Horsham, one of the largest bases of the “occupying” US forces, who had been present in Britain since 1942, took some of the worst casualties amongst the Fortress and Liberator crews during the course of the “Mighty 8th’s” daylight raids over Germany.
He had been apprehensive on the train journey from London to Norwich, and the feeling did not disappear during the early part of the ride in the staff car that took him the few miles from the railway station. He had made a supreme effort to quell the pain that was welling up inside him at the thought of the visit ahead. From what he had seen of Marello’s medical dossier, it read even worse than his own.
Fleming had relaxed the closer he got to the base. He had been raised in East Anglia and had spent a happy childhood in Wymondham, a market town close by. Many people hated the flatness of the countryside, but for Fleming it was an exhilarating place. Apart from a few remote cottages by the roadside, the scenery was devoid of habitation and the wild pine trees, separated by the rough, grassy heathland, had a strange, primeval quality which he had always liked.
It was all infinitely preferable to the Bunker, which he shared with Staverton when the Old Man wasn’t down at Farnborough. His office was situated twenty feet below ground and he hardly ever got to see the light of day. Trips like this were rare. Most of the data analysis that came with the job was carried out in the Bunker, as it was irreverently referred to by those who worked there, at the Ministry.
Fleming had no idea what Kruze had said to Staverton during his debrief after the Junkers fiasco at Farnborough, but the AVM had been strangely conciliatory when he had eventually reported in, suggesting he should go to Horsham St Faith to get out of London, enjoy the journey, get some fresh air. But Staverton couldn’t seriously have placed any credence in the gunner’s story. At the back of his mind he had the nagging feeling that this was another of Staverton’s tests of his mental and physical condition.
His thoughts were interrupted as he caught a glimpse of a B-17 lumbering over the perimeter about a hundred yards away, its flaps fully extended and four 1200 hp Wright Cyclone engines straining as it came into land.
Through the double doors and the smell of aviation fuel would be replaced by the antiseptic odour of the burns ward. He hesitated for a moment at the threshold. To go back into a hospital was the one thing he’d never wanted to do in his life. He felt his stomach contract and thought for a moment he’d have to turn back. He fought the compulsion to retch. He breathed in hard and willed the panic to subside.
Fleming reported to a duty nurse and asked where he could find Sergeant Antonio Marello. As he followed her to the wounded airman’s bed, he forced himself to turn from his own past.
One glimpse of Marello was enough to confirm the seriousness of his injuries. Dear God, Fleming thought, thank you for not letting me burn.
The man before Fleming had no hair. The flames that had seared his head had also taken lumps of his scalp. The combined effect of the wounds it left and the zinc anti-burn ointment made Fleming feel sick.
“That’s the last goddamned time I ever wear a baseball hat on ops, sir.”
Fleming was quite unprepared for the man’s reaction to his stare. The nurse had told him not to be deceived by the patient’s apparent well-being — morphine had that effect. The gunner, she said, was dying. Although she was angry at Fleming’s intrusion, the base commander had been insistent that she should allow Marello to answer his questions.
“I’m sorry?” He looked fixedly into Marello’s eyes.
“I’m never going to wear a baseball hat on ops again.” Marello’s accent, very slow from the drugging, betrayed his New York City upbringing, but not the slightest trace of pain.
Then he understood. The American had been wearing a cotton baseball cap, a common practice amongst US crews, when the B-17 exploded. His goggles and oxygen mask had protected him from the worst of the flames, but his flimsy hat had disintegrated and his hair with it.
“I don’t like having to do this,” Fleming began, realizing how phoney he sounded, “but if it helps you at all while we talk, I’ve been through some of what you’ve just come through.” Christ, he didn’t mean to sound that patronizing.
“You in bombers too?” The American was searching for a further bond between them. Fleming wished he could have said yes. He already felt a kinship for this man, but he didn’t know how to express it.
“No. I was with a fighter squadron, until an FW 190 pushed me into early retirement.”
“Fighters?” Marello queried with a sneer. “If the P-51S had been doing their job, Gypsy Mae would still be around today.” He referred to his B-17 as if it had been alive.
The gunner had strayed onto the subject of Fleming’s quest. He decided to capitalize on it.
“It’s really your brush with the enemy aircraft that brought you down that I’ve come here to talk about. Tell me about it.” Fleming suddenly realized he was being too brusque. His surroundings, the state of the crewman, had made him edgy. “I heard what happened to your crew. I’m very sorry.” It sounded like the afterthought that it was.
Marello’s brow furrowed and his eyes glazed over for a second. He shook his head, as if to clear some horrific image from his mind. His voice sounded shakier than it had before.
“Well, sir, I didn’t realize what I had seen at first, but I caught a sight of it at about twelve o’clock and high above us. How high, I couldn’t say, but shit, was it moving.”
“You say ‘it’. What was it?”
“It was a long way away and I ignored it at first. I thought it must have been one of them inbound buzz-bombs. I didn’t even bother to tell the others. The skipper had his hands full as it was. We’d been shot up pretty bad over the target.” He flinched uncontrollably at the memory. The reflex almost tore out the needle which fed the plasma drip into his arm.
“The first I knew the thing was coming for us was when the RT bust loose with shouts from the other guys. I caught something about a plane screaming at us like a bat out of hell…”
Fleming sat on the edge of his chair and heard how Marello swung his turret round to sweep the sky above the solitary B-17 to be confronted by a small, stubby aircraft, its wings swept back like a swallow in a dive.
“Jeez, it moved so damn fast. I couldn’t even get a fix on him. And it kept on diving like it was going to ram us, but then it must’ve passed between the fuselage and the edge of the wing. The next thing I knew, the number three engine was on fire. Chuck Deller, the skipper, he did damn well to shut it down and get the extinguishers on, but I never saw the Kraut again.” The voice tailed off, his head lolled on the pillow.
Fleming’s skin prickled.
“But you’d seen these machines before, hadn’t you?”
The American shook himself slowly.
“Sure, we’d seen ‘em many times. But not when we were only half an hour from base.”
“About fifty miles from our coast — you’re positive about that?”
Marello fixed his gaze on Fleming. For a moment the eyes ceased to swim in their sockets.
“Like I told the other guy, when you’re that close to home you start counting the miles off.”
“What happened next?”
The gunner winced as a spasm gripped his body. The returning pain helped to focus his mind.
“About thirty seconds later, an explosion hit the ship. Deller was yelling to the two waist gunners to tell him what had happened, but there was no reply, so he told me to go and check out aft. That Komet must have come back for us ‘cos he left a hole the size of a house in the underside of the Fort that took Lieb with it.”
Fleming had seen the crew roster back in the Bunker. Liebowitz was the ventral gunner, just about the worst job you could have on a Flying Fortress. Cramped in a fishbowl slung under the middle of the giant bomber with his face nuzzling the breeches of the twin .5 in Browning machine guns, he was dangerously exposed.