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.

A Little Something

Between coughs she softly offers, “Make yourself at home, Sweetheaaart” from chapped lips complementing a face that could be young, yet looks aged by experience. Wrinkles fail to hide under a thin layer of cheap powder, with cheeks made falsely red by who knows what means.

She’s perfect!

Walking the darkened streets of a run-down, working-class Paris neighborhood on the Left Bank, I met Edith. She is among the many haggard looking and hardworking women striving to make a living from whichever occupying army’s young men happen to be in town.

As she closes the door to her room, she unwraps a red shawl from her shoulders, revealing winter-dry skin pressed hard under the straps of a revealing lingerie bra. Ripples of fatty tissue betray cooperation and accommodation to any and all who may offer calorie-rich foods in exchange for services.

“Please utilize the basin to clean,” she suggests while removing first her left, then her right black high-heeled shoes. Red stockings fit tight over her bulging legs. From a few tears protrudes more fatty tissue, as if trying to escape weaved imprisonment of fine fabric. 

Where would she have gotten such stockings?

Making my way over to the washbasin, I can’t help but look around the small cold room nestled on the fifth floor of a dilapidated walk-up, missing some units from bombs and other war damage. The structure matches its inhabitants. On the way to this room, I saw others in the hall: broken men, working women, starving children, all of them lice ridden, and coughing. Peeling wallpaper, dirty sheets on the bed and a crack in the ceiling tell a story that could be the same story Edith tells about herself: A once beautiful object ruined by the touch of war.

This may work!

Moving toward me from where she had been undressing, she twirls her red shawl atop the one light bulb centered in the ceiling. Its white hue quickly changes to reddish, illuminating the room in a soft seductive tint. Her approach slows as graceful strides offer a glimpse of a sensual and cultured past.

What was she before the war?

She reaches out her right hand to mine, grasping the cloth and my hand to help me wash my now bare chest. Our faces brush gently. She turns her eyes toward mine, stares at me directly, and coughs in my open mouth, coating my tongue with phlegm, which I quickly swallow.

“How sick would you like to be, my dear?” she asks while moving the damp cloth down to my left thigh.

How sick would I like to be? I wanted to get something to take me out of the war, but how much?

She sees I’m thinking, debating, contemplating. Removing the cloth from me, she runs it with force between her legs.

“Would you like to be out of the line or blind?” she offers, as if I were choosing a bottle of fine wine.

I don’t want to be blind, but getting out of the line should be good enough.

“Out of the line,” I declare with a sense of urgency as she raises the cloth toward my face.

She lowers the cloth before handing it to me.

“Rub this upon your genitals. That should do the trick.”

Looking down at the damp and soiled cloth, I wonder if my fingers are already contaminated.

I’ll have to wash my hands right away.

Her stare catches my pause.

“It’s alright my dear, it doesn’t hurt a bit,” she says as her hand guides mine toward my genitals.

She stares into my eyes while hand-in-hand we rub the damp cloth on my soft skin, making sure to cover the area as thoroughly as possible.

This feels surprisingly good.

Blue radiance emanates from her sensual touch and milky eyes.

I could love such a woman.

She coughs again; this time not on purpose. Phlegm falls upon my cheek, wetting my face before it drips down to my collarbone.

“That one is on the house,” she jokingly declares.

*****

Poster meant to deter soldiers from distractions

http://worldwartwo.filminspector.com/2013_08_01_archive.html

In war, people often take steps to protect themselves they would not otherwise have even considered. During World War II, a thriving trade in venereal disease plagued all armies. Men on leave would often prefer the companionship of infected prostitutes rather than healthy ones since soldiers could use illness to evade service at the front.

In 1944, the U.S. Army struggled to shut down the trade in coughed-up phlegm used to infect soldiers with Tuberculosis. The most grotesque problem, though, was the trade in gonococcal pus, which soldiers smeared into their genitals in the hope of ending up in the hospital. Those who were desperate rubbed it in their eyes, which often led to lifelong blindness. It wasn’t just American soldiers who participated in this trade, but those of all sides. Beyond the soldiers, there was a thriving black market for these items, as well as a solid supply base of desperately hungry women left behind by the ravages of war. War touches us in ways we’d never imagine, and sometimes would prefer to forget.