“There are no more Tall Boys,” he said. “At least not for us. Not for Cherbourg. Maybe the other ports, they haven’t told me. That means the Lancasters will have to go in with conventional loads. We have to be very sure where we put our markers.”
The men in the hut stirred a bit. They might as well be dropping rocks on those bunkers for all the damage that conventional bombs did against the 14-foot-thick roofs.
“I know that you want to know what we’re doing and how much damage that we’re causing the enemy,” Gabszewwicz said. “Especially now.” It was the invasion. That was all anyone ever talked about. Everything was preparation for invading France. “Those pens are tough. We haven’t quite done the trick yet.”
“You mean the British haven’t, don’t you, Papa?” Lintz said. He was new to the squadron and arrogant, and he tried to bully his way into the confidence of the older men.
Gabszewwicz’s eyes never left the photographs on the table, but Gierek knew that Lintz had made a mistake. The squadron commander never talked about American, British, or Polish aircraft and aircrews — he always said, “Our men.” It was an unspoken understanding among the men of the City of Krakow Squadron. Every airman was a brother, and every brother was involved in a deadly pursuit. Besides, Gierek knew, Lintz hadn’t earned the right to call Gabszewwicz “Papa.”
Gabszewwicz waited long enough before speaking to show Lintz that he was displeased, and then he began the briefing again. “The target area is the Normandie Quay.” The quay was especially built before the war to dock the liners Normandie and Queen Mary. It jutted into the harbor like a small peninsula. “The oil pumping stations have been destroyed,” Gabszewwicz said, “but the pens aren’t damaged.” He looked at the group of men surrounding him. “Some of us go back soon. It can’t be helped.”
“I hope it’s us,” Gierek said to Jagello. “I don’t like sitting around. It’s a pile of shit.” He liked American slang. It was very descriptive and made perfect sense. English slang was silly and confusing. “Erks.” That made no sense — there was no reason to call the ground crew that serviced his Mosquito “erks.” “Jolly good” was another English phrase that Gierek found irritating — it was laced with patently false optimism. The Americans and their slang — so much better. “Go jump in the lake.” “Take a hike.” “Get lost.” Gierek once wondered if the lake was allegorical or was there a particular lake that the Americans had in mind?
“Some men from the City of Warsaw squadron may be joining us,” Gabszewwicz said. “Number 316. That’s not certain yet.”
The men in the room brightened. It was always a special treat to have other Poles flying with them. They’d heard of No. 316. They were based in Northolt and had earned a reputation as a fierce bunch of airmen, wildly driving their Spitfire Vs into Luftwaffe formations, tearing at the enemy fighters like devils. It was a good sign, a good omen to have their countrymen join them on these missions. Especially these missions.
The Germans were prepared for their raids. The equation was simple; the Poles had to light the target — Germans knew that the Poles had to light the target. The Germans knew that the Poles and British attacked at night and the Americans attacked during the day. It was routine, an immutable schedule. The train arrives at the terminal at such-and-such a time and departs the terminal at such-and-such a time.
Gabszewwicz continued to brief the men and Gierek listened, but as he listened he thought of the Ariel motorcycle that lay in parts near the hanger that housed his Mosquito. He bought it three months ago from a pilot officer who went up one day and never came back. He’d seen his first motorcycle when he was flying Harvards — AT-6s the Americans called them — and he fell in love with the speed and freedom that the tiny machine promised.
He’d paid the pilot officer ten pounds for the motorcycle even though it was in a hundred pieces, and he’d refused the help of the erks to make it whole again. Jagello, upon seeing the mass of grimy parts stacked haphazardly against the corrugated steel wall, raised one eyebrow and walked off.
But the motorcycle was Gierek’s and he was determined to put it back together. It was the challenge to create something for himself — a quest for personal satisfaction derived not from killing or destroying, but from making whole something that was not.
“Gierek,” Gabszewwicz said. “It’s you and Jagello in the lead again. There are reports of German night fighters operating out of Cherbourg. Don’t let them come up on you. Lintz and Helix as well. Take off is at nineteen hundred. Assembly is nine-thirty hours off Brighton. Pick up your charts with the assembly point, course, and position.” The men made notes on the small pads they carried in the pockets of their flying togs, copying information off the large chalkboard that had been rolled in behind Gabszewwicz.
“Any questions?” the squadron commander asked. He surveyed the group, waiting. Gabszewwicz was very thorough, a calm, competent commander who seldom smiled or showed any emotion. Some said this was because of what had happened to the family he had left behind in Poland. No one was quite sure what the story was, but all of the men had left someone behind, and the memories of those whom they had abandoned to the Germans haunted them.
“Gierek?” Gabszewwicz said, catching the pilot’s attention. “You’re senior man.”
The implication was clear: lead. Lintz and Helig were new to the squadron and had been on just three missions before. Never at night, and never over Cherbourg. Lead.
As the meeting broke up, Gierek motioned to Lintz and Helig. The two pilots and their navigators joined him.
“Come to my quarters in an hour,” Gierek said. “I want to go over the mission.”
“Gabszewwicz told us everything that we should know,” Lintz said. “I haven’t eaten in hours. I’m famished.”
“You can go and kill yourself out of stupidity if you wish,” Gierek said. He was surprised at just how calmly he spoke. Lintz’s words had enraged him and normally he would have exploded at the young pilot’s arrogance. But he realized as he spoke that he had far more control over his emotions than he expected. “I won’t have you endangering the bombers, Helig, or me. You’ll come to my quarters in an hour or I’ll go to Gabszewwicz and request that you be transferred. He will do that because he doesn’t want fools in his squadron.”
Lintz looked as if he had been slapped, but the anger quickly drained away. He nodded and he and the others left.
Gierek pulled a pack of cigarettes from his pocket, thought better of it, and put them away. “Why did Papa do that to me? Why did he make me the boss?” he asked Jagello. Gabszewwicz was Papa to the veteran pilots; they respected him immensely.
“He knows that you are lucky,” Jagello said, handing Gierek a lit cigarette. The pilot took it gratefully before he realized what his navigator had said.
“Lucky?”
“Before every mission the Black Prince lays in front of our plane. And we’ve always come back. Or…”
Gierek eyed his suspiciously. “Or what?”
“Papa’s a sadist,” Jagello said, walking off.
Edland waited until the officers settled themselves in the large classroom at St. Paul’s School. He had briefed high-ranking officers before — general, admirals, air marshals — even the prime minister, although he was never certain if Churchill was awake during his presentation. This was something different; he was about to explain something that made little sense to him.
“Good afternoon, gentlemen,” Edland said. He noted McNamar in the front row. It was the admiral’s idea for him to brief the officers after Edland went to him and said: “I’ve uncovered something interesting.” McNamar had listened patiently as Edland explained what he had found, and finally said: “Well, that makes you an expert on the subject. You’d better let them know.” Them — the few men who controlled the destiny of nations and the lives of millions.