Discovery

Featuring the amazing Órla Mc Govern.

Discovery

A brisk wind pulls at my great coat, pushing up through the open bottom to chill my panted legs. Residue of last night’s storm cannot deter me from thrashing out near the rocks.

What nerve, to ask for my hand!

I weave my way between the jutting rocks of the shoreline. Soft sand sinks beneath my quick-paced feet.

There is a war on. I cannot marry a man who will soon be sent away.

Dark moss-covered rocks, wet with the ocean mist and crashing waves, feel cool to my hands as I climb up a small slope from the shoreline.

If Braden had not volunteered to go, then maybe. But how can I give my heart to a man who will fight in this mistake of humanity?

Rising atop the mass of broken rocks I look down the shoreline where the fog meets the ground and sea in a single point of outward triangles.

Air, land, and sea stab all at once against my heart. Which direction do I go from here?

A dark object with a twisted limb juts out from behind one of the rocks just visible before the morning mist swallows everything. It floats and bumps, coming above the rock in rhythm with the tidal waves before disappearing behind the rock again as the tide goes out.

What could that be?

Slowly descending the damp rocks, I make my way toward the object. I keep my eyes fixed on the rocks at my feet so as not to slip on the wet moss. A gale blows across the upper rocks, a last gasp of last night’s tumult. Howls and screams of powerful wind rushing past jagged wet rocks remind me of the tales of witches and monsters.

Can’t he stay out of the war? Nothing good can come of it.

Making my way toward the object, I can’t quite make out what it is. As I approach, I start to see what looks like a bloated dark bobbing thing the size of a large seal.

It must be dead since it’s only moving with the current of the waves.

The twisted limb comes into view above the rock. Clenched fingers in the shape of a fist appear at the end of the limb.

It’s a man!

Rushing over, I slip on a small rock, falling to the soft sand so my knees, coat, and hands get covered. I look back at the rock upon which I slipped, but it’s no rock. Tufts of hair stick out from an almost completely buried man’s head.

Two dead men!

Without thinking, my hands quickly start digging around the head, exposing a soft, gentle, still, bloated, and rotting face.

He must have been here for a while.

I keep digging. A whole head comes into view.

Who are these men?

What are they doing here?

A scream tears at my ears.

This war takes men I don’t even know, kills them, and brings them to me!

I pause; bringing my sand-covered hands toward my face. Staring at them, my body collapses under its own weight.

I cannot marry any man in THIS world.

A hand touches my right shoulder. Screaming out, I turn to see Braden standing, in shock, behind me. My arms drape around his broad shoulders as he squeezes me tight against his warm body.

His warm body. God, his warm body feels good. Please keep him warm!

My tears fall on his shoulder as he pulls me away from the bloated cold bodies on the beach. I don’t look back.

*****

HMS Viknor

http://dawlishchronicles.com/the-loss-of-hms-viknor-13th-january-1915/

From late January 1915 through mid-year, bodies began washing up along the shores of Donegal, North Antrim, Raghery (Northern Ireland) and the Scottish Islands. For a long time, they could not be identified. People from coastal towns simply kept finding more bodies every few days until one was discovered who still had ID tags. His name was Private J. Griffin. Research revealed Private Griffin was from the HMS Viknor, an armed merchant cruiser that disappeared January 13, off the coast of Ireland.

No one knows for sure what happened to the Viknor, but it is supposed that after capturing the German spy, Baron H A Wedell, the ship struck a German mine in a storm. All 291 men aboard, including the German spy, disappeared until many of them washed ashore over the ensuing months. Their remains are now scattered in cemeteries across Northern Ireland and Scotland.

Private Griffin, whose ID tags led to the realization of the ship’s loss, is buried with four unidentified companions at Bonamargie Friary, in a small corner of North Antrim Northern Ireland. Bally castle erected a Celtic cross memorial with an anchor, harp, and shamrock on it. The Viknor’s wreck was found by the Irish survey vessel Celtic Explorer in 2006 but the reason for her loss could still not be identified with absolute certainty. A small flag was placed upon the wreck to commemorate the loss of life.

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.

Hatikvah

“Gli Ingliesi son arrivati!”

Shouts coming from the street penetrate our crowded dark dust and soot covered basement cellar where I wait, nervously, with my sister and parents.

We look at each other through quiet eyes, too scared to make a sound.

“Gli Inglesi son arrivati! Gli Inglesi son arrivati!” echoes down to us again.

Small boys yell through streets where, just moments ago, German troops funneled through, on their way to battle.

Could it be a trick?

I look at my father.

His eyes reveal nothing in the almost pitch blackness of our cellar.

A streak of light flashes across his shadowed face from the crack in the wall revealing the sun-soaked day beyond our little make-shift bunker.

“GLI INGLESI SON ARRIVATI!”

They are nearby, it’s getting louder.

Straining my body so I may place my face next to my father’s, I ask in a whisper “What do you think?”

His eyes dart toward me.

Then, without a word, his head nods up ever so slightly; almost imperceptible in the darkness.

I head his order.

Without thinking because thinking would make me not want to do this, I begin to rise.

Moving my body toward the stairway, I step gingerly, hoping to make as little sound as possible as I peak my head out from the cellar entrance.

Could the English really be here?

Could the Germans really be gone?

As I creep up the stairs I see a man in a dark brown uniform crouching behind a makeshift barricade just beyond the cellar entrance.

A BRITISH SOLDIER!

Turning back to my parents and sister, I motion toward the soldier, whispering “Inglesi!”

Smiles rush to their faces.

We’re saved!

Just as I turn back to look again the soldier also turns, revealing a blue six-sided star on his left shoulder.

He is a Jew!

I gingerly rise out of the cellar, keeping my eyes on the soldier.

Perhaps I can connect with him, even though I do not speak English.

What would he know?

As I rise above the cellar, I begin humming the first few bars of Hatikvah, a popular Jewish poem turned to song I learned before the war.

“Daa Da Da Daaa Daaa Daa Daa Daa Da Daaaa”

He eyes me instantly, initially raising his rifle, then lowering it as I rise.

He begins humming along.

A shot rings out in the distance, which doesn’t phase him.

I flinch, but keep up the tune.

Together we hum “Daa Da Da Daaa Daaa Daaa Daa Daa Da Da Daaaa ”

After the first few bars the soldier begins talking to me in English.

I look at him, lost.

He keeps going, not recognizing I do not speak English until I begin humming again.

“Daa Da Da Daaa Daaa Daa Daa Daa Da Daaaa”

Then he stops.

My father rises from the cellar, saying something in yiddish I do not understand.

The soldier responds in yiddish.

They can speak to each other!

This English soldier and my Italian father, speaking yiddish, chat to each other as bullets crackle in the distance.

My father smiles, laughs, reaches out his arms, and hugs the soldier.

Other British soldiers begin peering out of crevices and from other street barricades.

They all have blue six-sided stars on their arms.

We are liberated by fellow Jews!

The shots become less frequent as the hugs and cheers grow.

Yiddish rushes forth from mouth to mouth as the soldiers talk with my dad.

I sit down next to the soldier, I first saw, looking up at him in awe.

Can this be how our war ends?

My father looks down at me, a smile on his face.

Yes.

Many Italian civilians were caught up in the battles to liberate Italy from the Italian Fascists and Germans during World War II. Among these civilians were a good number of Jews. In one instance, being Jewish is what enabled an Italian family to connect with a British soldier of the Jewish Brigade, as the Brigade liberated part of Florence. As quoted from Road to Valor by Aili McConnon:

On Via del Bandino, it was announced by hopeful shouting of local boys, “Gli inglesi son arrivati!” “The English have arrived!” Sitting in the cellar with his parents and sister, Giorgio Goldenberg crept cautiously out to investigate. He was startled to see a British soldier standing right on the street beside his building. On the soldier’s shoulder, he saw a Star of Daivd. Giorgio didn’t speak any English, but wanted desperately to communicate with this man whom he recognized as an ally. So he started singing, at first quietly and then loud enough so that the solder could hear him. He sang the melody of the Hatikvah, a popular Hebrew song that would later become the national anthem of Israel.

The solder recognized the song and burst forth in an excited flurry of English that Giorgio did not understand. Giorgio dashed downstairs to find his father and bring him to street level. His father and the soldier began to speak together in Yiddish. Giorgio watched them happily, a feeling of relief washing over him for the first time in years. “For me, this was the end of the war,” he said later.

Hatikvah later became the national anthem for the newly founded state of Israel.