Defiant Heart (41 page)

They were ordered back to Bremen, where the Deuces Wild had been mortally wounded in February. Jon and Shim were assigned to the Widowmaker after Tommie Wheeler pulled some strings. Weather was bad over the target, so they dropped their bombs on the shipyards in Rotterdam.

Jonas Kovalesky stopped by Hut 51 early Friday evening to say goodbye to Jon and Shim. The mission that day had been Kovalesky’s twenty-fifth. His infant daughter, who’d been born after he’d shipped out to England and whom he’d yet to see, had developed an illness the doctors were having difficulty diagnosing, and she was in the hospital back in Amarillo. As a result, the army had approved him for priority transport home.

Kovalesky had been awarded the Distinguished Flying Cross for his actions on board the Deuces Wild during its final mission. He wore the ribbon proudly above the left pocket on the jacket of his Class-A uniform. He and Jon exchanged addresses and agreed to keep in touch. Just before leaving, Kovalesky shook Jon’s hand one more time and said, quietly, “Thanks.” Jon simply nodded.

Jon and Shim were in the enlisted men’s club when the duty officer stopped by and shut down the bar, announcing that all leaves were cancelled and the group was on alert for a mission the next day. Jon tried to call Mary, but the headquarters building was crawling with officers, so he was unable to get word to her. He was more concerned about her waiting in vain at Victoria Station than about his having to fly the next day.

It was just one more mission. One more mission, and he’d be done.

#

“Bombs away.”

Jon could hear the bombs rattle out, and the Widowmaker jumped as the plane was relieved of its load. “All right,” Tommie said over the interphone, “let’s go home.”

“Amen to that,” came Shim’s voice.

Not only was this Jon’s and Shim’s final mission, but it was also Tommie’s. They had, unfortunately, not drawn a milk run.

They’d been re-assigned the mission to Bremen that the weather had stymied the day before. Today, the skies over Germany were crystal clear. It made the submarine slips they were bombing easy to target. Unfortunately, it also made things easy for the large number of German fighters who were sent up to meet them. The formation had been under attack from the moment it had crossed the coastline. During one fierce assault, shells from a Focke-Wulf Fw 190 stitched a series of holes across the wing and fuselage of the Widowmaker. They came inches from striking Jon as he was manning the machine gun in the radio compartment. Jon knew they could expect similar attacks on the way back.

The formation had turned for home and was just leaving the flak field, so Jon again took up his station with the Browning.

“Jesus,” he heard one of the other crewmen say, “look at that poor bastard.” It sounded like Turner in the top turret.

“I don’t think there’s anyone flying it.” It was Mustain, the right waist gunner.

Jon looked out the right window but could see nothing out of the ordinary. The planes in their element were all flying normally, as were those he could see in the top group.

“You’re right,” came Turner’s voice, again. “There’s no one at the controls.”

“’Chutes,” said Mustain. “Two. No, three.”

“Bombardier to pilot. That thing’s getting awful close.”

Jon felt the Widowmaker bank slightly to the left as Tommie adjusted course. As the right wing came up, Jon strained to see what the others were talking about. It finally slid into view.

Ahead and to the right of them, a B-17 in the top group had fallen out of formation. It appeared that both the number one and number two engines were on fire. The plane was no longer flying in the same direction as the formation. Rather, it had begun to drift to the left, taking it back through the rest of the planes. On its current course, it would pass directly over the Widowmaker. Jon could feel their altitude slip as Tommie sought to provide for more clearance.

Suddenly, to Jon’s horror, the entire left wing of the stricken plane folded upward and broke off from the fuselage, spinning away like a flaming top. The damaged plane immediately lost all semblance of flight. For a moment, it seemed to hang, suspended in the air. Then, slowly, the remaining wing rose and the tail slewed to the right, bringing the fuselage almost perpendicular to the path of the formation. The nose dipped, and the plane began to fall.

With the numbers three and four engines still providing propulsion, the right wing swung around the tip of the doomed plane, and one of the huge Wright Cyclone power plants, its propeller spinning at full revolution, came straight at Jon from above. He reflexively ducked, and, with his eyes closed, he tensed, waiting for the blades to bite into him.

There was a deafening shriek of metal on metal. The sound lasted only a couple of seconds, and then, as quickly as it had started, it stopped, replaced by a strange whooshing sound. Jon opened his eyes and found himself staring up at the Browning, which was now dangling from its mount at an absurd angle. It took him a moment to realize that, to his right, there was nothing. Or, rather, nothing but sky. From Jon’s radio compartment back, the rest of the Widowmaker was simply gone.

“Bail out. Bail out,” he heard someone call over the interphone. It might have been Tommie. Jon had no idea.

He rolled onto his stomach and scrambled forward, his hand reaching out for his parachute pack. He found it, sat up, and, with fumbling fingers, snapped it onto the harness that he wore over his leather jacket. The floor tilted, and Jon was spared the necessity of jumping, as he slid right out into space, his power, oxygen and interphone lines snapping off as he did.

With a disorienting feeling, Jon tumbled through the air. He reached for his chest, found the D-ring and gave a hard yank. A jumble of cloth and lines streamed out in front of him. With a sudden jerk, he felt as though he had been pulled upwards, and then he was no longer falling. Instead, he found himself dangling beneath a broad expanse of white. After the noise of the plane, the world around him was remarkably quiet.

He twisted his body to look about. High above where he now was, he could see the formation of bombers receding in the distance. As he watched them, another parachute abruptly popped open, perhaps a hundred yards away from him and a little above. Then another appeared beyond that, followed shortly by a third. There were no others in that direction, so he looked around. He could see nothing but empty sky. And, of course, the ground, which he belatedly realized was rising up at a rate of speed he had not anticipated. He had just a second’s warning before his feet struck. He tucked in his chin, and he allowed his knees to come up and his body to roll forward.

He went through at least two revolutions until he came to rest lying on moist ground between rows of what smelled like potatoes. He was tangled in his lines. He knew from the escape and evasion lectures he’d attended that the first few moments following a parachute landing were critical to the question of whether he’d be captured. With a sense of urgency, he picked at the lines. It took him about a minute, but he finally got clear. He stood and looked about.

He’d landed near the edge of an immense field, about twenty yards away from a line of trees. He scanned the field, but did not see anyone. Shrugging off his parachute harness, he ran to the tree line and slipped into the relative cover it provided. He could see that, in actuality, he was now in a forested area.

His first thought was to find the others who had gotten out of the plane. He’d been completely turned around by the landing, and he wasn’t sure in which direction he’d seen ‘chutes. However, thinking logically, he realized he’d been looking at the retreating formation when he’d seen them open, so the others had to be somewhere to the west. It was after noon, so he looked straight up, then drew an imaginary line to where the sun currently stood in the sky. That wouldn’t necessarily be due west, he knew, but it would be generally correct. The line led deeper into the wooded area. He set out in that direction.

The further he walked, the thicker the overhead canopy became. He was soon picking his way through semi-darkness, even though it still had to be mid-afternoon.

He heard a rustling ahead and froze. After a second, he scrambled forward as quietly as he could, and, at the base of a moss-covered trunk, he cautiously peered around. He was greeted by the sight of a man dangling from the cords of a parachute a few feet off the ground. The rustling he’d heard had been the attempts of the man to free himself.

“Hey,” Jon called out in a hoarse whisper. The man’s head jerked around, and Jon could see it was Abernathy, Tommie’s copilot.

“Oh, thank God,” Abernathy said, in his own whisper. “Can you help me down?”

Jon nodded and hurried over to him. He put his hands under Abernathy’s feet and pushed up. With one hand gripping the lines from which he dangled to steady himself, Abernathy used his other hand to yank the cords that had caught up in his harness. Just as Jon was concerned he’d have to let go, Abernathy got the straps free, released himself, and then fell in a heap on top of Jon.

Abernathy rolled clear and sat up. “Sorry about that,” he whispered. “But thanks.”

Jon nodded. “Have you seen or heard anything?”

“Yeah. About five minutes ago, I heard voices coming from over there.” He pointed to the right of the direction Jon had been traveling when he’d come upon Abernathy.

“Germans?”

“They weren’t speaking English.”

“Who else got out?”

“Pilot and top turret.”

Jon was relieved to hear that Tommie had escaped the crippled bomber. “Navigator and bombardier?”

Abernathy shook his head. “I don’t know.” A look of sadness crossed his face. “But I don’t think so. What about the guys in the back?”

Jon winced. He thought about his friend, Shim. “I don’t know how they could have. That other bomber cut the whole back of the plane off.”

Abernathy grimaced, but said nothing.

“We should try to find the others,” Jon whispered.

Abernathy nodded.

“This way,” Jon said, and, with Abernathy in tow, he struck out in the same direction he’d originally been walking.

They’d been at it for about twenty minutes when Jon felt Abernathy’s hand on his shoulder. He looked back, and Abernathy pointed off to the left. Through the trees, Jon could see a sliver of white. They switched directions and worked their way over to it.

What they’d seen had, indeed, been the canopy of a parachute. However, as they got closer, Jon could see that the fabric had torn and was practically in two pieces. At the base of a nearby tree lay an American airman. He was not moving.

Afraid of what he might find, Jon put a hand under the man’s head and gently turned his body. It was Turner, the top turret gunner, and he was obviously dead. When Jon let go of his head, it lolled sideways at an unnatural angle. Jon guessed that death had come instantly.

The sound of a loud snap startled Jon. He looked at Abernathy, who tipped his head in the direction they’d been traveling. Jon pointed to Abernathy, then to a large tree behind him. He tapped his own chest and pointed to another tree. Abernathy nodded, and they both moved quickly to take cover behind the trees indicated by Jon. Keeping low and offering as small a profile as possible, Jon carefully looked back around the trunk.

He heard some faint sounds. Then, after a moment, a figure appeared. Jon breathed a sigh of relief. It was Tommie.

Tommie was carrying a pistol, and he held it out in front of him at the ready. Jon didn’t want to be accidentally shot, so, from behind the tree, he whispered, “Tommie. It’s me, Jon.”

“Jon?”

Jon stepped from behind the tree. Tommie lowered the gun. “Thank God. Anyone else?”

Jon nodded in the direction Abernathy had gone, and the copilot emerged from behind his tree. “Unfortunately,” Jon whispered, and he pointed to the body of Turner.

Tommie looked, and his shoulders slumped. He looked back at Jon. “Turner?”

Jon nodded.

Abernathy joined them. “What’s the plan?”

Tommie squatted, and Jon and Abernathy did likewise. Tommie jerked his head back in the direction he had come. “I landed in a field, near the edge of these woods. The place is crawling with German soldiers. I was able to get into the trees before they started shooting.”

Jon pointed to what he assumed was southwest. “I say we head that way. If I’m right, Belgium and France are in that direction, though it’s a long walk. I think our only hope is to try to meet up with the Resistance.”

Tommie thought for a moment. “I don’t have a better plan.” He looked at Abernathy.

“Works for me,” Abernathy whispered.

Jon started to stand, and Tommie grabbed his sleeve. “Jon, give me your dog tags.”

Jon wasn’t sure why Tommie was asking for the identification tags he wore around his neck. Then he remembered. The last line on each tag was stamped with an initial identifying the religion of the wearer. Jon’s tags were stamped with an “H,” indicating he was Jewish. Because of concerns about how captured Jewish flyers might be treated by the Nazis, the army recommended that they dispose of their tags if capture was imminent.

Jon nodded. He slipped the chain containing his tags off his neck and handed it to Tommie. Tommie rose, walked to Turner’s body and crouched over it. He returned a moment later and handed a set of tags to Jon. A quick glance confirmed they were Turner’s.

Jon put the chain over his head and tucked the tags under his t-shirt. “Ok, let’s go.”

They struck out, Tommie leading the way with the gun.

#

Jon was awakened by the sound of voices. His eyes flew open, and he was immediately aware that he was in danger, though it took him a moment to remember where he was and how he had gotten there.

The prior afternoon, Jon, Tommie and Abernathy had worked their way through the forest until it ended at a spot overlooking a small town perched on the banks of a river. They’d halted there to rest and wait for the cover of darkness. Though, on several occasions throughout the afternoon, they had heard the sounds of men calling out to one another behind them in the woods, those sounds had faded as they’d put distance between themselves and the place where they had come down. They’d fortunately encountered no other people.