Plummet

WHAT THE HELL WAS THAT? I scream as I’m thrown face down on the floor toward the rear of the fort.

 Just a moment ago I was crouching on the adapted bike seat which shoves itself far higher into a man’s back-end than any object really should go.

 I was scanning the densely foggy sky for aircraft from the cramped tail-gunner’s compartment of Skippy, my flying fortress.

 Watching the planes to our right and left, I was in a kneeling position, looking out over my guns.

 . . .

 We’re spiraling and falling.

 Flashes of blue, green and brown shoot through the tail window.

 The plane is spinning fast!

 Whatever happened threw me flat on my face. 

 Twisting to the right in a tight circle, the fortress spin broke the ammo trunk loose, so it’s now pinning me to the left wall of the compartment.

 I need to grab my parachute.

 I can’t move.

 How will I get to my chute?

 Impossible to move, my body is pinned flat against the wall.

 I must get to my chute!

 Straining every muscle, I try to shove or lift the ammo trunk with all my force.

 Nothing, I’m not moving.

 I try again, shoving with all my might against the plane’s ribbed interior.

 Nothing.

 I have to keep trying!

 Using every ounce of strength within, my whole body shoves against the wall and the ammo trunk; legs, arms, back, even the back of my head, but I can’t move it.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t just stay here while this plane crashes.

 . . .

 I can’t move and I can’t stay.

 . . .

 I have to move.

 With what’s left of my energy, I compel myself off the wall, pushing every last sinew until the heat of the pain forces me to stop.

 I can’t.

 I can’t move.

 I can’t get out.

 I can’t stop this.

 . . .

 Is this it?

 Falling to the ground in a plummeting plane is how I die.

 This is how I die.

 THIS IS HOW I DIE! I yell, girding myself with the vocalization of this realization.

 In another few minutes I’ll be dead.

 . . .

 Time is slowing down.

 Looking up through the tail window I can see only fog above.

 There is no sense of place.

 No here, nor there.

 Do not be anxious about anything.

 In every situation, by prayer and petition, with thanksgiving, present your requests to G-d.

 The ribs of the plane dig into my body as I’m forced ever more against its hard metal walls.

 “Have I not commanded you? Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid; do not be discouraged, for the Lord your G-d will be with you wherever you go.”

 Images begin streaking across my mind.

 My mom’s face.

 My dad reaching out his hand to me as I prepared to board the train when I left for basic training.

 The softness of Emily’s lips when we last held each other.

 “Even though I walk through the darkest valley, I will fear no evil, for you are with me; your rod and your staff, they comfort me.”

 What have I done with this life?

 I could have given the toy car back to Jack.

 . . .

 Why did I not ask Emily to marry me?

 . . .

 What difference have I made?

 . . .

 “Be strong and courageous. Do not be afraid or terrified because of them, for the Lord your G-d goes with you; he will never leave you nor forsake you.”

 . . .

 What is this all for?

 . . .

 I’m not getting back to Kentucky after all, am I?

 . . .

 Why is this taking so long?

 If I’m going to die, why does it have to take so long?

 Get it over with!

 GET IT OVER WITH ALREADY!

 This is not ok.

 Come on!

 HURRY UP, DAMN IT!

 . . .

 “So do not fear, for I am with you; do not be dismayed, for I am your G-d. I will strengthen you and help you; I will uphold you with my righteous right hand.”

 . . .

 Time is fascinating.

 Most of it we don’t even notice.

 It goes by.

 Yet, at the end, it takes FOREVER!

 If it had taken this long through everyday life, I’d be dead by now.

 . . .

 WHAT IS TAKING SO LONG?

 . . .

 Going to college is no longer on the table.

 I would have liked college; the learning, the slower pace, the peace.

 This falling is peaceful.

 . . .

 Am I already dead?

 Is this what death feels like, this peace?

 The plane has been plummeting for so long, maybe I’m already dead.

 If this is death . . . I’m ok with it.

 . . .

 A raspy swishing sound breaks my thoughts.

 Looking out, no longer up, through the window I see the tops of trees float away as the fort scrapes along them.

 GROUND!

 . . .

 We’re gliding down!

 . . .

 WE’RE NOT FALLING, WE’RE GLIDING DOWN! I yell out.

 Just then, the plane comes to an abrupt and jerked halt.

 Thrown forward, I bump my chin against a side-rib of the plane too hard, but the ammo trunk is moved a bit in the crash.

 That’ll bruise.

 . . .

 We’re on the ground!

 WE’RE ON THE GROUND! I yell.

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 I’M ALIVE!

 . . .

 I’ve got to get out.

 The ship might be on fire.

 Shoving with what energy I have left, I’m able to nudge the ammo trunk a bit.

 It’s working now!

 Gathering all the strength in my arms and legs, I shove again.

 Again, a bit of a nudge.

 Keep at it.

 Use it all up, get out!

 UUURRRGGGG!!!!! I grunt as I shove again.

 More movement, it’s sliding now.

 AAAUUURRRHHHGGGHH!

 I GOT IT!

 I can rise!

 The ammo trunk is finally off of me.

 Raising my sore, and exhausted body off the wall of the downed fort, I dig my way out of the strewn shell casings, broken ventilation station, and other debris which had been tossed about as the plane spiraled down.

 My eyes scan the space looking toward the bulkhead door.

 Wow, the side of the ship is bashed in.

 Glad I wasn’t pinned against that wall.

 Turning the handle on the bulkhead door, I’m shocked by what I see.

 Or, don’t see:

 THERE’S NO PLANE!

 . . .

 The tail must have come apart from the rest of the plane, coming down by itself.

 What happened to the rest of the crew?

 As I remove my oxygen mask and headset, I scan the wreckage for another pair of shoes.

 Picking them up, I then exit the tail compartment of what’s left of Skippy.

 I gotta get away from here.

Sgt. James Radey was the tail gunner of “Skippy” a B-17 from the 301st Bomb Group, 253rd Bomb Squadron. He became the only survivor of his crew on January 11, 1944 when his squadron was in route over Greece. Visibility due to weather was barely past the wingtips of the aircraft, causing two bomb groups to collide head-on. Eight B-17s were destroyed, claiming 64 airmen’s lives. 17 men survived the crashes, Raley the only one to do so without using his parachute. Walking away from a four-mile fall in the broken tail section of a destroyed bomber, Raley suffered a cut to his chin and some bruises on his shoulder. Miraculously, the bomber’s ripped away tail section, with Raley inside, had just the right lift and weight distribution for it to “float like a leaf” and land relatively softly in a clump of pine trees. This was Raley’s 13th mission.

After the war, Raley visited the families of all of his lost crew, married, wrote an autobiography of his experience and retired as a Lieutenant Colonel in the Air Force after serving in Korea and Vietnam. He is buried in Arlington National Cemetery. From the day of the crash onward, he always considered 13 his lucky number.

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.