“Very pretty,” Reubold said, momentarily perplexed about which hand held the bottle and which hand held the glass. “What does it mean?”
“Let us call it the elephant,” Walters said, certain that Reubold was not as drunk as he pretended. “Thick hide all around, vitals within.”
Reubold looked at him. Although he did not show it, he wanted Walters to continue with his explanation.
“Cut through the hide,” Walters said. “Get to the vitals.”
“The hide is the problem, isn’t it?”
“If you cut away at one spot,” Walters said. “But why be clumsy about it? Hacking at the animal? Why not precise cuts? A surgeon’s skill. A scalpel instead of an axe.”
Reubold’s eyes narrowed in interest.
“Cut through the hide,” Walters said again, watching as Reubold began to understand. “Get to the vitals.”
Hardy watched as the LSTs fell in behind Firedancer and shook his head. Sturdy they might be and remarkable vessels for all they were capable of, but they were ugly — nothing more than long, steel boxes with high sides and flat bottoms. They were constructed in America’s inland ports, Land told Hardy, someplace along the Mississippi River with exotic names like Moline, St. Louis, and someplace he thought was called Paducah.
“Paducah,” Hardy snorted, turning to Land. “Sounds like something out of the funny papers. Paducah? Are you sure?”
“Yes, sir,” Land said as the seven LSTs formed up in two columns with the odd craft taking station just astern and to the center of the set. Aft of her was HMS Huston, another Coastal Force refugee. The sun had finally disappeared, leaving only clusters of bright stars and an occasional drifting cloud. Hardy had ordered double-watches and put his best men on radar and W/T. Drill or not, there was always the danger that one of those behemoths behind would crawl up Firedancer’s ass because someone wasn’t paying attention, and her damage would be just as real and her crew just as dead as if they’d been set upon by E-boats.
A yeoman brought Hardy and Land tea and the two men drank it in silence, because this was the English Channel, and even though they were just miles off the English Coast, there was always the danger of E-boats. “Vigilance,” Hardy had insisted to Land. “One must always be vigilant.”
The leading Lancaster disintegrated with a tremendous explosion, lighting up most of the formation. As the plane’s wings tore back off her body, the whole aircraft slid into a three-plane section just below and behind it. Gierek watched in horror as the pilots of the three Lancasters fought to swing their big aircraft out of the way of their dying brother. One bomber was lucky enough; its pilot had elected to nose down and speed up. It was safe. The other two pilots had tried to roll their bombers out of the way of the disintegrating Lancaster and brushed wingtips. Gierek watched as pieces of airframe flew into the sky, and then he saw the flaming wreckage crash into the struggling bombers. There was a large explosion. The light was so bright that Gierek covered his eyes and quickly whispered a prayer.
Tracers laced the blackness as flak, bright, flaming flowers, peppered the sky around them. The Mosquito shook violently, fighting to get out of this killing field, Gierek kicking the rudders and twisting the wheel to dodge the increasing barrage.
“Two more,” Jagello said, and Gierek saw the fiery remains of two Lancasters as they plummeted toward the darkness below.
It was a 267-plane raid, counting Lancasters and Mosquitoes but not counting the fighter protection given by the Mustangs and Spitfires. Gierek and Jagello had come to Cherbourg countless times with smaller raids, and once with a raid that was nearly four hundred aircraft, and things had been tough before; “dicey,” one British airman had commented when they finally returned. But this was different.
It had all been some perverse game to this point — not that the other raids hadn’t been dangerous, because aircraft had been shot down and men had died. No, this was different. Now it seemed that the Germans, having stored up all of their frustration and anger at having been bombed constantly, had unleashed their rage in a single instant in tonight’s raid.
“Where’s Lintz?” Gierek shouted and then cursed himself. Veterans never shouted into the intercom built into the oxygen mask that covered their nose and mouths.
“Down,” Jagello said. The statement rang with finality. Lintz’s aircraft had disappeared with no preamble, no drama; it was there and then gone. It was not a thought that stayed with Gierek long; these were the circumstances of flying over Cherbourg — one learned to accept the losses of planes and men. One learns, after many close friends do not return, to keep everyone at arm’s length.
Jagello announced: “Targets on radar.” He pressed his forehead into the foam rubber cushion surrounding the screen. “Circling about ten miles to the left. Night fighters.”
“Vultures,” Gierek said, the taste of the word like bile in his mouth. The German night fighters would circle safely out of range of the fighters and their own flak, waiting until the bombers turned and headed home. Then they would move in and pick off the cripples. Vultures. The Mosquito shook violently as a flak shell exploded just off the left wingtip. Gierek held his breath, his eyes scanning the pale luminescence of the instrument dials on the panel. They returned his gaze, their needles steady and unfazed by the nearby explosion.
“Where are they?” Gierek said, his arms fighting to grip the shuddering wheel as the plane forced itself through the turbulence.
“Still ten miles out,” Jagello said.
Gierek saw a streak far in the distance, a Lancaster on fire, falling to earth. Another flight, going well beyond Cherbourg to railroad yards, or troop concentrations, bridges — going farther inland, farther from home, deeper into enemy territory. He had often wondered what he would do if the Mosquito caught fire. “Get out” was the obvious answer, but the manner of abandoning the aircraft wasn’t quite so obvious. It was a tight fit in the cockpit and their parachutes were bulky, and suppose the fire got to you first? Do you launch yourself into the blackness, your very own Roman candle, streaming flames and debris as you plummet toward the ground?
Four simultaneous blasts threw the Mosquito straight up and two Lancasters immediately in front of them disappeared in a cloud of flame.
“God damn it!” Gierek shouted in fear. He fought to bring his aircraft back to its proper altitude and position.
“I’m glad your dog is on our side,” Jagello said.
“What?” Gierek said, trying to calm himself as he quickly studied the gauges.
“Your dog,” Jagello said. “The dog that brings you luck.”
“You call this luck?” Gierek said. A string of flak bursts filled the sky to their right.
“We aren’t dead,” Jagello said calmly. He adjusted the radar strobe. Gierek watched as his hand twisted the knob, searching. “I don’t see Helig.”
“We’re turning,” Gierek said as he saw the red taillights and engine exhausts of the bombers ahead begin to waver and move in unison.
“Right on time,” Jagello said. “Mr. Nazi remains at ten miles.”
“He’s not my dog,” Gierek said. “I hate that dog. He’s always in the way. He’s filthy.” He glanced to his left. “God in heaven,” he said. He felt Jagello slap his thigh and cradle the quick release button in his hand. The navigator/radar operator leaned over his shoulder and looked into the night. He had never done that before. Something must have caught his eye. Gierek looked out the canopy.
Cherbourg was on fire. The areas along the dock and surrounding harbor burned furiously, all light and movement but no noise. It was a pantomime of destruction. Explosions erupted through the constant flames as ammunition or fuel dumps succumbed to the fires. No one could survive that; no human being could live through that much destruction. For a moment, Gierek almost felt sorry for the Germans below but he let the thought pass — kill Germans, go home. That was what it was all about. Kill more Germans, get home faster.