions on how much toilet paper to requisition, instructions that aren’t always covered by the book. Sometimes you just have to make it up as you go along.
***
The first mission was set to go.
We ran up our engines, then took off one by one into the west. The glare of sunset dazzled the eyes as I circled, waiting for the others to form up. Finally the four of us were as one, with Snotty on my right. The other two were invisible, staggered up and a little behind him.
We proceeded to the east, and after ten minutes or so the Western Front lay below, obscured by the fog of war. An artillery barrage was underway, something often heard sporadically from our aerodrome. The reality was that we could be hit by a shell falling through its trajectory.
Craning and twisting my neck on its socket, I searched the sky. I couldn’t see a damn thing in the deepening indigo of the heavens. Looking to Snotty, he pointed straight up.
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| My Avro 504, with Lewis gun. |
I took another look. Ah. Still in sunlight, tiny flecks of brilliant color, like white seagulls against black clouds. Tiny bright dots wheeling and mingling. That was one hell of a fur-ball. We were wary of someone pouncing from above. A flare of petrol, and one machine was heading our way, but he didn’t make it. He burnt out and disappeared altogether. Thank God he wasn’t directly above and ahead of us. We didn’t want an engine in the face. Minutes seemed like a lifetime. As we went past the place, a riff of smoke leapt into focus, once the sunset was behind it.
The fur-ball was gone. The enemy machines must be returning to their home bases. All of them at once. Wouldn’t that be great. Every damned one of them coming up from behind. The sky above at about 10,000 feet was spackled with orange and yellow and white flashes. Smoke puffs hung there like cotton balls in the washed-out lighting of late sunset.
In daytime they look black, at night kind of grey.
Archie was concentrating on something above us, but I couldn’t see it.
We were flying at 1,500 feet, with the enemy lines behind us now.
On the left, two miles away, were three enemy machines, also going east, at about 5,000 feet. Thank God my boys were well disciplined. With only four, to break off and pursue would be fatal for all of us.
They were slightly ahead of us. Plenty of pucker factor this fine evening. I scanned the sky all around.
Holy shit. There were two directly behind us, at about half a mile, and at the same altitude. I picked out half a dozen more in front of us, and then some on our right, way up high in the sky. Fuck. I hoped that was it. But I could find no more.
That’s one reason why we flew a direct bearing to the target. To turn or deviate now would draw attention. It’s a queasy feeling. And yet human nature being what it is, they ignored us. The Fritzies painted their planes all kinds of weird colors, canary yellow, pink, light green. We were olive drab.
It was our roundels and bright flashes of white that worried me, like the number on the side, the letter on the wing. I planned on changing some of that, but hadn’t gotten around to it. We must especially monitor our speed, because of the enemy behind. I’ll bet they’re either low, or conserving fuel. Snotty was watching the sky all round us. Good man.
Another seven or eight minutes, and then I saw it. The sun was gone. The shadows lay across the valleys, across the fields, and all of the world was in gloom. The big white house stood out like a sore thumb.
There were aircraft in the landing pattern. Hopefully everybody was out of fuel. There were still two of them behind us, but the other clumps of enemy aircraft were gone.
Those guys lived down the road somewhere. A long way, hopefully.
The forest ended and a field began.
Perfect.
The big white house was getting bigger, and at about one mile, I popped off the green flare. Advancing the throttle to wide open, I started climbing. Snotty passed about twenty yards away on the right. Now I could see the other two planes. The plan was to cross above them.
I kept climbing, and pushed a little to the right, and finally the three planes came into view to my lower left. It was a whole new perspective, at the sight of the three rear-seat gunners in the Brisfits. Those poor bastards have to sit there and watch enemy fighters following along behind.
What were they thinking right about now? A small grin crept over me.
Time well spent, scanning all around the sky.
Snotty fired. Sparks, and dust and dirt erupted across the enemy aerodrome, and then began to tickle the broad front steps of the chateau.
Flaring blossoms leapt from Snotty’s plane and streaked towards the house, and cracked and snapped and went ‘whump.’ in the night. Flashes lit up the landscape below, as I tried to memorize the layout. A tree line to the south. An impression of bays, a few hangars, a road. A long line of aircraft. Little men scampering in panic and dismay, in the vicinity of a row of field latrines.
Tee. Hee. Hee. Yippee.
I was delirious at the sight. Caught them with their pants down.
Dempsey let go, and then Powell in quick succession. It looked like fireworks, from where I was sitting. Having arced right and begun climbing, now I leveled out and turned left over the center of the aerodrome. I had no worries about the two guys behind. The Boche were investigating the lurid scene ahead of them.
Here we go.
I let the bombs do their work. The plane lifted as I pulled the lanyard to release them. I kept seeing tracers from the three Biff tail gunners, as I turned west at about 3,500 feet.
Snotty was just completing his three-sixty. Dempsey and Powell were still behind him. Tracers splashed the ground below, now brilliantly lit by small fires. The sky was getting darker, with the pale slash of the western horizon the only other source of illumination.
The tail gunners were getting in their two cents worth. One last squirt from Powell’s back-seater. It curved up and over towards the receding target area. Nice work, buddy.
There’s hope for that one, anyhow. I’ll get his name later.
It was done.
The boys gathered in beside me. I made a signal to Snotty, holding the palm up and out, making a pushing motion. We headed to the northwest, full throttle, and held that course for three minutes, at 4,000 feet. Now turning in, we all went southwest for four minutes, we turned south for two minutes, then west, due west….
And on the right, as the last of the dusk faded, was a glowing little worm. Howard-Smythe and our brave lads had the train all lit up like a Christmas tree. My companions and I swung away. Lining up, and making an approach, truck headlights glimmered through the treetops around our field. More lights. Men were standing beside the trucks, watching us land.
Hoping, praying for us all to land.
It was up to me first, and it was a good one. As soon as the tail skid hit, I wiggled her a bit to settle her in and then moved off the field to the left. Snotty couldn’t be much more than a thousand yards back. My successful landing should inspire the others, (one might hope.)
A man with a flashlight directed me to a station. We had a fuel rig set up, and a pole erected, and tarps ready. Many willing hands grabbed the wings, stopping her on a dime. I shut the motor down and sat there for a long moment, feeling a sense of sheer tiredness.
All the other planes must be in by now, as the truck lights all winked out of existence at once.
“Just two lanterns.” A strong voice called over the sound of aero engines.
Figures scurried by as I unstrapped in the darkness, feeling elated to say the least.
“Get that fucking tarp over here.” Griped the same voice.
“Pull on that rope.” And. “Come along now, lads…”
Strong hands gripped me under the armpits as someone tried to help me up and out.
“Hang on. How many planes did we get back?” I asked.
The recalcitrant strap that was holding me down finally let go.
“All four, sir.” I was told. “Dempsey bounced a little, the other lads did fine.”
A huge wave of relief washed over me.
“Did Powell get a picture?”
Finally I levered my bulky shoulders up out of the cockpit, and managed to let myself down to the ground.
Unbuckling the leather helmet, I pulled it off, feeling my hair stick to it with sweat and static electricity. They felt good when you put them on, they always felt bad when you took them off. My knees were awfully weak and shaky.
“Okay. Boys, you know the drill.” Another familiar voice heard in the background.
“No bombs, Corporal. Just the refueling. I didn’t fire the guns, and the safety is on.”
I watched with approval as a crewman walked over and shone a light in the cockpit.
“Confirmed.” Said a different voice, and it made me feel pretty good to see some real professionalism.
I trained these guys, after all.
“Check for damage.” Jaeckl instructed the lads.
Things seemed well in hand.
The plane was already covered by tarps, and I had to feel my way through to the outside world. Walking around the tent-like heap, I pissed behind it and checked to see how much light we were making. None at all, and that’s good.
Don’t take unnecessary chances, not with anything.
Then I made my way to the briefing room, to see how the other boys made out.
A gaggle of lookers-on chattered and gaped, as I forced my way through.
“Yay.” A bunch of guys said, and I had to grin in spite of my Lieutenant-Colonel-like dignity, but I gave them all a quick wave.
I entered the big tent, thumping across the newly-planked floor, feeling sudden heat from the stove and the lanterns glowing on poles.
They all sat around the table with big smiles on their faces.
“Sergeant.” I called. “Break out ten bottles of rum, and take those men down to the mess.”
“Yes, sir.” And Jaeckl barreled out the door.
I stood surveying the room. Bernie, Dawley, Corporal Whittington, Dempsey, Snotty, Powell, the gunners three, and one or two more. Chandragupta, and Taffy, both typing clerks for the time being. (And my end of the unofficial lines of communication.)
A private was pouring out glasses. Malarkey had already downed his and was going back for more. The Irish are good for three things. Fucking, fighting, and I forget the other.
“Make mine a double, buddy.” I asked Malarkey politely.
He hastened to comply. Taking the glass, I raised it to the room.
“Over the lips and past the gums, look out stomach, here it comes.” I tossed it off to gasps and chuckles.
A quick shudder.
“What, you never seen a God-damned Canadian have a drink before?”
They all laughed.
“Sure we have, Skip.” Blurted Dempsey.
“Squadron Leader Powell. Report.” I said, unbuttoning my flight suit.
“That was amazing.” He nodded. “It went exactly according to plan. I ran the camera, and have six or seven exposures. We should have the negatives within a half an hour, prints shortly thereafter.”
“What else?” I asked.
“Well, when you pulled up and to the right, you looked to be about a mile from the place, and Snotty fired, and launched his rockets. When he pulled left, Dempsey fired. I switched on the camera and then I fired. I could see you above and to the right just before I fired…Dempsey has something to tell you.” He said.
He was mopping his face, wiping sweat, dirt and oil from it. I had my own cloth going, and just then a private came in with cans of hot, soapy water.
“Ah.”
The boys all jumped up and took towels and hot water to themselves.
“Your bombs hit one of them, sir.” Said Dempsey.
“Oh really?” I didn’t think I did anything but keep their heads down.
“You took his wings right off…”
“What. What do you mean?” I asked in amazement. “You mean he blew up? Was he taxiing around, or stationary?”
“No, he was flying. One of them buggers following us. At least two bombs must have gone through his wings. The plane sort of staggered and shook itself. The fuselage spun like a top, real fast…”
Poor bugger didn’t have a chance.
“The other plane, when he saw Snotty coming around, he climbed up. I thought he was going for you, but he jumped out of the plane with his parachute.”
“Holy, schmoley.” I said in disbelief.
Powell nodded. They saw it blooming white in the sky.
“Out of gas.” I surmised.
“We only caught the tail end of it.” Admitted Powell. “But someone or something was falling as I turned. And the plane just flew off into the night.”
Empty, it flew off into the night. Wonder where the hell it went?
“A very impressive piece of work.” Said Bernie.
Dawley sat, writing at a furious pace. The corporal was also writing, and he had a question.
“What about the raid itself?” He asked Powell.
“It was bloody perfect.” Came the response.
All of them were grinning from ear to ear, even the poor bloody gunners, Malarkey, O’Higgins, and Sack.
“And what about going back tonight?” I asked Powell.
“I think if we follow the plan, we have a good chance of really hurting them bad.” He said with confidence.
That’s the spirit, laddie.
“Do we really have to go back?” Asked the Adj.
“We have to make it personal, or they won’t retaliate.” I explained.
“Well, we should have seven or eight planes by nine or ten.” He allowed.
“You guys willing to go back?” I asked the crews.
Thinking, always thinking. They all indicated a willingness to go.
“You sure, Malarkey?” I asked him. “How did it feel, watching those enemy planes following along behind?”
“They would have been bloody daft to get too close my gun.” He said. “Besides, they must have thought we were their own chaps.”
“You men get some food and a good nap into you.” I ordered. “The gunners can take off for now.”
A new batch of gunners could get some experience on the next run.
We’ll do it a little differently tonight. I was pleased, very pleased. But, it was only our first mission, although night ones are the toughest on beginners. And it doesn’t pay to get too cocky.
***
The mechanic spun the prop on my little Avro, a tiny, gossamer thing, when compared to the hulking Bristol fighters lined up to the right.
The engine roared, blasting an icy stream of air all around and about my head. The coldest part was the upper face and eyes. Everything else was all tucked in, padded up like some knight in shining armor. A strangely secure feeling.
The man beside the plane got a curt nod. No point in talking. One green flare went swishing up into the cloud-laden sky. The clouds billowed, and loomed, and on the horizon they flashed and flickered intermittently. McNaughton had kept his promise. The artillery duel has begun. That’s worth a few telegrams to a friend, eh? And my old buddy Andy is an artillery genius. But don’t tell him I said so. He’s not the type to be fishing for compliments. Although I do believe he aspires to command.
Advancing the throttle, the power surges. The plane has a new, 160-hp version of a familiar rotary air-cooled power-plant. No telling what the top speed is, but we’ve been well briefed. The men have a fair degree of experience in night flying and navigation by dead reckoning. They all have thirty hours of it, in the night sky over Norwich.
We never did catch up with any Gothas or Zeppelins.
Rolling out and ruddering right, there were small lights and figures scuttling in the darkness, as six Bristols and now seven Bristols had their props spinning over. My cockpit lights were on. Full power. Hopefully the boys will be following along soon.
Once up about three hundred feet, I began a gentle left-hand radius, watching the instruments, although the flickering smudge pots were in my peripheral vision. One three-sixty around our little aerodrome, and then I made a beeline for the east.
The boys, if they had their wits about them, could see my black silhouette against the flickering bursts of lit-up clouds and smoke. I was struck by the silly notion that we should have hung a lantern on the plane.
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I worried about them guys a lot, don’t think otherwise, but at some point they had to be able to find their own way. That’s why we earned the big bucks, even then. Most guys never mention that in their memoirs.
The noise of the bombardment covered our comings and goings, eased my initial navigation woes, and was an interesting experiment in army-air co-operation in the field.
Behind, I couldn’t see a damned thing. The engine was loud in my ears. It sounded very strong and reassuring. With all the noise, the enemy anti-aircraft gunners didn’t stand much chance of hitting us. It’s possible they could hear us briefly between shell bursts. It was a beautiful thing, for at exactly two-forty-five a.m., McNaughton’s crew began sending up star-shell behind me. If any Boche were out of doors on the aerodrome, looking towards the western sky, they were now blinded. My lads should be flying on their instruments, and ignoring the flares. The light lingered on, as the flares slowly cascaded down to the muck and filth below. The German infantry, snug in their holes, must wonder if they faced a fresh onslaught, yet another in a long series.
Over the hills and through the woods, to grandmother’s house we go.
There was the river. Time passes surprisingly quickly in a situation like this.
Holy cow. The road leads right up to the gate.
The road was visible, being graveled and appearing white in the diffused moonlight, which was the major source of illumination now. Distant shell-bursts still outlined the trees. There was a big clump of birches. There it was. Pale, inscrutable, stark in the valley below.
A big white house, and to the right, the darker slash of the forest.
Gaps, pale glimmers of something…could it be the hangars? Metal roofs? Why not drop a bomb and find out? It’s too bad. Not a lot of snow. That would have been very helpful. I would bet those are canvas tents, covered in hoar-frost.
A dull thud in the night. Brightness and glare, long leaping shadows made a picture of the ground below. The darkness was shattered, and by looking off to the side, a snapshot of the landscape was burned into my retinas. Circle to the right, watch the altimeter, compass, airspeed, counting inside of my head. Drop another bomb. This one started the smallest of fires on the ground, but it was enough. I circled at about 4,000 feet. My boys were briefed to fly directly to the target, as the bombardment should make it difficult or even impossible for the enemy’s sound detection apparatus to find our bearing. They were supposed to fly at 2,000 feet.
“Foom. Foom.” And then another and another.
On and on it rolled, like pealing summer lightning in a rainstorm. At least one of my boys made it, as I caught a glimpse of a Biff, brilliantly transparent, backlit by a flash from its own bombs. By the rocket’s red glare…about half a mile or maybe a mile of diminishing detail was about the limit. I orbited above the field, watching them hit it with bombs, rockets and gunfire. Another plane lined her up in the sights, and zoomed low over the field.
The gunner was standing up, and he let loose a stream of red tracer over the side at the tree line below. His fiery rounds were directed under the big oaks and towering conifers on the south side of the enemy aerodrome.
Another stream of fire slashed at the house on the north side of the field, and behind that, in the woods, more krumps and flashes of light. Two of the boys had hit it. And that’s for sure. I tried to keep track of the number of rockets fired. They fly in pairs.
A big, bright flash and then two bobbling trails of fire, arching down to the ground.
One, two, three, and more tracers. Burning into the retinas. Look away sometimes. I tried to watch with my peripheral vision. The centre of the cone of vision is almost useless at night. I had to hunch down and watch the instruments for a while.
I could see a whole hell of a lot better now, and turned back to release my last two bombs on the hangar and shop complex that the Huns had built into the wooded area of concern. This part of the field was in the photos taken earlier in the day. We pored over those photos, all of us. More machine guns, and more tracers from an aircraft I was unable to pick out against the lowering sky.
Now the enemy returned fire, their machine guns pointed skywards in rage and futility. I fired off a red flare, and was answered by the sights and sounds of more bombs hitting the target. From time to time I could see cockpit lights from other planes.
As long as the boys didn’t turn too steeply, or go upside down, I don’t see how the enemy could get a glimpse of the dim little cockpit lights.
One more stick of bombs fell into the southern tree line. The pale shape of that plane circled to the right, tracer shooting downwards to where we figured the enlisted men’s quarters must be. Some came back up and curved off into the night, glowing red embers with wings of their own. Lang was briefed for that little duty.
Off to the north, yet another clump of rocket bursts. That must be just about every-body, checking my watch with my pocket flash. In another minute, no more rockets going off…one more minute…then I put the nose down and flew across the field at about 700 feet, and pushed the button on the camera attachment.
I climbed up to 3,000 again and headed west and for home. Finding my new course, waiting for the ground below to light up with shells exploding. Jog to the left and go around. Settle up on the compass.
Less than ten minutes later, there was a faintly glowing worm on the horizon, and as I got near, tiny pin-pricks of light.
Checking the watch, the fuel gauge, my tank wasn’t holed, for it showed three-quarters.
I resolved to wait and observe. My vigil was rewarded by the sight of three planes, one after the other, casting their shadows on the hillside and tents. Then they stopped, surrounded by figures. Three good landings, a good sign. Where were all the others?
A sense of dread, but I had no information.
After waiting another two minutes, a green flare went off down below. It was quickly muffled, as it was fired into a barrel of water, as per instructions. It was all I needed to know. Suddenly the train lights were doused, and all I had to do was land in the field and I would be home. Don’t forget the five-knot crosswind….here we were, and shit.
She was nosing over, and there was nothing I could do.
“Cock.” I bellowed as my face banged into something.
God, what the hell was that?
I thought we dealt with all the little projections. For just that reason. Helping hands, voices in the darkness. My leather helmet took the shock. Hopefully I’m not bleeding. It did hurt, though.
“Are you all right, sir?” It was the doctor.
“I’m relatively uninjured.” I replied in a far-away voice, and in the noisy background babble, someone was cursing.
“Get those fucking lights out.”
In the silence, my ears rang. Sounds were muffled, and alien.
“How many?” I asked.
The doctor told someone standing there.
“He’s frozen and exhausted. Concussion, maybe.”
I felt like a frozen piece of shit, if the truth be told.
“All down safe.” He reported.
Then I began to relax a little, and thawing commenced. They say you should live each day as if it were your last. I had been doing a lot of that lately. It gets tiring after a few weeks.
The artillery was silent. I was shivering uncontrollably.
“What kind of shape are the other guys in?” I asked, but he didn’t answer.
“All nice and quiet now.” He was walking close by my side, as if to prevent me from falling down, but not wishing to intrude on the CO’s prerogative.
In other words, if I can make it on my own, that’s for the best. Morale reasons…but my legs were awful stiff. They kept going off in strange directions. Finally we made it to my tent.
“I’ll just help you to peel out of all that.” He said.
“It’s all right, Doc, no problem.” I admonished. “I’ve done all this before, once or twice.”
To be confronted by death is a curiously liberating experience.
I used to worry about what other people think.
Not anymore.
 |
| He has lost his fear. This is not always a good thing... |
END
Images. Louis finds stuff on the internet.
Louis has books and stories available from Barnes & Noble. See his works on ArtPal.
See the #superdough blog.
Thank you for reading.
