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.

Cher Ami

Cher Ami

Taking off with precious cargo invites German fire right away.

At least let me get airborne before opening up on me you Huns!

I bank right, hoping to avoid the barrage of small-arms fire that doomed my predecessors.

Yet, as I turn the bullets streak past me.

My skin gets goosebumps, my eyes water, and my heart races.

How am I going to get out of here alive?

How am I going to get back to our lines?

How am I going to succeed when others failed?

I turn sharply left, attempting to zig-zag in order to avoid the constant fire.

Just as I finish my zag, a round clips my leg.

AAAaaarrggghhhh!

The shock of the impact sends me fluttering, as I fall to the ground.

I’m not giving up you bastards!

Dangling from a tendon, my injured leg still holds my precious cargo.

I’m going to make it. I’m going to get out of here!

Those huns think they shot me down.

I look up at the sky, waddle on my one good leg, and lift off again, this time aiming straight up.

I’m going to gain altitude, rather than maneuver this time. I just have to get out of range fast!

The fire starts up again.

They’re not giving up, neither will I!

Higher, higher, and higher still, I soar into the sky above the stranded men, and those attempting to destroy them.

The Germans keep up their deadly fire as I rise above it all.

Higher, I must get higher!

A round pierces my breast bone, coming out my left eye. I lose altitude.

I don’t feel the pain. I don’t feel anything. I just need to get to the Command Headquarters at full speed. Nothing else matters!

The bullets stop streaking nearby.

I must be high enough!

Banking again, I head toward headquarters.

Twenty-five miles to go, just twenty-five miles.

My leg begins hurting, the bullet wound in my chest and eye stings.

I must make it, for my boys, I must make it!

I am all they have for hope. Without me, they are doomed.

Before I know it, I see the command headquarters, and my loft just behind the tent.

I fly directly in, not bothering to stop on the perch outside as I enter.

The bell rings, announcing my arrival.

I collapse on the floor of the loft.

I made it. I still have the precious cargo dangling from my shattered leg. My boys will live.

A soldier comes to read the latest message from the front located in the silver canister on my leg. When he sees me with my shattered leg, blood streaming from the bullet wound, and missing eye, he gasps.

“Cher Ami, you’ve returned to us!” he cries out, as he gingerly removes the message from my dangling leg.

I’ve done my job. I made it.

*****

On October 3, 1918, during the Argonne Offensive, Major Charles White Whittlesey [DL1] was trapped with 500 men in a small depression on the side of a hill behind enemy lines with little food or ammunition. They were under constant enemy fire, while also receiving fire from allied artillery who did not know their location. Surrounded by the Germans, many were killed and wounded in the first day and by the second day, more than half of the unit was injured or killed. Whittlesey had three carrier pigeons at his disposal to dispatch messages, but the first and second pigeons were shot down by the Germans before they could make it off the battlefield. Only one homing pigeon was left: "Cher Ami". She was dispatched with a note in a canister on her left leg, “We are along the road parallel to 276.4. Our own artillery is dropping a barrage directly on us. For heaven's sake, stop it.”

As Cher Ami took off, she was immediately fired upon by the surrounding Germans. She flew through the unrelenting fire until she was hit and fell to the ground. After a few moments she took flight again, evacuating the battlefield and returning to her loft with her precious cargo in the silver canister attached to her now shattered leg. When she arrived back at her loft at division headquarters 25 miles to the rear in just 25 minutes, she was found to have been shot through the heart, missing one eye, and her leg with the message on it was hanging by a tendon. Despite her injury, her mission was a success. The message she carried helped save the lives of 194 men from her unit.

Cher Ami became the hero of the 77th Infantry Division[DL2] . Army medics endeavored to saver her life, but they could not save her leg. They then carved a small wooden one for her. When she recovered enough to travel, the now one-legged bird was put on a boat to the United States, with General John J. Pershing [DL3] personally seeing Cher Ami off as she departed France.

Cher Ami (French masculine for Dear Friend) was one of approximately 600 homing pigeons donated to the U.S. Army Signal Corps by the pigeon fanciers of Britain. Originally assumed to be male, Cher Ami turned out to be a female pigeon. Upon arriving in the United States, Cher Ami was awarded the Croix de Guerre[DL4]  Medal with a palm Oak Leaf Cluster, for her heroic service in delivering 12 important messages in Verdun. She also received the Silver Star from General Pershing. She died at Fort Monmouth, New Jersey, on June 13, 1919 from the wounds she received in battle. Cher Ami was later inducted into the Racing Pigeon Hall of Fame in 1931. She also received a gold medal from the Organized Bodies of American Racing Pigeon Fanciers in recognition of her extraordinary service during World War I.

Cher Ami as displayed in the Smithsonian Museum

Cher Ami is not the only animal recognized for gallantry, or even the only pigeon. Many animals have given their lives in sacrifice to human wars. The United Kingdom recognizes these animals through the Dickin’s Medal, of which there are 32 pigeon recipients from World War II alone.

To American schoolchildren of the 1920s and 1930s, Cher Ami was as well known as any human World War I heroes. Cher Ami's body was later mounted by a taxidermist and enshrined in the Smithsonian Institution[DL5] . It is currently on display with that of Sergeant Stubby[DL6]  in the National Museum of American History[DL7] 's Price of Freedom exhibit.