He went to his room, arranged the light as best he could over the bunk, and started to read the manual. Compared to what he had been used to in the Navy and the AVG, it was astonishingly simple, like a children's book.
The manuals Biter had used presumed that the reader was a qualified pilot with a fairly advanced knowledge of aerodynamics, physics, meteorology, and mathematics. The Dash-One for the B-17 presumed the opposite.
This one was closer to the owner's manuals in glove compartments of new cars than anything else. He quickly grew bored with it and turned the light off. But he couldn't sleep. And he decided he couldn't just lie in the dark and worry. That made things worse. So he turned the light on again and read the Dash-One until his eyes teared.
At three o'clock in the morning, he was awakened by a sergeant who told him he was Colonel D'Angelo's driver and that he had been sent to take him to the briefing. The sergeant was carrying an armful of high-altitude clothing, bulky, crudely made sheepskin trousers, jacket, boots, and helmet.
As he walked down the narrow aisle of the hut, somewhat awkwardly because of the boots, Sergeant Draper's door opened and she looked out.
Her heavy bathrobe was unfastened, and he could see her nipples standing up under her cokon nightgown.
"I don't think going on a mission was quite what Dick had in mind for you, Commander," Sergeant Draper said.
"Is that your concern, Sergeant?" Biter snapped.
"I suppose not," she said, taking his words as a question and not a reprimand.
He nodded curtly to her and went out to the jeep.
The briefing was well under way by the time D'Angelo's sergeant led him to the briefing room. He immediately understood that he could not catch up by listening to the off ficer delivering the lecture, so he began to study the map covering the wall. He couldn't read the name of either the target or the alternate from the map, but they were well inside Germany.
The bomber path was jagged rather than in a straight line. He guessed this was in order to fly around known heavy antiaircraft installations.
And then the lieutenant colonel on the little stage was holding his pointer in both hands in front of him--like a cavalry officer's riding crop, Bitter thought--and said, "That's it, gentlemen. Good luck." D'Angelo came to him.
"Good morning, Commander," he said.
"Good morning, sir," he said.
"You're going with Danny Ester," D'Angelo said. "Come on, I'll give you a ride out to the line." D'Angelo dropped him without a word under the nose of a B-17F sitting just outside its sandbag revetment.
Bitter saw that it had been christened "Danny's Darling." The enlisted members of the crew were already there beside a pile of parachutes. They were wearing unfastened sheepskin high-altitude gear.
"Good morning," Biter said.
The only response was a nod from one of them.
He took a closer look at "Danny's Darling" itself. It was almost new, but there were seven bombs (each signifying a mission) and four swastikas (each signifying a confirmed downed German aircraft) painted on the fuselage just below and forward of the cockpit windshield. Just below these was a painting of a raven-haired, long-legged, hugely bosomed female. There were three large patches on the fuselage. The ship had been hit, and by something larger than machine-gun fire.
For the first time he remembered that he had not, as he had promised, wrieen Sarah the moment he arrived in England. And he also realized that he was right now torn between two obligations, There would have been no question of flying a mission he had been ordered to fly. He was an officer.
But he hadn't been ordered aboard this B-17. As Sergeant Draper had pointed out, it "wasn't what Canidy had in mind for him." And if he got killed, that would deprive Joe of his father, as well as Sarah of her husband.
Did he have any right to endanger his life when it affected the lives of other people? Did he really have to make this mission so as to beeer discharge his duty with the flying bombs, or was he simply being a romantic fool?
It was very easy for Ed Biter to conclude that he was a professional warrior, and what professional warriors did was go to war.
He put Joe and Sarah from his mind. Major Danny Ester and the officer crew arrived on a weapons carrier a few minutes later. Ester introduced him, then went through a perfunctory examination of the crew's gear, and then ordered everybody aboard.
IX [ON8] Fers ld Arsy Xir Corpn Btatiod 10 January 1943 One of the crewmen helped Bitter put the Browning. 50-caliber machine gun in its mount, then asked him if he had ever fired one before.
"Yes," Biter said.
That was not the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth. But at Annapolis he had fired an air-cooled. 30-caliber Browning machine gun.
Functionally they were the same. And he'd fired enough rounds from the two fixed. 50-caliber Brownings mounted in the nose of his Curtiss P40 Warhawk in Burma and China to acquire some expertise with the trajectory and velocity of the bullet. The only difference was that if he had to fire this weapon, he would aim the weapon itself rather than the whole airplane.
That would probably be a good deal easier.
The crewman took him at his word.
"Major Ester said when you were squared away, you could go up front," the crewman said.
Bitter nodded and smiled. Then he heard the roar of a B-17 taking off.
He looked out the oblong window and saw a wildly painted B-17 just breaking ground. The fuselage and wings were painted bright yellow, and on the yellow background was painted a series of black triangles.
The paint job obviously had been designed to make the aircraft extraordinarily visible, but aside from concluding that it was used in some sort of training, Bieer had no idea what it could be, or why a training aircraft should be permited to be taking off at the same time as a bomber group.
He made his way forward and stood just behind the pilot's and copilot's seats, then looked at the controls and instrument panel.
There was an awesome array of instruments and levers, but that was because there were four engines, each requiring its own gauges and controls. The panel really wasn't all that complicated. When the time came, he imagined he'd be able to make the transition into B-17s without much difficulty. An airplane was an airplane. Five or six hours in the air with a competent instructor, and he could be taught to fly a B-17.
He watched Major Danny Ester go through the checklist and get the engines started. When he decided he could do it without geting in the way, he asked him about the yellow B-17.
"Some people call it the Judas Sheep," Ester said. "Because it leads the lambs to slaughter."
"I don't understand," Bitter confessed.
"We use it to form up," Ester told him, and then explained. Most B-17 pilots were pretty inexperienced. Only a very few of them had 300 hours in the air. Many of them had become aircraft commanders with no more than 150 hours total time, including their primary flight training. And there were very few really skilled navigators. So the wildly painted aircraft were used to form the squadrons once they were airborne. The Judas Sheep took off first and then flew in shallow climbing wide circles around the airbase.
One by one, as the bombers of the mission rose, they formed up behind it.
When all the aircraft were in the formation and at altitude, the Judas sheep took up the course the bombers were to take to France, or Germany, or wherever, and then dropped out of the formation. The system, Major Ester told Bitter, had greatly reduced in-flight collisions, which had caused nearly as many casualties as enemy fighters and antiaircraft.
Ester shut down all but one engine--to conserve fuel, Biter reasoned-and there was then a five-minute wait until a flare rose into the early morning from the control tower. Then Ester started a second engine and began to taxi. By the time he reached the end of the line of aircraft waiting to take off, all four engines were turning.
He stopped behind another B-17 and checked the engine magnetos.
When it was finally their turn to move onto the runway, Ester didn't even slow at the threshold, but turned onto the runway as he pushed the throttles to TAKEOFF power. The plane immediately began to accelerate.
There was not the feeling of being pushed hard against the seat that came in a fighter plane, but the available power was still impressive.
Bitter remembered from his study of the Dash-One that at TAKEOFF power the B-17's four Wright Cyclone engines each produced I, 200 horsepower, 150 horses more than the 1040 Allison in a P-40.
On the ground, the B-17 seemed lumbering and ungainly, but once Ester lifted it into the air, it immediately became surprisingly graceful.
Ester climbed steeply to the right, and Bieer could see the triangle-marked yellow B-17 above them. Ester took up a position just behind it, then spent some time working with the flight engineer. They were synchronizing the engines and setting the fuel-air mixture at the lea nest workable mixture.
They circled the field as they climbed to mission altitude, passed through the cloud cover at about 9, 000 feet, and emerged into the light of early morning. When Biter looked out the window and saw the aluminum armada that filled the sky, he was far less impressed than he had thought he would be. There was none of the elation he'd felt in Burma and China when he'd climbed out of the cloud cover and scanned the sky for the Japanese.
He felt, in fact, very uneasy.
Uneasy, because he was helpless. This was more like being carted off to an operating room than flying a plane.
Just before they reached the Thames Estuary, their fighter escort appeared. Shining little dots that climbed out of the cloud cover became identifiable P-38s and P-51s as they climbed past the bomber formation, and then became liale dots again as they took up protective positions above the formation, some to the front of the bombers and some to the rear.
"Maybe you beaer go back and get on oxygen, Commander," Ester said.
"We just passed through 11, 000." Biter returned to his gun position and put on an oxygen mask, and then a set of headphones.
A five-plane V of P-51s appeared on their left, apparently throttled back to keep pace with the much slower B-17s. The flight leader of the P-51s raised his hand and waved.
That's where I belong, in the cockpit of a fighter plane, not as supercargo on a B-l 7.
There was nothing to be seen below them but clouds. He wondered where they were. From what he understood of the briefing, and from the quick glance he'd had at the map before D'Angelo took him out to the flight line, they were to fly a northeast course that crossed the Thames Estuary twenty miles southeast of Southend-on-Sea, then took them seventy-five miles on a more easterly course to a point in the North Sea where a Royal Navy destroyer was stationed. From there the route turned right, nearly due east, to Dortmund.
They were likely to be attacked by German fighters from two bases in Holland (Zwijndrecht and Hertogenbosch) and three in Germany (Duisburg, Essen, and Recklinghausen). The big map had shown known and suspected antiaircraft emplacements and German fighter bases, and it was marked with arrows indicating where Intelligence believed they would be first attacked, where they would be attacked later when the Germans computed their target, and later still en route home.
After dropping their bombs on Dortmund, they were to turn right and fly a straight course back to England, a course south of the attack course that passed nearly over Eindhoven and north of Antwerp and left the European coast at Knokke on the Dutch-Belgian border.
Ester's voice came over the earphones, answering his question, "We're approaching the coast, test your guns." Biter worked the action of the Browning, chambering a cartridge, then put his hands on the handles, aimed above the B-17 to their left, and pressed the trigger.
The noise and recoil were startling.
Ester and his crew seemed to be taking the whole thing very calmly.
Bitter wondered if this was a reflection of their courage, or whether they had grown used to what he was doing. Or whether it was a carefully nurtured facade.
Five minutes later, holes appeared in the cloud cover. He was trying to peer through one of these when he became aware of puffs of black smoke in the sky. That was antiaircraft. As he looked around the sky to see how much of it there was, an antiaircraft shell struck the port wing of a B-17 flying behind and below' Danny's Darling." It exploded between the engine nacelles, taking off the outer portion of wing and the outboard engine and detonating the fuel tanks.
The B-17, in flames, fell off to the right, went into a spin, and then disappeared from sight.
Bitter felt sick to his stomach.
Five minutes later, German fighters appeared, long before Air Corps Intelligence thought they would. There was a running air battle, first between the P-51s and the Messerschmidts, and then between the B-17s and the Messerschmidts that, inevitably, made it through the P-51s.
Bitter began to fire at a German fighter as it approached, and then he watched a double line of tracers from an aircraft behind him trace the path of the P-51 chasing the Messerschmidt through the bomber formation.
The P-51 seemed to stagger, and then blew up.
Bieer turned his attention to another Messerschmidt making a diving pass from the rear. He saw his tracers going where he wanted them to, but the enemy plane was out of sight before he could see any signs of having hit it.
And then, as quickly as it had begun, the skirmish was over.
"Danny's Darling" droned on and on in straight and level flight, waiting for something else--antiaircraft or fighter--to try to knock it from the sky. The feeling of helpless terror returned. And despite the cold of their altitude, he was sweating.
As they approached the outskirts of Dortmund, where their target was the Krupp steel mills, the antiaircraft fire resumed. It seemed to be much heavier than it had been the first time. There were far too many black bursts to count.
The three-minute bombing run was the longest period in Ed Biter's life.
He was desperately afraid that he was going to lose control of his stomach, if not his bowels. He had been afraid, and often, flying against the Japanese, but nothing like this. Here, it was like being tied to a stake before a bull'seye target on a rifle range. You could neither dodge nor fight back.
His sense of relief was enormous when he felt the B-17 shudder as it was freed of the weight of the bomb load, a moment before the bombardier's voice came over the earphones, "Bombs away!"
"Close bomb-bay doors," Ester ordered as he moved the B-17 into a climbing turn to the right.
In the middle of the turn, Biter looked back at the still-oncoming bomber stream. They seemed to be suspended on the black puffs of smoke the exploding antiaircraft shells made. As he watched, two planes fell out of formation, One exploded violently a second after he noticed it.
The second fell into a shallow spin.
Five minutes later, Ester's composure left him. There was not just excitement but unmistakable fear in his voice as he cried on the intercom, "Bandits, dead ahead. Christ, there's four of them." Biter watched in terror as one after another, four Messerschmidt fighters flashed past the B-17, their unbelievable closing speed moving them much too fast for him to get a shot at them.
He could hear the belly gunner's and the tail gunner's twin fifties firing as they went away, but somehow he knew that was futile.
Then there was a strange whistling noise, a wave of icy air, and the B-17 made a steep diving turn to the right. Bitter thought it was high time Ester made an evasive maneuver, then he remembered that bombers were trained not to make evasive maneuvers but to hold their formation, to preserve their' box of fire" at whatever cost.
And then the flight engineer, his voice hollow with horror, came on the intercom, "Navy guy," he said, "can you come to the cockpit?" Supporting himself against the centrifugal force of the steep turn, Biter made his way forward.
Ester was leaning forward, against the wheel. The top of his head was gone, but his earphones, incredibly, remained pinned to what was left of his head. Bitter could see the gray soupy mash of his brain.
The copilot, blood streaming down his face, was taut against his shoulder harness as he tried to pull the wheel back against the weight of Ester's body and the aerodynamic forces of the dive itself.
Bitter pulled Ester's body back in the seat and started to unfasten the blood-slippery harness latches. When he turned to the flight engineer to get him to help move Ester's body out of the seat, he saw that the copilot, who had just barely managed to force the airplane into a nearly level attitude, was looking at him with glazed, terrified eyes.
His yellow rubber' Mae West" inflatable life jacket was streaming blood.
The flight engineer was looking at Ester's open skull, then he threw up.
"Help me get him out of there!" Biter ordered.
When there was no response, Biter decided to move the body himself.
Ester was a lot heavier than he looked. And once his head tilted backward, a thick, glutinous mess spilled out of it onto Biter.
But he dragged him into the aisle between the seats and slipped into the pilot's seat. The copilot was now slumped unconscious.
And the B-17 was entering a spin.
If he couldn't bring it out of that, they would all die.
Centrifugal force would pin them where they were, they couldn't even bail out.
TWO] Lieutenant Commander John B. Dolan, USNR, wearing a fur-collared horsehide naval aviator's jacket, stood on the observation platform of the control tower of Fersfield Army Air Base. He was holding a china mug of Old Overholt rye whisky-sweetened coffee in one hand and a pair of binoculars in the other. From time to time, he would put the binoculars to his eyes with the practiced skill of an old sailor and examine the cloudy sky to the east.
Both the aviator's jacket and the binoculars were prewar. The leather patch sewn to the breast of the jacket was stamped with a representation of naval aviator's wings and the legend CAP DOLAN J. B. "Cap" stood for chief aviation pilot. Dolan had decided that it would fuck up the patch if he corrected the rank to reflect his current status, and besides, he suspected there were few people around who had any idea what "Cap" stood for. He had guessed correctly. Many of the Air Corps guys mistakenly interpreted it as the abbreviation for' captain," and so addressed him.
The binoculars bore two identification labels. One read' Carl Zeiss Gmbh Jena" and the other "Property Aviation Section USS Arizona." Chief Aviation Pilot John B. Dolan had once flown Vought OS-2U "Kingfishers" off the catapults on the bauleship Arizona.