Red burning sky, p.18
Red Burning Sky, page 18
To the east, petals of red light unfolded over the hills, and Vasa could observe the enemy more clearly. They wore grayish green field tunics and their distinctive coal scuttle helmets. Two of them sat by a fire and laced up their ankle boots. Nearly all carried Mausers. Some wore pistol holsters. Officers with Lugers, Vasa supposed. He began to count. There were fifty of them, and those were just the ones he could see. Vasa guessed that many more were inside the tents.
Outside one of the tents, three of them worked on some sort of weapon. It consisted of a tube, supported by a bipod. The weapon caught Nikolas’s attention, too. He raised his binoculars for a better look.
“Damn them to hell,” Nikolas whispered. “A mortar. That’s a mortar company.”
Vasa had not experienced mortar fire, but he knew the damage it could do. Rounds as big as the head of a sledgehammer, arcing in to flay victims with shrapnel. One shot might take out a dozen men. One tube could keep firing and firing. And this unit probably had several. They could turn the airstrip into a killing field.
Nikolas motioned for Miroslav and Vasa to withdraw into the forest, back the way they had come. They collected their gear and slid downhill several steps. Miroslav carried the radio on his back. When they were just below the top of the ridge, Nikolas halted them.
“This ridge is a good place to do the radio call,” he said. “I just wanted to make sure we were out of sight.”
Miroslav kneeled on the ground with his back to Nikolas. Nikolas sat, and he began turning knobs on the radio. The set warmed up and hummed with life.
Vasa watched while Nikolas prepared to make his call. An antenna, a little less than a meter long, extended from the top of the set. The antenna danced anytime Miroslav moved. Two cords connected a handset to the radio. Vasa could make no sense of the controls because all the labeling was in English, but Nikolas seemed to know what he was doing. Nikolas lifted the handset and thumbed a switch.
“Archangel, Archangel,” he said. “This is Jeferdar Three.”
At first, no answer interrupted the radio’s hiss.
“Archangel,” Nikolas repeated, “This is Jeferdar Three. Come in, please.”
Vasa had no idea who or where Archangel was, but apparently some sort of radio net had been set up. He understood the main thing: Important people, perhaps General Mihailovich himself, could know in minutes what the team had discovered.
A tinny voice finally responded to Nikolas’s second call:
“Jeferdar Three, Archangel. Go ahead.”
Nikolas reported the size and location of the mortar company. As he spoke, he consulted his map and called in the coordinates. When he finished, a long silence transpired before Archangel answered back. Vasa wondered if the person on the other end was scribbling notes—or if he was simply having a hard time believing what he’d heard. When the response finally came, it was simple and matter-of-fact.
“Archangel copies all,” the voice said. “Remain in position until relieved. Do not engage enemy forces.”
“Understood,” Nikolas said. “Jeferdar Three will hold position and not engage. Do you have further instructions for us?”
“Negative, Jeferdar Three.”
“Jeferdar Three out,” Nikolas said.
Nikolas replaced the handset and turned off the radio. Patted Miroslav’s shoulder to let him know the call was finished. Miroslav stood up and stretched.
“Who is Archangel?” Vasa asked.
“Merely a base station,” Nikolas said. “This radio carries only five kilometers at best. Archangel will relay our information to General Mihailovich and the American commandos.”
“Are the Americans going to bomb those Germans?”
Nikolas smiled and shook his head. “No, I am afraid not,” he said. “I would give everything I own to call in an air strike like that. But we are lucky to have a radio at all. We Chetniks will have to deal with this ourselves.”
“What will we do?”
“I honestly don’t know. But some of the general’s other detachments have specialists who might help us.”
The three men climbed back to the top of the ridge. Once more, they peered through the underbrush. Vasa dug into a pocket and found a little notepad and a pencil stub sharpened with a knife. He counted the Germans again and wrote down the number. He counted their rifles and mortars and wrote down the number. When a vehicle came or went, he made a note. Nikolas nodded in approval.
As the sun climbed, the breeze picked up. Treetops whispered and swayed. Though Vasa had been up all night, he did not feel tired. The morning wore into midday, and Vasa kept watch.
Chapter 25
Throw Me to the Wolves
The C-47’s propellers spun down to a stop as drew and his crewmates completed another training flight. The flight had gone well. Drew and Torres flew a dozen approaches, all with a stiff crosswind, and some with a throttle pulled to idle to simulate an engine failure. They touched down right on centerline every time. No bounces and no ground loops. The results confirmed what Drew already knew: His botched landing the other night had everything to do with nerves and nothing to do with proficiency.
As Drew climbed down from the aircraft, he noticed an unfamiliar plane in the traffic pattern. He shaded his eyes with his palm for a better look.
The plane was a little thing—a light twin-engine ship. No camouflage paint; its burnished aluminum reflected the morning sun. Twin tail fins. Drew recognized it as a Beechcraft C-45 Expeditor. The army used it for aircrew training, light transport, and VIP movement. Drew had never seen one before at San Pancrazio.
The Expeditor banked onto final approach and dropped its landing gear. The aircraft shone spotless. Red and white stripes adorned its rudders, and the fuselage boasted the white star roundel of the USAAF. When the plane flared and settled to the runway, Drew saw a blue placard in one of the windows. The placard bore two white stars. A major general was on board.
“That’s some high-priced help,” Torres said.
“You got that right,” Drew said. “I wonder who it is.”
Two hours later, they found out. In a hangar locked up for a classified briefing, Drew and the men of Operation Halyard came to attention for Major General Nathan F. Twining, Commander, Fifteenth Air Force.
“At ease,” the general said. “Please take your seats.”
To Drew and his fellow aviators, Twining was already a legend. He had worked his way up from the rank of private in the Oregon National Guard. During a previous command, only a year and a half ago, his B-17 was forced down in the Coral Sea. At night. The bomber sank in less than a minute, but Twining and the other fourteen men made it into two life rafts. They survived on the open ocean for six days with nothing but one half-full canteen, a chocolate bar, and a can of sardines. They collected rainwater. They shot two albatrosses and ate them raw. They used paddles to beat off a shark attack. A navy PBY finally rescued them. For this man, saving downed aviators was personal.
“Tomorrow night, gentlemen,” Twining said, “you will launch Operation Halyard. If you succeed, you will make history in one of the most magnificent rescues in the annals of war. More than five hundred of your brethren on the ground in Yugoslavia have awaited this deliverance for weeks, and in some cases, months.”
Twining described the mission’s particulars: The C-47s would launch in a six-ship formation. They would take off from Brindisi initially, but on return to Italy, they would deliver the rescued aviators to Bari. If everything went according to plan, the operation would go on for several nights. In Yugoslavia, they would land on an unpaved strip that had been cleared with hand tools. For that reason, pilots should use techniques for a short-field landing on soft ground.
The general also shared a threat assessment: The planned route avoided all known antiaircraft gun emplacements, but the possibility of small-arms fire existed everywhere. Friendly guerrilla forces had been scouting in the vicinity of the landing zone. According to their reports, the nearest enemy unit was a mortar company encamped ten miles from the airfield.
“It goes without saying that this mission is classified Secret,” Twining said. “After thirteen hundred tomorrow, you will be restricted to base. After you land in Bari, you will be restricted to base there for the duration of the flights.”
Twining finished his briefing and invited questions.
“Will we have fighter escort, sir?” a pilot asked.
“That will depend on the situation,” Twining said. “Ideally, we’d like to go in with as small a footprint as possible to avoid detection. But if we suspect the enemy is getting wise, we’ll send fighters with you.”
Another flier raised his hand. The general pointed to him.
“Sir,” he said, “after we complete this operation, will we stay here with the Air Crew Rescue Unit?”
“I’m sure we’ll keep some rescue assets on hand here in Italy,” Twining said. “But some of you may go back to your old units or to other assignments.”
Drew couldn’t think that far ahead; he was learning to focus on the task at hand, to concentrate on the good he could do here and now. No time to worry about where he might go next. A German bullet or flak shell might make that determination for him.
Twining dismissed the crews, and they spent the afternoon collecting personal equipment for the mission. Drew picked up a flak vest and helmet, a silk evasion map of Yugoslavia, and an E-17 survival kit. The survival kit included all kinds of things he hoped not to need, such as first-aid items, fishing line, and emergency rations. Aviators didn’t normally carry long guns, but Montreux strapped down five M1 rifles in the back of the C-47.
“I reckon they issued us these in case things really go to hell,” Montreux said.
“Sure hope we don’t need those,” Drew said. For a moment, his imagination ran wild with nightmare scenarios of mission failure and firefights on the ground. He shut his eyes tight and forced himself to stop thinking.
* * *
That evening, Drew took his crew to dinner at Antonio’s.
He was happy to see Sienna’s smile when he walked through the door. She and Lucia pulled two tables together for the fliers. Antonio placed a pair of candlesticks on the tables. He struck a kitchen match and lit both candles. Drew started the festivities by ordering three bottles of Chianti.
Antonio’s menu had expanded further. Drew ordered pork ro-tolini. Chisholm chose tortelli stuffed with Parmesan. The other men stuck with the more familiar pizza and spaghetti.
When the wine came, Drew raised his glass and said, “To you guys. Best crew I could ask for.”
Torres proposed the next toast: “And to our, uh, passengers.”
Another group of servicemen entered the restaurant. When they opened the door, the breeze caused the candle flames to sputter. One nearly went out. Smoke rose from the wick. But then the fire caught again.
Life is as fragile as the flame on those guttering candles, Drew thought. He excused himself and stole into the kitchen. He found Sienna stirring a pot of boiling pasta.
“Listen,” he said, “I’m going to be away for a few days.”
“Where are you going?” Sienna asked.
“I can’t say. I shouldn’t have told you even this much. But I’ll see you when I get back… ?”
Sienna smiled; this time, it seemed quick and natural, perhaps the most unguarded reaction he’d seen from her. After a moment, the smile faded. “But what if you don’t…”
Drew didn’t speak for a moment. “Someone will let you know,” he said, finally.
* * *
Back at his table, Drew poured another round. The men talked of home and their plans for after the war. Sienna and Lucia brought their plates of food, and the conversation continued over dinner. But no one spoke about the mission ahead, and no one said anything about the screwup on the last one.
Drew thought back to his time in bombers. On his first mission, the group launched from their base in East Anglia to hit the German submarine pens at Brest. The ball turret gunner’s turret wouldn’t rotate. The gunner couldn’t swivel to engage enemy fighters. Drew turned back. On his second mission, the B-17s rose to hit a railroad yard at Rouen. Oil temperature ran high on the number four engine. Drew turned back. On his third mission, the bombers formed up to strike another U-boat base, this one at Lorient. The bombardier reported a problem with his Norden. He offered simply to toggle his bombs when he saw the plane in front of them unload. But Drew turned back.
The group commander decided the war effort needed Drew in Training Command.
Each of his aborts in the B-17 had been a judgment call. No one of them was damning, but the combination marked him.
Drew clung to the hope that courage was a virtue or a skill you could develop like any other. Like a child’s repeated efforts to ride a bicycle: The child falls and skins a knee. He gets back up and tries again. He falls and skins the heel of his hand. He gets back up and tries again. He falls over and over, and eventually he rides.
But in a war for national survival, with an airplane that cost six figures, the government would give you only so many tries.
* * *
At the end of the evening, after Drew paid the tab, Sienna followed him outside. In full view of his crew, not caring who saw, she held him close. To Drew’s surprise, the men didn’t hoot or make teasing comments. They just waited at the jeep in respectful silence. After a long embrace, Sienna placed her hand against Drew’s cheek.
“Be safe,” she said. “Come back to me.” From around her neck, she removed a gold chain with a tiny crucifix. She pressed it into his hand. “For good luck,” she added.
A misting rain began falling by the time Drew and his crewmates returned to San Pancrazio. The diminished Luftwaffe no longer threatened the base, so blackout orders had been lifted. Portable floodlights cast glare across a wet and gleaming ramp. Six C-47s stood wingtip to wingtip. Beside one of them, a hose snaked from a fuel truck. Two ground personnel were topping off the tanks with one-hundred-octane aviation fuel.
“Almost showtime,” Torres said.
Drew parked under a canvas shelter and shut down the engine. The men trudged through the mist to their tents. At the entrance to the officers’ tent, Chisholm stopped to admire the row of aircraft prepped for the mission.
“‘Throw me to the wolves, and I will return leading the pack,’” Chisholm said.
“I guess that’s why we came here,” Drew said. “Did you just think of that?”
“No, that’s Seneca the Younger. But I bet it was a day like today when he said it.”
In his tent, Drew opened his footlocker and found a box of military stationery, each sheet of paper adorned at the top with a blue circle that contained a white star and a set of golden wings. Beneath the circle, lettering read: U.S. ARMY AIR FORCES. Drew took a pen from his pocket and began to write:
Dear Sienna,
You told me to come back safe. But if you are reading this letter, then I failed to do that. I am sorry I won’t get to see you again.
During these few weeks, your courage has inspired me. I have struggled to find the courage to carry out what my country asked of me. There were times when I considered giving up.
Your example helped me find my way. You face an awful past and an uncertain future with a beautiful bravery. I ask you to use that same bravery now. Make a future worthy of you.
Love,
Drew
Drew sealed the letter in an envelope. Across the envelope, in large block letters, he wrote: IN THE EVENT OF MY DEATH, PLEASE DELIVER TO SIENNA ROSSI, ANTONIO’S RESTAURANT, BRINDISI, ITALY. 1ST LT. DREW CARLTON.
He placed the letter on top of the clothing and other personal items in his footlocker. Drew closed the locker, and he left the padlock unlatched.
Chapter 26
The Key to Airpower
Norman Rockwell could have painted the scene unfolding before Bogdonavich. A mule pulled a flatbed wagon piled with hay bales. At one end of the field, four cattle grazed in an enclosure built of wooden posts and two strands of barbed wire. The fresh aroma of hay joined with the scent of evergreens.
A pointy-eared dog of mixed ancestry bounded and barked alongside the mule. The mule’s black fur shone in the sunlight, and she flicked her tail at flies buzzing around her. Atop the wagon, a boy steadied the bales. Another boy, leading the mule, waved for the dog to get out of the way. Bogdonavich had witnessed moments like this many times during drives through Pennsylvania’s dairy country.
But none of this had anything to do with farming.
The boys were not picking up hay from the field; they were dropping it off. And the hay would not feed livestock. At some point after dark, men would douse the bales with kerosene and set them afire. These primitive flares would guide C-47s to land at the makeshift airfield.
Bogdonavich pointed wherever he wanted the boys to drop a hay bale. He needed to set up two parallel lines of bales on either side of the field. The burning hay would mark the sides of the airstrip. A hell of a way to create runway edge lighting, Bogdonavich thought.
Marich, the OSS officer, walked the airstrip with his teammates, Racanin and Jezdich, along with General Mihailovich. Jezdich, the radio operator, had pitched a tent in the woods just off the field. On folding tables underneath the canvas, he’d wired up his voice radio and a Eureka set. After surveying the airstrip, Mihailovich and the OSS men returned to the tent. Jezdich sat at his radios and put on a headset. He made calls, scribbled notes, made more calls.
Behind the radio tent, other tents sheltered the men who would take the first flights out. They were the sick and injured. Greenbaum, Oliver, and other officers moved among them. Greenbaum carried a clipboard he’d scrounged from somewhere. He’d been assigned the task of putting names to flights.
