Mission

“They look beautiful, don’t they?” I mumble under my breath.

Polzin, the navigator, front gunner, and bombardier, looks up at me from his seat in the front of the plane.

I pretend not to notice, as my head almost bumps against the glass cockpit window.

Half the flight is there, tapered back from our port wing. Three DB-3Fs and two SB-2s lumber in formation on that side, while on the starboard side another five bombers keep in a rough V formation. We’re making our way toward Osovets, just under sixty kilometers from our heavily damaged airfield.

How many of us will make it back today? Will we have enough fuel left for a second mission?

The eleven of us, all that remains of twenty bombers and the same number of fighters from our recently attacked base, are carrying out one-fourth of the mission we were assigned. Clearly, as if presented on a movie theatre screen of my cornea, I can see the orders as they were typed, just as I did when I read them the first time more than a half hour ago:

Bomb German positions in Osovets, Visna, Belsk, and Kleshchelye.

How can they expect us to bomb four cities with eleven lumbering bombers and no functional fighters?

“Keep a sharp eye out for Nazis!” I yell over the radio.

A sharp eye won’t stop them from tearing us apart, but we may take one or two down with us as we go.

Polzin turns away from his gun to talk toward me. “I saw we have a new gunner aboard.”

“Yes, he’ll be useful to cover the ventral hatch.” I reply, hoping to end the conversation there.

“Can never have too many gunners, I say!” Polzin offers with a yell so loud Gorostayev, our turret gunner, and the new kid can hear.

Smiling, I turn so I may see Goro in his turret. He’s not there.

He must be working with the kid to show him how to use the machine gun in the ventral hatch.

“Finish the lesson and get your eyes out!” I yell back to them in as friendly, yet commanding, tone as I can muster with an unseen smile on my face.

The kid did not have to volunteer to come with us.

Goro calls back “Yes, Comrade!” I look back toward his turret, where he’s taking up his position; he's smiling.

“We’re nearing Osovets,” Polzin blurts out over the comms.

YES, we’re actually making it to our target. Where are the Germans?

“We should be two minutes from the town,” Polzin declares.

We’ll have to pick out a target to bomb. Maybe we can find a German convoy or storage depot.

“Pol, any sign of a target?” I ask, hoping for a quick answer that will allow me to rapidly target, thereby reducing the chance the Germans will catch us before we’re able to do some damage.

“Line of vehicles 30 degrees starboard” he says, almost as I finish asking.

“Planes 4 o’clock!” Goro yells out.

Damn, let us at least get a few bombs off first!

Rapidly banking the bomber, I change our heading so we’re in line with the vehicles. The other pilots should follow me in on their own.

Machine gun fire erupts from behind me.

At least one kill, that’s all I ask!

Focusing on the vehicles, I yell, “Try to hit the lead!” hoping that Polzin heard me.

AAAACCCCCKKKK, AAAACCCCKKKKK, AAAAACCCCKKKK thunders behind me.

Suddenly the plane feels lighter, more responsive to my controls.

“Bombs away!” Polzin yells.

I bank up and to the left, hoping to give the kid a chance to fire at a German. As I do so, a Messerschmidt streaks across my line of sight, the gray and white cross of the Luftwaffe behind a black silhouette clearly visible on his green-bean-colored wings.

“There are hundreds of them!” the kid yells.

I hope you get to kill one before we’re done!

Craning my head to look back at the convoy, I can see a flame rising from where our bombs must have hit. Other flames, probably from the bombs of the other planes, begin to rise like spires of fiery duty above the small wood buildings making up Osovets.

ZZSSCCHHWWWIITTTTZZZZ

Metal begins ripping away from our starboard engine; small chunks of debris flying off in every direction as shell after shell begin finding their way into our right wing.

Here it is.

I swivel my head so that I can see across the horizon and above me.

There are only three others left.

We may not conduct another mission.

“I got one!” the kid yells. “Urrra!”

“Bragging ain’t gonna win the war, kid” Goro replies, probably figuring he pumped at least as many rounds into that Nazi as the kid did.

I’ll keep us up here for as long as I can, maybe distracting a few Germans from following what remains of our flight back to the base.

“Keep bagging’ em!” Polzin yells while manning his front mounted machine gun.

The starboard engine is flaming.

How much longer can I keep her airborne?

YYYAAAAAZZZZPPPHHHHHKKKKK

Blood explodes across the front of the plane, inundating my lower body.

Shells slam against the now shattering glass of the cockpit.

“KEEP FIRING! KEEP FIRING!” I scream.

Round after round careen across the cockpit as machine gun bursts echo from the rear of the plane.

Keep firing, Goro. Keep firing, Kid!

*****

Ilyushin DB-3F

http://mig3.sovietwarplanes.com/colors/1940-1941/1940-41.html

Tupolev SB-2

http://www.lasecondaguerramondiale.org/aerei/aviazione-sovietica/497-tupolev-sb-2.html

This may sound familiar, as it’s related to the previous story (Orders).

The crews of the slow Soviet Ilyushin and Tupolev bombers stoically and honorably flew from their bases without the expectation of returning alive. None of the planes made it back from this mission. Luftwaffe Field marshal Albert Kesselring was quoted later as saying that shooting down the Soviet planes was as easy as infanticide. Within twenty-four hours, the Soviets had lost more than 2,000 of their front-line aircraft, including all their bombers. Kopets, at this point without an air force to command, committed suicide rather than face Stalin. The Germans lost 35 planes.

Tease

Perky dirty blond, even in a dirty shirt and torn pants, you can tell a looker when you see one.

She strolls into the large room, confident and carefree.

Wow, what a soft face. Hazel eyes. She’s gorgeous.

She sees me looking.

She looks back.

Contact! 

Game On.

I look away, not wanting to seem too interested.

She looks away as well, as she brings her right hand slowly up her thigh, as she turns to reveal a nicely shaped silhouette.

Oh, you’re friendly.

Her eyes locked on me now as she lifts her back leg a bit while bending slightly at the hips to push out her chest.

I’m going to enjoy this!

Adjusting my stance to accommodate some personal changes, I cut the fine figure in my Hugo Boss and leather boots.

Throwing her head back, she begins swinging her hips as she pulls the hem of her shirt out from her pants.

She looks as soft as the little one I had last week, but far more playful!

Slowly, and with intent, her hands rub the shirt fabric up, against her skin, revealing a pale, but tight stomach.

Show me what you got honey!

Pushing it ever higher, her shirt barely reveals the strap of a red bra, before falling loosely about her torso.

She let go. Ugh.

Her eyes lock with mine again, this time just as she places her left index finger in her mouth, licks it with a gentle touch of her tongue before letting it slide down her chin, under her neck, to her chest.

I stare back at her, leather baton in my left hand resting across my front to hide my enjoyment of this little show.

Swishing her hips again, she places both hands on the hem of her shirt, ripping it up and over hear head in one fluid motion.

I want her!

I start toward her.

Damn the rest, this one’s mine!

She crumples up her shirt, throwing it in my face.

Sweaty, grimy, dirty, female pheromones; I’m taking her right now! 

Her shirt covers my face; enveloping my senses in the dream of sensuality.

Just then, I feel a shove against my chest, and a grab at my right arm.

What was that?

Who was that?

Was that her?

Instead of pulling the siren shirt from my face, I reach down, unclasping my Luger from its leather holster.

What’s happening?

Two hands throw my right arm up, away from my pistol.

With my left hand I pull the encapsulating shirt away from my face.

Dirty blond is directly before me, my pistol in her right hand.

No!

I bring my left hand up to throw the shirt in her face just as she pulls the trigger on the Luger.

PPHHUUMMPP, PPHHUUMMPP, two rounds enter my stomach.

NO! NO!

Emmerich rushes over as she turns the pistol on him, firing at his leg.

Doubling over, and collapsing to the hard cold concrete floor, I lose site of the pretty pistol armed inmate.

I could have had her.

Commotion reigns around me as screaming women let loose on the other guards.

It’s a riot.

Automatic gunfire erupts from within the undressing room. Repetitive fire follows from outside where the rest of the prisoners were lined up waiting to enter.

We’re saving gas and wasting bullets today.

I lose site of everything.



On October 23, 1943 Franceska Mann, a beautiful Polish Jew with blue-black hair was one of 1,700 Jewish women arriving at Auschwitz-Birkenau. Part of a trainload of prisoners told they were heading to Switzerland to be exchanged for German POW’s, the 1,700 were told to undress before being disinfected so they could cross the border. As they were undressing, Franceska noticed SS roll call officer Josef Schillinger ogling her with his eyes. There are different accounts of exactly what happened, but what is known is she seductively began to undress, keeping his attention on her. She either threw her shirt at his face or smashed a high-heal against it, covering his eyes either way. Then she grabbed his pistol, firing two shots into his stomach. At this point, the other inmates attacked the SS guards, all of whom were rushed out of the room. Machine guns set up outside the room killed the lined-up prisoners who were waiting to enter while grenades were thrown into the undressing room to kill those inside. Schillinger died of his wounds. Emmerich survived with a permanent disability. All 1,700 women prisoners were killed, possibly all in defiance.

The 1,700 women had been told they were a special transport because they had all paid large amounts of money to the Gestapo for permits to emigrate to Paraguay. Turns out, that was just a ruse to take their money and get them on the train. The permits were not real. Nor was the intent to send them to Switzerland. They were, instead, taken to a death camp for execution. When the women learned of this, they rose in revolt.

Also of note, the SS uniforms were designed by Hugo Boss. This is how the fledgling company first came to prominence. Turns out, somehow, it’s done quite well since then.

Shoot Down

“You seeing this?” Captain Moore yells as he points left out the cockpit window.

Stepping forward, away from the center of the Huey, I lean out the open left side door, where a site straight out of a history book greets me.

Four huge green bi-planes, flying in formation, are cruising just over Site 85, dropping explosives on and around the radar base there.

How’d they know it was here?

“I’m gonna get above them, you grab a gun. Let’s see if we can have a little fun!” Moore yells into the comms again.

Scrambling back from the open side door, I reach down with my right hand to un-strap one of the AK-47s we brought with us on this resupply mission.

The front strap lock on the AKs sticks a bit, forcing me to kneel down to get better leverage to pull up on it.

Damn, I don’t want to miss my chance to shoot at a bi-plane!

While kneeling, I notice the tree tops fade away from just below the open right side door of the Huey.

We’re getting up there.

Catching the strap lock, I’m able to snap it open, freeing the AKs from their safe storage.

I yank out the AK on top.

Do I strap them back in, or turn and shoot, leaving the AK’s loose?

I turn my head to look out the left side door. The bi-planes are still there, in formation as it heads away from the radar base.

They must not have seen us yet.

I’m not missing them yet.

Holding the free AK under my arm, I re-strap the remaining guns to make sure they don’t start falling about the Huey’s rocking cabin.

Alright, they’re good to go, now for some fun!

Swinging back around so I’m facing out the open left side of the Huey, I point the AK-47 toward the last plane in the formation.

No aiming with this thing!

The AK set to semi-automatic, I pump a quite a few rounds toward the slow bi-plane trudging just below.

Did I even hit anything?

Banking left, the plane breaks formation.

I must have got his attention.

Moore yells from the cockpit, “Let’s make this a dogfight!” as he banks us to follow the bi-plane.

Yeah, let’s get this gook!

Securing myself against the Huey’s bulkhead, I fire off more rounds at the attempting to escape bi-plane.

Nowhere to go buddy! Nowhere to hide!

Unloading round after expendable round into the bi-plane, my cartridge empties out pretty quick.

Whether or not I’m hitting anything, he’s running scared.

This is fun!

A second bi-plane comes into view as I pull out the empty cartridge, replacing it with a full one from my vest pocket.

He must be following the plane I’m shooting at.

This one has a gun-mount on top, with a guy inside firing something up toward us.

Hey, they’re shooting back. Now it’s a fight!

“Focus on the shooter!” Moore yells.

“Already on it!” I yell back.

He probably didn’t hear me. 

No matter.

I lock the new cartridge into the AK, pull back to load the first round in the chamber, and let loose on the second bi-plane.

He’s staying level so his guy can shoot. Thanks man!

ZZZZzzzttt,ZZZZzzzttt,ZZZZzzzttt,rounds whiz by me.

Maybe I shouldn’t be that thankful yet?

Just as that thought crosses my mind, smoke begins seeping, then bellowing forth from the armed bi-plane.

I must have hit something!

Slowly at first, then faster, and faster, the large green machine from the past descends toward the earth. 

“Woods, you got’em!” Moore yells on the comms.

I shot down a bi-plane!

“Let’s get the other one!” I yell, hoping Moore can hear me.

Looking around for the first bi-plane, I can see him from the right side scrambling, at what low speed he can, to get back to Vietnamese airspace.

Moore banks the Huey to the right.

I’ll get you yet my pretty!

Lunging across the open deck of the Huey, I jump the tether connecting me to the helicopter as I swing the AK-47 up to fire from the open right door.

“There he is!” Moore yells just as I see the scurrying bi-plane.

Pumping rounds into this guy, I’m surprised when it starts nose-diving toward the ground.

No smoke.

The plane simply descends, no turning, no attempt to pull up, nothing.

“Seems like we’re done here.” Moore yells, “Gotta land this ammo.”

What about the other two?

“Hey, I’m 2/5th of the way to Ace!” I yell back.

“Good shootin’ Woods!” Moore exclaims as he banks the Huey back toward the radar station. “The other two bugged out. Can’t catch’em with all this ammo aboard.”

Two ain’t bad, even if they were bi-planes!

Painting of an Air America Bell 205 helicopter engaging two Vietnam People’s Air Force Antonov An-2 biplanes dropping 120 mm mortar rounds on Lima Site 85, Laos,12 January 1968.

Bell UH-1H Huey Helicopter. 

 On January 12, 1968 an American helicopter, part of the Air America CIA sponsored mission in Laos, was running supplies of ammunition to a secret U.S. Air Force radar station high-up in the hills of northern Laos. Coming through the canyon near the base, the Americans were surprised to find four Vietnamese An-2 bi-planes in the process of bombing the radar station. The American helicopter flew in above the Vietnamese planes, shooting at them with a hand-held AK-47. Two of the bi-planes went down in the jungles, while the other two were able to get away. Two months later the radar station was attacked by Vietnamese ground units, with a complete loss of all U.S. personnel serving at the station. This event was the largest single loss of life for the U.S. Air Force during the Vietnam War.   

The primary source for this story was here.