Desert rainbow, p.32
Desert Rainbow, page 32
On the porch, Luther was startled awake by Shadi’s yelps. He stood unsteadily, the blanket dropping to the porch. Disoriented, having been in a deep sleep, Luther grabbed for the pistol he’d been keeping close since the visit by the cross-eyed Indian boy, and shuffled to the edge of the porch. A dull thud of something heavy hitting flesh, followed by grunting and indistinguishable Navajo words reached Luther’s ears, and he stepped off the porch. Luther’s bad leg gave way, and he stumbled and fell into the dirt. He rose to his hands and knees, grabbed the dirt covered pistol, stood, and began a limping jog around the corner of the trading post.
Working to clear his head from sleep, Luther tried to make sense of what he saw. A figure, a man, his body appearing whitewashed, stood over the battered body of Shadi. The figure held a large club, and he brought it down with a full swing on the unmoving body of the helpless coyote. Luther stumbled unsteadily toward the figure, raising the revolver. Ten feet from the figure, he aimed the gun in his shaking hand and pulled the trigger. Ahiga, not hit by the shot, looked up, and stopped his crazed attack on the old coyote. He smiled. Then he laughed loudly and raised his arms above his head in triumph, one hand still holding the blood-splattered club.
“One witch is dead. Your daughter is next, old man.” Ahiga looked directly into the barrel of the revolver. “Go ahead and shoot. You can’t kill me. I’m already dead.” Ahiga raised his face to the sky and screamed an unintelligible howl.
“You?” shouted Luther, recognizing Ahiga. “You!” And he squeezed off a second shot, the heavy gun shaking in his hand.
Again, the shot missed. Ahiga strode directly toward the smoking pistol. Before Luther was able to pull the trigger for the third time, Ahiga swung the club, connecting with Luther’s arm and the pistol when flying into the sandy soil. The blow spun Luther around, and Ahiga swung the club again, connecting with Luther’s head in a sickening thud. The blow knocked Luther face first into the dirt, unconscious.
Chooli had returned to the kitchen and was carefully packing up their sourdough starter for the trip when she thought she heard a faint yelp. She wasn’t sure. She stopped her project and stood still, listening. Nothing. Then, a gunshot rang out. She stifled a scream and turned and sprinted through the trading post to the front room where she grabbed the Winchester. She cautiously looked through the window to where Luther had been sleeping in the old wooden chair. He was no longer in the chair and the blanket she had covered him with lay on the floorboards of the porch. As she was processing this, muffled sounds of voices reached her ears. She turned to the door as a second gunshot rang out.
She yanked open the door and sprinted in her moccasin-clad feet across the porch. Her brain registered that Luther’s pistol was not on the table next to the chair. Is that his pistol firing? She rounded the corner of the trading post. The scene before her caused her to skid to a stop. Luther lay face down in the dirt. The back of his head was bleeding. Beyond Luther, Shadi lay on his side, his body bloody and misshapen. Chooli fought back the bile that flowed up her throat. A man, an Indian, judging by the hair, whose body was painted white, was standing over Luther’s pistol. Chooli’s instinct screamed to her brain, Kill or be killed!
She raised the rifle to her shoulder and fired at the man’s upper body. However, just as she squeezed the trigger, the figure bent at the waist to pick up the pistol. Her bullet sailed harmlessly over the white-painted figure. She saw him grab the pistol, and she lowered her aim and fired again. This time the man’s upper body lifted as he began to stand. The bullet missed the man’s torso but slammed into his knee. Looking along the sight of the rifle, Chooli saw the knee explode, blood and flesh flying through the air. The man screamed and fell, cursing in a mix of Navajo and English.
Chooli rushed to Luther, quickly parting his hair and feeling his bloody scalp. She gently rolled him over and put her ear next to his mouth and nose. She felt a faint breath. “You’re alive,” she said to herself.
As she leaned over Luther’s prone body, the white-painted figure screamed out for help. She looked up to see the short, cross-eyed Indian boy and another tall and skinny one grab the painted man under the arms and begin to drag him away. She suddenly recognized the voice of the injured man. She stood looking closely at the figure being dragged away. How could this be her brother? He was dead. Just as she was doubting herself, Ahiga shouted through clenched teeth. “You’ll pay for this, you witch. I’ll stake you to the ground and let ants eat your eyes out!”
Chooli slowly raised the rifle to her shoulder, aiming at her brother as the two boys dragged him through the dirt toward the rocks on the far side of the corral where she now saw three horses. Her finger tightened on the trigger. “Gently.” Roy’s voice came to her, and she gently tightened her finger, applying more pressure to the trigger. The legs of the boys dragging Ahiga away kept churning into her line of sight. “Take the shot, end this.” She thought.
Chapter 67
General Eason stood before the assembled squadrons. All missions for the pilots had been cancelled for the past six days due to weather. An early winter storm had blanketed most of Europe in rain, snow, and low clouds. The army planners were desperate for aerial reconnaissance before launching the planned massive offensive the Allies hoped would force Germany to capitulate.
The details of the day’s mission had been reviewed in the early morning briefings. Eason addressed the pilots to impress upon them with the importance of the operation.
“Men.” The general started, turning toward the Aerial Photography Squadron. “Each of you must obtain quality, low-level photographs in your assigned sector. Losing a few pilots today to save thousands of soldiers tomorrow is a sacrifice we must make. Am I clear?”
“Yes sir!” came the affirmative shout.
“As you know, we’ll be employing a new strategy today. One reconnaissance aircraft with two fighter escorts for protection rather than the five and ten configuration we’ve employed for months. We hope this will further confuse the Germans and mask the sectors of our ground attacks. The downside to this strategy is that some of you are likely to be jumped by large numbers of German fighters. When this happens, and it will, you reconnaissance pilots stay on your mission until your escorts give you the signal to break for our lines. You fighter escorts need to hit the Huns, no matter how many attack, with everything you’ve got and give the reconnaissance pilots time to hightail it to safety with their photographs. There will be no skylarking. If you are not engaged by German planes, there will be no going to look for a fight. You’ll get plenty of chances for that next week. Got it? Good luck, men. Fall out.” The general saluted the men, then he shouted, “Airman Sherwood, front and center.”
Hearing his name, Ted altered his path and walked over to where the general stood. Roy, who had been standing behind the general with the other squadron commanders, stepped next to General Eason.
“Airman Sherwood, I’m putting you with Mitchell and Warren. There will be no excuses, no mechanical issues, or illnesses. You will fly, you will get your cameraman in place, and you will stay on the mission until Mitchell sends you back to our lines.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Mitchell, you have my permission to shoot Sherwood out of the sky if he disobeys orders.”
The general turned and walked to the chateau, his aides in tow.
Ted looked at Roy. “You wouldn’t shoot me down, would you, Raven?”
“Don’t give me a reason.” Roy stared Ted directly in the eyes. “Let’s get airborne.”
As Roy walked to his Spad, he dug beneath his jacket, wool underwear, and scarf and pulled the silver raven out from where it hung around his neck, brought it to his lips, and kissed it. “I’m coming for you, Chooli,” he said quietly.
As his engine warmed, Roy sat in the cockpit, listening for any misfires. He stared at his control panel. The two raven feathers were wedged in a seam. One of his pilots was from West Virginia. He liked to whittle and had made small carvings for the aces of the squadron, which he updated with notches for each confirmed kill. Roy’s stick had fourteen notches, the most by any pilot at their aerodrome. Roy looked at it. He took no pleasure in the kills. It was shoot them down or be shot down. It was a deadly but sometimes chivalrous game. In the first month of his combat flying, in the midst of a one-on-one dogfight with an obviously experienced German pilot. Roy had finally maneuvered his machine into position for a shot at the German only to have his machine gun jam. The German pilot had been looking over his shoulder and knew, had the guns not jammed, he’d likely be spiraling to the earth. The German slowed his craft, so Roy and he were flying side by side. The German pointed at his guns. Roy nodded. The German then squeezed off a few rounds to let Roy know that his guns were working, that Roy was at his mercy, then he’d waved and banked back toward the German lines.
Revving of engines intruded on Roy’s thoughts as the squadrons powered up and rolled through the wide grassy field and lifted into the sky. Forty-eight biplanes lifted off all within seconds of each other and climbed into the partly cloudy morning sky. The formation stayed together until over the American trenches where, as planned, they split into groups of three. They fanned out north and south just behind the American lines flying at varied altitudes. When their assigned enemy sector was in sight, the trios formed a small “V” formation with the escorts behind and slightly above the two-seater reconnaissance planes. They turned east toward German territory.
Roy and Luke Warren fell in behind Ted as they banked and flew east. Flying above and to the right of Sherwood’s plane, Roy watched the cameraman ready his gear. They raced above no man’s land at 2000 feet. Reaching the enemy lines in under a minute. The archie began firing, littering the sky with puffs of black smoke. Sherwood’s plane did little jukes and jumps as Ted tried to guess the unguessable.
“Idiot,” Roy mumbled under his breath. This was Roy’s sixth month of combat flying and he’d yet to see a plane brought down by the antiaircraft guns by either side. He and Warren flew smoothly on either side of Sherwood’s wriggling aircraft, unconcerned with the archie. Their concern was focused on the sky above them. They were flying toward the rising sun, always a disadvantage. A layer of clouds at 4000 feet also would make a good hiding place for the German Fokkers.
The American pilots had not been briefed on the army’s attack plan so that in the event one was shot down behind enemy lines and captured, they would truly have no knowledge of the coming offensive and areas of attack. On this mission none of the pilots knew if the sector they were to photograph was important or a diversion, though Roy was fairly certain their sector was important. Previous reconnaissance had identified two ammunition dumps and a major rail terminal.
The reconnaissance planes were to make three 1500 foot passes over the rear area behind the enemy trenches, each pass moving closer to the lines, then make a final pass over two miles of trenches at 500 feet to try to identify any troop build-ups. It had been the Air Services’ experience that telephone calls from the areas being photographed usually generated a response from the German air force within fifteen minutes. Mission planning envisioned approximately ten minutes over the assigned sector and a return to friendly territory before the Germans could scramble aircraft to respond.
Of course, the bigger concern, as General Eason had addressed, was a squadron of the enemy fighters already airborne, hiding at altitude, that would come screaming into you from on high with machine guns blasting. Roy had been scouring the sky above them since they crossed the American lines. So far, he had seen nothing. Every few seconds, he checked Luke to see if he had anything in sight. So far, nothing.
The three machines reached the designated point to begin photographing in their grid. Sherwood banked his Jenny left and began his first pass. By the time they’d finished their third pass, Roy could almost believe it would be a lucky day. As the three planes turned to make the lower pass over the trenches, Sherwood did not drop to the lower altitude of 500 feet, choosing to fly over the trenches at 1500. Roy glanced over at Warren. Luke held up his hands in a what gives gesture. Roy shook his head, then gave his Spad more throttle, dropping even with and alongside Sherwood’s plane. Roy looked over in time to see the cameraman yelling angrily at Ted. Ted kept his eyes straight ahead, ignoring the angry cameraman. Roy was just about to accelerate ahead and into Ted’s line of sight when he saw the cameraman undo his harness and lean forward and grab Ted’s shoulder, turning him toward Roy. Ted finally looked at Roy. Roy pointed downward and signaled 5-0-0 with his fingers. Ted shook his head and continued to fly at 1500. Roy flew over and above Ted lowering his Spad, so the wheels touched Ted’s wings, then he gently pushed Ted’s plane toward the ground.
By the time they reached the end of their assigned sector, Roy had pushed Ted’s plane to 500 feet. German soldiers were out of their trenches, originally coming out to take a pot shot at the low flying American planes, then looking up confused as these crazy American pilots swooped over them like two mating dragonflies. Roy lifted off of Ted’s plane and settled beside him. Ted gestured with his middle finger. Roy signaled for him to follow, and Roy lined up for a proper low-level reconnaissance run down the trenches. Warren swung in behind and slightly above Sherwood’s plane.
Damn it, we’d be headed for home if it weren’t for that chicken shit Sherwood, Roy thought as he scoured the sky for enemy aircraft. That was the last thought Roy had before hell broke loose.
The Fokkers, fifteen of them, came out of the sun like the hounds of Hades, their machine guns howling. Luke was blasted out of the sky before he knew what hit him. At 500 feet, his bullet shredded and exploding machine tumbled end over end into the ground within seconds of being hit. Ted heard the German machine guns open up on Warren and overreacted with his controls. He tried to bank left toward the American lines, but in his panic, he actually barrel-rolled left, a foolish move to try so low to the ground had it been intentional. However, the maneuver was not something the German pilot’s anticipated, and Ted’s Jenny escaped unscathed from the bullets and tracer rounds that filled the sky. Ted’s cameraman was not so fortunate. He had not strapped himself back Into his harness after releasing it earlier to grab Ted’s shoulder, and as the plane rolled, he was flung from the rear cockpit like a rag doll, his camera falling through the sky with him, just beyond the reach of his flailing arms.
Roy reacted instantly to the sound of the machine guns, banking low over the trenches, hoping the Fokker pilots would not fire their machine guns directly over their soldiers on the ground. Then he used what had become his most effective combat move; he cut power while pulling the Spad into a climb, effectively temporarily stalling his aircraft with the nose up. A line of four Fokkers flew over him, and he squeezed the trigger of his Vickers machine gun for a good five seconds. His rounds needled the bellies of three of the Fokkers nose to tail, sending two smoking into the ground and a third cartwheeling through the sky, where the fourth, unable to avoid the third, flew directly into it, creating a huge explosion.
Ted, having heard the scream of his cameraman, looked over his shoulder in time to see Roy shoot the four Fokkers out of the sky. “Lucky bastard!” he shouted, then he noticed two Fokkers break from their formation and angle toward his plane. Ted gave the Jenny full throttle and aimed it straight over no man’s land for the American lines.
Meanwhile, Roy fought to keep his Spad from pancaking into the trenches. The maneuver he’d just pulled off was usually done with thousands of feet of altitude beneath him. Now he was stalled 500 feet above the German trenches. Had he just given the aircraft full throttle with its nose up, it was likely he’d have landed in some German’s breakfast, but he put the nose of the plane down while giving it full throttle. The Spad dropped lower as Roy gained the speed to maneuver. He was about to bank left and look for Sherwood’s reconnaissance plane and bolt for the safety of the American lines when two Fokkers screamed in at him unexpectedly from no man’s land. He was dead in their sights. He banked right without much hope of dodging the bullets and tracers that began snapping all around him. His machine was only fifteen feet above the trenches when he broke right. He never saw the wooden observation tower which caught his right wheel and strut, knocking down his speed and sending his plane yawing left and right just feet above the ground. The impact with the tower caused the two Fokkers to overshoot Roy and sent hundreds of soldiers diving for cover as their bullets peppered the trenches.
With just enough airspeed to keep from hitting the ground, but no speed to maneuver away from any remaining German planes, Roy thought, Well, this is it. That was a heck of a show for the German soldiers. I hope they enjoyed it. I am a sitting duck. With that, he gunned the Spad’s engine and began climbing slowly and defenselessly, expecting at any second to be riddled with bullets.
Ted, who had reached the safety of the American lines, banked his aircraft and continued to watch the drama of Roy’s air battle. It never occurred to him that with his cameraman and the photos lost, he could have joined the fight and helped Roy. He’d spent the minute or so it took him to cross no man’s land looking over his shoulder, marveling at how Roy had managed to keep his machine in the air. Ted watched as Roy tried gamely to gain altitude after colliding with the wooden tower. The action reminded him of the movie stunt where Roy had clipped the chimney with his wing. He continued to watch, not focused on the path of his own aircraft.
