Jagello held up his hand for silence, while he copied down the message coming in on the wireless. He held the paper under the soft glow of the compass lamp. There were three letters written across it — PPD. The Pathfinders were going in.
Gierek nodded, increased power, and climbed to 34,000 feet. They weren’t after U-boat pens; they were after E-boat pens, but the drill was the same. Link on to the three transmitting stations along the east coast of England, calculate the pulses with the onboard detector, consult the chart, and estimate the position. Gee was what it was called, and it was the first step in setting out for the intended target. That was when Cat and Mouse took over; Cat the tracker station that emitted a 1.5 meter radar signal, which was then reradiated by the Cat plane, usually a Mosquito, and Mouse measured the Mosquito’s ground speed and altitude, plotting its exact distance from the target. All very neatly done, until you got over the target. You always went over at night, and thank God for the Telecommunications Research Establishment at Malvern that produced the wonderful electronic eyes that saw through the darkness, because it was sheer suicide to go over in daylight.
The Americans did. Daylight precision bombing, they explained, was certainly the way to go. Their massively armed bombers flying in close echelons, protected by squadrons of fighters, provided all the protection they needed to complete the missions with acceptable losses. Besides, they pointed out, trying to strengthen their position after so many dead young Americans became acceptable, their fabulous Norden bombsight was designed for daylight use.
After a visit to an American base and a heated discussion between Gierek and another pilot, he and Jagello returned to Lasham. Over a cup of tea, Gierek filled in the other pilots about the crazy Americans and their daylight raids, and finally after he had mined his exasperation to the limit, turned to Jagello and said: “They’re crazy. The Americans. Aren’t they crazy?”
Every head turned to Jagello, who looked thoughtful for a moment before announcing: “I need more tea.”
The dense black clouds parted, and Gierek made out the dim form of bombers in the rearview mirror. The big planes, far behind them, were framed in the trembling reflection, each only a rough silhouette etched against the black sky by a frail moon. He did not like Lancasters. They were superb bombers and the men who flew them swore by them, but Gierek preferred the speed and maneuverability of the little Mosquito. He had trained on Lancasters, but he felt too conspicuous in the big plane as it lumbered through fields of flak, and when an opportunity came to sign up for the Polish Pathfinder Squadron, the City of Krakow, he took it.
This was the first time that he had met Jagello, and at first the two didn’t hit it off — Jagello was quiet, Gierek was talkative. But they were both highly competent, and they soon settled into a routine of professionalism that kept them returning to the base at Walker after each mission. Others in the squadron were not so lucky.
Jagello held up a message: IT. The first flight of Pathfinders were dropping the special target indicators now, clusters of colorful flares — pink, green, red, yellow — that guided the bombers to the target. Still not precise enough, still far too general for dropping bombs on targets with 14-foot-thick concrete roofs. The illumination flares would be next, Gierek knew — brilliant white stars that drifted to earth under black parachutes so that their brightness did not blind the bomber crews. Their signal would come next and then Jagello would slap Gierek on the leg twice: get ready.
Flashes of light began in the distance, not flares or the few stars that managed to pierce the overcast, but flak. Anti-aircraft — very accurate, pervasive, frightening. There was no defense against that, not the daylight sun or the inky blackness of night. You could dodge fighters, or shoot them down, or settle into darkness and run from cloud to cloud where they couldn’t see you. But flak was different. Talented men far below, men who calculated speed, distance, wind, humidity, temperature, and who methodically lobbed shells into the sky.
The Mosquito shook violently as it passed through a flak ridge.
“Come back to me, my lover,” Gierek sang.
Three shells exploded close by the aircraft, bouncing Gierek in his seat. He tightened his harness and glanced at Jagello. The man was made of iron.
“Why did you ever leave…”
There was a huge explosion somewhere behind them and Gierek glanced in the mirror as one of the lumbering Lancasters, flames boiling from its midsection, slowed and veered to the left. Its fiery death lit up the night and its slow descent lacked drama; as if tired of flying on, the huge aircraft had simply decided to lie down and go to sleep. He could not see the whole incident in the mirror, and that was best because if he could, his eyes would be drawn to the death of the Lancaster and the sight of flaming bundles, men and parachutes on fire, hurling themselves into the sky.
Jagello slapped Gierek’s leg. The Mosquito’s bomb bay doors opened with a soft rumble and the sound of whistling air piercing the interior of the craft.
“Can’t you see these teardrops…?”
“Release,” Jagello said. The Mosquito bucked as the packets of flares dropped away.
Another explosion tore the sky, far ahead. Gierek hurriedly crossed himself. Release. Far behind, the Lancasters — those that survived — had just dropped their huge bombs, six-ton monsters filled with Tor-pex, MC deep penetration bombs. Tall Boys. They would fall at supersonic speed and when they struck the earth, they would bury themselves before exploding. These bombs were not meant to hit the target; they were meant to land next to the target, and the resulting blast would shake a structure until it collapsed. Earthquake bombs.
Flak detonated around the Mosquito, and Gierek gripped the wheel firmly and wedged his feet into the rudder pedals. He’d been in flak barrages before that had tossed the Mosquito high in the air, and once the aircraft had been thrown violently sideways, and it had taken all of his strength to regain control.
“Don’t you know I grieve?” The Mosquito jumped and Gierek heard shrapnel strike the aircraft. He noticed a large round hole through the Perspex windshield and wondered briefly where in the aircraft was the object that had made that hole.
“Don’t you know I grieve?” he repeated, each word coming with an exhaled breath as he quickly checked the instrument panel, searching the dials for telltale signs that manifold pressure was dropping, or the radiator temperature was spiking.
“And so I know do you,” he said, gingerly applying pressure to the stick, feeling the response through his fingers that told him that there was still the right amount of tension on the cables. The explosions were constant flashes destroying his night vision, angry stars of fire and smoke that lived only an instant before disappearing; the never-ending thud of shrapnel striking wood ribs and canvas skin. Balsa-plywood sandwich, a beaming mechanic had told him proudly, running his hand along the smooth underbelly of the aircraft.
Wooden aircraft. Like the first war.
A blast shook the aircraft and Gierek kicked left rudder to bring it back on course. He shouldn’t have been mean to the dog. The filthy thing is always in the way, he argued. Bad luck, bad luck, he countered. Every mission I must have him moved, why my plane? Why me? He began humming Goralski Taniec. The flak was subsiding but occasional clusters filled the night. He dropped a few lyrics into the humming; “Oh, why did you leave me?” as he studied the instruments.