J. J. White

 

He lay on the cool, smooth, granite surface of Icy Knob, outside of Charlotte, stared up at the night sky, and counted as many stars as he could before drifting off to sleep. He was a boy again. Home again. Wondering if he would ever be a man.

Frank shook his head and blinked his eyes to fight off the fog enveloping his brain. His hands were stuck to the fifty caliber tail guns of the B-17. The low thump-thump of the flak outside beat its way through his oxygen mask and headphones like a crude alarm clock waking him from certain death. He noticed his sweat had turned to ice in the fifty below temperatures and had blocked enough oxygen flow to bring on the effects of mild anoxia. He chuckled when he realized his own sweat had artificially manufactured the dream of his childhood.

He pried his frozen hands free of the guns and stared out of Plexiglas at the hundreds of black clouds formed by the Nazi ack-ack guns. There was little he could do until the flak ended, so he climbed back into the fuselage and helped throw chafe out to confuse the Nazi artillery gunners. He instinctively ducked as flak busted through the walls of the fuselage and danced from one side of the plane’s interior wall to the other. As he reached the center of the craft, a large shell burst close by. The radio gunner, Reiger, screamed and grabbed his leg. A large piece of steel imbedded just below his kneecap, spewing blood onto the deck.

Frank removed his walk-around bottle of oxygen from his hose and plugged into the outlet near Reiger. He keyed his intercom, but it wasn’t working, so he signaled the waist gunner, Bob Smith, to inform the pilot of Reiger’s condition. Reiger grimaced when Frank removed the three-inch piece of sharp metal from the leg. It was impossible to work on the wound with the six layers of clothing Reiger wore, so Frank wrapped a gauze bandage around the area and motioned for Reiger to press against it.

When the flak let up suddenly, Frank’s heart sunk. The way was clear for Nazi fighter planes and he was out of position. He quickly unplugged his oxygen and hooked up the walk- around to rush back to the tail gun turret.

With his legs folded under the small seat in a kneeling position, he aimed the Browning 50s at a fast approaching ME-109. The Messerschmitt rolled right when the fighter pilot saw the barrels of Frank’s twin 50s take aim. Frank took a deep breath, eased his grip on the handles, and after a few minutes, tried to wipe the ice from the windows with a rag. A miserable cold draft from the two hundred mile per hour slipstream had worked its way into the cramped compartment.

He wasn’t the tallest man of the ten man crew on the ‘Lucky Stahley’, but he figured he was too damn tall for the ‘cubby hole with a machine gun,’ he was assigned to in the tail. It could have been worse, he figured. He could have ended up in the ball turret. Even a skinny midget would have trouble fitting into the god forsaken ball turret below the plane.

“Oxygen check,” the intercom barked. He was relieved to hear his C.O.’s voice. Whatever the problem with the intercom, it must have been resolved. The C.O. started the safety check with the waist gunners.

“Smith?”

“I’m good,” Smith answered, acknowledging the status of his oxygen.

“Camden?”

“Good”

“Reiger?”

“Good, but my knee hurts like hell, sir.”

“Roger,” Captain Sewell acknowledged.

“Sacks?”

There was no answer from the engineer in the top turret. “Sacks?” The pilot repeated with still no answer. Frank thought about getting the walk-around on again and checking John Sacks to verify his oxygen was working, but he knew Sacks was probably asleep. The night before, Sacks had come back drunk to the barracks and pissed on Smith’s bed. Sacks and Smith had a fight over the incident and Smith clocked John Sacks hard enough to knock him out, but Frank knew it was probably the booze and not Smith’s fist that affected Sacks now.

“Camden, sir. He’s okay. I checked him.”

“Roger,” Captain Sewell replied.

“Rosinski?”

“Yo,” came the reply.

“Kelly?”

“I’m good Cap,” the ball turret operator, Sgt. Paul Kelly replied.

“Tatroe?”

“Good.”

“White?” he called to Frank.

“Good sir, but freezing my ass off.”

“You plugged in?” the captain asked, referring to the electric heater in their flight suit the men plugged in to stave off the frostbite.

“It’s in, Frank replied, “but I’m still cold.”

The pilot, obviously unimpressed, replied.

“Just keep those Heinies off my ass, sergeant.”

“You got it, sir.”

Frank, like every other crewmember, had more motivation than usual to keep the ‘Heinies off their ass’. Every member on board, except Reiger, was two missions away from receiving their ‘Lucky Bastard Club’ certificates. This was the prized certificate that all the members of his 711^th squadron cherished. Very few had reached twenty-four missions without injury or death preventing them from completing their twenty fifth over France or Germany. As part of the policy of the Army Air corps, any crewmember to complete twenty-five missions could consider themselves a lucky bastard and was reassigned back to the states.

They knew the odds of completing the missions were slim, yet here they were, only two missions away from going home. Frank felt somewhat responsible to the crew of the ‘Lucky Stahley’ to get the bombs dropped on the Pas de Calais ‘Buzz bomb’ launching site, turn around, and land safely as they had the twenty three previous times onto the cold and foreboding runways of Rattlesden, England.

Almost in defiance of his thoughts, another ME-109 flew straight at the Lucky Stahley on an even altitude.

“Bandit, three o’clock. Frank, he’s coming at you,” someone said over the intercom.

Frank tracked the fast moving plane as it leveled out in line with his sights. He held his fire until the Kraut pilot showed his hand. Would he fire and dive or fire and climb? Frank hoped for the latter. He knew if the Messerschmitt climbed, he could blast the soft underbelly much easier than if it dove.

These are the moments that define a man’s life, Frank thought, as the face of the German pilot became distinguishable in his sight.

Frank would spend only a few months in combat, yet he understood these events would indeed define the rest of his life. His grandfather, Jourd White, lived to ninety years old, yet the one month he spent as a young boy in the services of the Confederate Army shaped the man until his death. Jourd spied on the Yankees for a month before he was captured. A benevolent Union officer didn’t have the heart to execute the young spy and released him to his home. In Jourd White’s ninety years, that memory stayed with him vividly above all others.

Now Frank found himself in the same situation as his grandfather. He knew he would relive these few terrible months long into later years of his life. He knew that as sure as rain, but he also knew he had this mission plus one more or the point would be moot.

Kelly fired at the ME-109 from the ball turret at the same time Sacks sprayed it from the top turret. Frank waited patiently, ignoring the red flames shooting out from the fighter plane’s twenty-millimeter guns, its bullets chopping up the Plexiglas window around him. He felt something slam into his flak jacket and saw part of his leather flight jacket fly by his left eye, but kept his concentration solely on the fighter.

The fighter climbed quickly to avoid a collision with the Lucky Stahley.

“Okay, Frank,” he thought. “It’s time to let it go.” He depressed the triggers, letting loose a barrage of fifty caliber ammo from the Browning into the bottom of the fighter. Black smoke streamed out of the fuselage as Frank watched it climb out of his sight.

“We got him, Frank!” Sacks exclaimed excitedly.

Before Frank could catch his breath, Sacks chimed in again. “The bandits’ diving right back at us. It’s out of control. Watch it, Frank!”

Frank instinctively leaned away from the Plexiglas covered turret seconds before the Messerschmitt sheared off the compartment taking with it the Browning gun as well as part of the rudder and elevators of the B-17. The pungent smell of aviation fuel permeated Frank’s oxygen mask. He back pedaled out of what was left of the tail section and hooked the walk- around to his mask. The plane yawed slightly left and Frank lost his footing near the waist gunners. The C.O. came over the intercom, “What happened back there? What’s the damage?”

Frank plugged in his oxygen and intercom and called out.

“The M.E. hit the tail, sir. The gun’s gone and the rudder and elevator are damaged,” he said, trying to mask the alarm in his voice.

“Frank, get up here. Rosinski’s hit.”

Frank ran to check the navigator. A twenty millimeter round had taken most of his left arm off. Rosinski looked at him, half-smiling.

“Just wrap it up, sergeant. I’m the only one here who can get us back once the C.O. pulls out of formation, though the rest of the crew seems to think you’re their lucky charm.”

“Yes sir, lieutenant,” Frank said as he bandaged the wounded arm.

“We’re going back,” the C.O. barked. “One and three are feathered and I’m steering with ailerons. Lieutenant, you going to be able to get us there all right?”

“Yes sir,” Rosinski said. “I’m going to need fixes from Reiger, though.”

Frank began to prepare himself mentally to bail out. He couldn’t believe he wasn’t going to make twenty-five missions. Here he was on a damaged B-17 with only two engines working, no steering, and relying on a dying navigator and a wounded radioman to somehow get them back to base.

“I’m dropping to 10, 000,” the C.O. said, indicating the altitude where they could remove their oxygen masks.

“Lieutenant, plot for Ipswich. It’s closer.”

“Yes sir,” Lieutenant Rosinski said, grimacing from the pain.

Frank knew Ipswich was a good field for an emergency. It was just one big slab of concrete, as wide as it was long, but it made a good emergency runway.

The order came from the C.O. to remove oxygen masks. Frank rubbed his face where the mask had left red marks. The noise from the open tail section was deafening. The men started to use hand signals to communicate when even the intercom couldn’t be heard over the din.

The bombardier, Camden, dropped the bombs into the channel about forty kilometers from Ipswich. The plane yawed from side to side as the pilot and co-pilot fought with the controls. At five hundred feet, Frank recited the Lord’s Prayer continuously until the plane hit the airstrip.

The B-17 rolled straight for a thousand feet and then tilted sharply to the right. The wing sheared off and slapped into the waist gunner’s window spinning the fuselage around one hundred and eighty degrees. Frank heard the ball turret smash as the wheels folded and the heavy plane skidded on its belly for the final five hundred feet.

“Everyone okay?” the C.O. asked.

Frank saw the navigator Rosinski slumped over the table, his eyes closed. He felt for a pulse.

“It’s White, Captain,” Frank said sullenly. “Lieutenant Rosinski’s dead, sir.”

***

The next day after the ceremony for Rosinski, Frank, and the rest of the crew were given a forty-eight hour pass.

Anita Tomas was an attractive Lithuanian refugee Frank had met on his previous forty-eight hour pass to London. She worked as a barmaid in a pub he frequented because they never asked his age when he ordered a drink. Saturday, they had spent most of the night at ‘Allens’, the pub where she worked. Most of the drinks were free and although Frank couldn’t recall saying it, he had promised to take Anita to the cinema at 2 p.m. the next day.

Frank walked beside her along the small road and though he’d protest verbally at the catcalls from other airmen toward Anita, he secretly felt proud of his good fortune to date a “real looker.”

“So, Mr. White, you are very quiet today. It must have been very terrible up there dropping bombs on the Nazis, no?”

“Yes,” he said, gazing at the pediment. “Our navigator, Rosinski was shot. It was his... our twenty-fourth mission. One more and he could have gone back to the states. He was …married. No kids though.”

Anita squeezed his hand. “So I guess you will be going home soon, no? I will have to find another fine soldier to take your place, Francis. I don’t think I will have much trouble though, do you? One night at the ‘Duke of Wellington’ and I will forget all about you, just like you will forget about me when you kiss all those women in California…”

“Carolina,” Frank corrected her.

“Carolina, California. It is all the same. Beautiful women with large breasts like your Jean Harlow and Betty Grable. In a few days you will say ‘Anita who’?”

Frank stopped walking and turned to face her.

“Come with me,” he said. “Come back to Carolina with me. I know everyone will think you’re swell, just like I do, Anita. What do you say?”

She smiled and walked with him hand in hand.

“Oh my poor Francis. Such a nice Southern gentleman. You go home and wait a while and if you still want a skinny Lithuanian in your house then you will write me a nice love letter and I will think about it.”

Frank was about to argue with her when he heard a low droning sound above him. He looked over the burnt brick buildings into the blue London sky. Anita shook her head reassuringly.

“Do not worry Francis. It is Mr. Hitler’s buzz bomb. As long as we hear the bee’s buzzing we will be safe. I have heard it many ti…” Her eyes showed fright as the air became suddenly silent.

“Over here,” Frank said pulling Anita into the small entryway of a tailor’s shop.

He heard the shrill whistle of the projectile and then the loud thump of the concussion.

The force of the explosion slammed Anita and him against the old wooden door. Just before he passed out, he heard Anita’s scream.

***

He blinked twice, and then opened his eyes wide to try and focus on the man in front of him.

“Frank,” the man said gently.

“Dad, is that you?” Frank asked and stretched his arms out from his hospital gurney. “Dad?”

“No, son. I’m not your Dad. I’m Colonel Edward McRay, son. Commander of the 711^th.”

Frank’s eyes focused and he could see the outline of the colonel, back dropped by the sunlight through the large window behind him.

“Colonel? Where am I?”

The colonel sat down in the chair beside the bed.

“You’re in St. Bartholomew’s Hospital in London, son. They found you in the street Sunday where the buzz bomb hit. You’re okay. You’ve just been out for a while. There’s nothing wrong with you that won’t heal in a few weeks.”

Frank saw the colonel’s face clearly now.

“Anita?” Frank asked.

“The young girl in the shop where you were found?” the colonel asked. “Was she with you, son?”

Frank nodded. “Yes, we were on a date. Is she here?”

The colonel shook his head. “No, I’m sorry, Frank. She didn’t make it.”

Frank’s eyes welled with tears, but he kept them in check, embarrassed to cry in front of the C.O. Frank turned his head on the pillow and stared vacantly into space. After several seconds of silence, Colonel McRay spoke.

“You’re going home, son. These are signed papers releasing you from overseas duty.” He held out a piece of parchment. “And here’s your ‘Lucky Bastard Club’ certificate.”

Frank took the parchment and read it. “Francis Jourdan White. Member of the Lucky Bastard Club for successfully completing twenty five missions over enemy territory.”

“But sir, I’ve still got one more mission left. I’ll just have you hold this until we land back in England. Captain Sewell said we’d have an easy time Monday over Merseberg and then we’ll be all heading home. I’m their lucky charm, Colonel. They can’t go without…”

“It’s Tuesday, Sergeant,” the colonel interrupted. “Your crew took off yesterday for Merseberg on a new plane”

“So they’re back?” Frank asked. “Is that why you’re sending me home, because they’re back?”

The colonel let his gaze drop toward the floor and shook his head.

Frank sat up and touched the colonel’s arm.

“Any of them?” Frank asked. “Tell me some of ‘em made it back, sir. Please?”

Colonel McRay stood up. “I’m sorry, son.”

Frank wiped his eyes with the sleeve of his hospital gown and spoke softly.

“I was their lucky charm. If I had gone with them they would have made it back. We’d all be leaving for the states.”

“No, Sergeant,” the colonel said. “A wing came off of a plane in formation above them. They never saw it hit them. If you had been there you’d be dead too. You’re going home, Frank. I don’t give a damn about completing twenty-five missions for General Doolittle. He can go to hell if he thinks I’m going to let you go up there again. By God, I am going to send somebody home from my squadron who isn’t busted up or in a box and that someone is going to be you, Sergeant! Do you understand me?”

“Yes sir,” Frank said quietly.

The colonel threw the papers on Frank’s lap, saluted, and left.

Frank leaned back on his pillow, closed his eyes, and chased his brother Bob up Icy Knob Hill.

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