“Do whatever it takes,” he said. “And bring our boys home.”
Lieutenant Steele looked around at them with satisfaction, as if he hadn’t expected anything less. There was also a glint in his eye that seemed to indicate that he was as affected by the major’s description of the mission as much as any of the men. “It’s decided, then. Let’s saddle up. We’ll be traveling light, so leave the tea service at home.”
“Dammit,” Philly muttered. “I just got that new teapot and everything.”
“If you’re going to carry anything extra, bring ammo,” Steele said. “From the sounds of things, we’re going to need it. One more thing, Major. How soon do we leave?”
“I hate to say it, but this is one of those situations where each day counts. The Japanese are getting desperate enough to do something stupid.”
The major hadn’t come right out and said it, but no interpretation was needed. The POWs might not have much time.
Steele grinned again, the eye that wasn’t covered by the patch glittering intensely in the dim gloom inside the tent, bright as a lighthouse on a stormy night. “In other words, sooner is always better than later,” he said. “We can resupply and head out before dark.”
Major Flanders nodded. He knew better than to wish them good luck. Some soldiers had a superstition that wishing someone good luck was sure to bring the opposite result. “Give ’em hell,” he said.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Rex Faraday woke up in a sweat, tossing and turning on the hard boards of his bunk in the POW barracks. In his dream, he’d been on the plane again, a bomber that the crew had dubbed Blind Date. In the disorienting dark, it took him a few moments to get his bearings.
It’s all right, he soothed himself. You’re on the ground.
He still had nightmares about the plane going down. They had taken fire during a long-range bombing run to the shores of Japan.
“We’re hit!” cried the pilot, a laconic Oklahoman named Tommy “Okie” Clarkson who was a couple of years older than Faraday.
“Dammit, must have been that last burst of flak,” Faraday said. “How bad?”
“We’re still in the air, aren’t we?” Okie replied through gritted teeth.
The pilot’s calm reassured Faraday. The age difference made Okie feel like an older brother not only to Faraday but to the rest of the crew.
They were all young enough that a difference of a few years in their ages mattered. After all, the average age of the aircrew was twenty-two. Back home, they would barely have been trusted with the keys to the family car, yet here they were, operating a bomber carrying nearly eight thousand pounds of ordnance.
The plane shuddered once, twice, the controls lurching as if gravity itself was making a grab for them.
“Give me a damage report,” Faraday said over the intercom while the pilot struggled with the controls.
“We’ve got a hole back here the size of a beer keg,” said the rear gunner. “In fact, I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s what hit us. How the hell are we still in the air?”
“Hey, this is the good ol’ Blind Date we’re talking about,” Faraday replied. “We’re lucky. Everybody OK?”
“Yeah, yeah.”
In the seat next to Faraday, the pilot remained calm. “Steady, steady,” he said, as if soothing a spooked horse back in Oklahoma instead of a damaged bomber. “You still have three engines, gal. Bring us on home. You can do it.”
At first, the coaxing seemed to work. The Japanese shrapnel might have knocked out an engine, but it was true that they could remain airborne as long as they did not have additional problems.
They had been fortunate in that while the Japanese shell had knocked out an engine, the white-hot flak had not started any fires or severed any fuel lines. He had witnessed more than one plane explode into a fireball over Tokyo, the crew never having a chance to bail out.
Faraday looked out the window at the blue expanse of the sea below, reminded of the fact that the Pacific was a very wide ocean, and they were a very small plane in comparison. It was a long way back to base.
In the sunlight, the ocean was the color of emerald with just a hint of sapphire, exactly the shade of the tumbled bits of glass that beachcombers often found. There were times to admire the dazzling enormity of the Pacific, but this wasn’t one of them. Their aircraft was in trouble.
Not for the first time, Faraday was struck by the fact that the Pacific was also an empty ocean, the surface below them stretching uninterrupted by ships or land. They had lost air speed so that the rest of the squadron had faded from sight. Out here it was just sea and sky. Their plane was merely a speck limping along through that sky.
“Dammit, we’re low on fuel,” the pilot said. He flicked a finger at the glass face of the gauge, as if it might be stuck. The reading did not change. “We must have a leak, after all.”
“Enough to make it home?” Faraday asked.
Okie didn’t reply, which was all the answer that Faraday needed.
Faraday knew their situation wasn’t helped by the fact that bombing runs were made over incredibly long distances, which was why it was vital for American forces to take back the Philippines and reestablish their air bases. This would make missions to the Japanese home islands that much easier — if not exactly a milk run. There were still vast distances involved, crossing nothing but water, but at least the chances would be better of making it home when there was damage or mechanical failure.
Their plane was a B-24 Liberator, a class of plane semi-affectionately known as a “Flying Boxcar.” The plane had been manufactured at a Ford plant in Michigan, where the planes were built at the rate of one every hour. It was a rate of production that the enemy could never hope to match.
Although the B-24 had been the foundation for much of the initial bombing campaign against Japan, it was rapidly being replaced by the more advanced B-29 Superfortress, capable of high-altitude bombing runs beyond the reach of Japanese defenses. Even if a Japanese fighter managed to climb up to meet a squadron of the new bombers, it could not hope to keep up with them.
Blind Date couldn’t have kept up either. Though sturdy and nimble enough when not fully loaded, she was not fast. In all honesty, the B-24 never had been an ideal aircraft and was already showing its age when compared to the B-29.
The controls were so heavy that the plane was difficult to fly, especially at lower airspeeds when fully loaded. Even Okie had been known to bitch about that.
The systems leaked fuel constantly, to the point where they had to open the bomb bay doors periodically just to air out the fumes. It was a problem common to the Liberator. Smoking was out of the question, considering that lighting up might have turned them into a fireball.
Their B-24 had flown several missions and had all the dings to prove it. Faraday liked to joke that she was held together with bubblegum and good luck. He hoped that Blind Date held up one more time.
“C’mon, baby. You can do this,” he whispered, as if the plane could hear him.
Faraday knew that he could hope all that he wanted, but that didn’t change the fact that their current situation remained grim.
Then again, even with the hole in their plane, they were still alive. That was something, at least. Their Flying Boxcar was built to take a lot of punishment.
Faraday felt his nerves quiet as he looked over at the pilot. They were in capable hands. Maybe Okie could pull off yet another miracle. It wouldn’t have been the first time. It helped to have a pilot who was both skilled and lucky — and who had an ample supply of bubblegum.