Capuano took his responsibility seriously. Earl knew that the bombardier would feel a tinge of guilt when he thought about the civilians that had to die today because of the duty he performed. But so what? Earl also knew Capuano would not turn tail. He’d steer the plane directly over the Messerschmitt factory without hesitation. He would fly straight and level and would not deviate even one degree from his course until the bombs were away. There would be no evasive action. Capt Haskell demanded that they keep moving toward the target no matter what. The son-of-a-bitch would keep on going until they were blown out of the sky.
Earl gripped the twin handles of the Browning with both hands. His body shook and rattled from the recoil as he fired the gun haphazardly, until it ran out of ammo. If by a miracle they did get back, Earl swore he’d get even with Haskell somehow, somewhere, some dark night…
The German fighter planes now turned away and the crew suddenly became silent. The interphone chatter stopped as the nine men watched the hundreds of deadly puffs of black smoke fill the daytime sky. Anti-aircraft shells exploded in the midst of the formation.
Every few seconds a piece of shrapnel tore through the aircraft’s fuselage, ripping jagged holes in the thin aluminum skin. But the plane didn’t falter. It kept moving toward the target.
The noise was deafening. Earl could feel every vibration and every pounding beat generated by the remaining three engines in his bones. His ears were filled with the screech of tearing metal and his nostrils took in the acrid stench of burning aluminum.
With both hands covering his ears, Earl screamed in a terrified voice, “We gotta turn back! To hell with this bullshit.” But no one heard him, of course.
Scared out of his wits, he turned to grab his parachute.
Across the way he saw the left waist gunner, a guy named McKee, braced against his gun mount. Sgt. Bernie McKee stared at Earl with wide eyes. He clutched his torso with his hands, covering the place where his stomach should have been, his guts seeping through his fingers. The plane bounced in the turbulence and the gunner fell forward, dead.
Earl dropped to his knees. How much more could he take? The air quivered when another large chunk of hot metal blazed over his head and tore through the fuselage, blowing a basketball-sized hole in the side of the plane as it exited.
He closed his eyes tight, and as the bomber lumbered through the sky he could almost see the German ack-ack guns on the ground firing at the formation of bombers-shell after shell, endlessly exploding all around them.
He looked out again. “Oh God, there goes Luscious Lady,” he said into his throat mike. Luscious Lady, a bomber in the high squad, was named by the pilot, Bobby Buck, as a tribute to his lovely red-headed wife, Irene. They’d been married two days prior to his induction.
With her nose pointed down, Luscious Lady spun rapidly out of control heading toward the ground at a tremendous rate of speed. Pieces separated from the airplane and chucks of metal fluttered in the air. Most of the plane’s left wing was missing.
An urgent voice came through the interphone: “Look for chutes, everybody.”
“C’mon, Buck, bail out, goddammit! Get out of the goddamn plane,” someone else said.
“Anybody see any chutes?” Captain Haskell asked in a calm voice.
But none were visible. The Lady crashed and exploded with all hands on board. Nine more letters would go out tonight. Each signed by Col. Edmonson himself. He would write to the airmen’s loved ones back home, telling them how sorry he was for their loss and how courageous Johnny had been.
The floor under Earl bucked violently. He bounced and hit his head against one of protruding ribs securing the skin of the plane. His vision blurred, but for only a moment. Maybe he felt the pain, but maybe he didn’t care. He pulled his parachute pack from its storage position and snapped on both sides of it to the harness straps that clung to his body.
Standing on shaky legs, he hung on to his gun mount for support and vomited. The aircraft continued to bounce and jerk violently as it moved through the sky. An artillery shell exploded close by. The plane heaved, rolled on its side, then leveled out again and continued on its heading.
Wild thoughts raced through Earl’s mind. We’re gonna die. We’re all dead men up here. We’re on a suicide mission to Hell.
He looked toward the front of the plane, toward the crawl space leading to the radio compartment. He saw fire! At the same time he heard three short rings of the alarm bell. “Prepare to bail out.”
Earl knew he should wait for the one long bell that signified “Abandon the aircraft.” He knew he should stay with the plane and the crew until the last possible moment. He knew he should grab the fire extinguisher and fight the blaze coming from the radio compartment. But he couldn’t move.
He had to jump now.
Not a second to waste.
The plane is gonna blow up.
To hell with the crew. Earl didn’t know these guys, never partied with them at the base, and hardly spoke to the men at all. He was a replacement. This was only the second combat mission that he flew with this gang. He didn’t owe then a goddamn thing.
He didn’t like the officers, or the rest of the enlisted men, hardly knew their names. And he hated the commander-that rich bastard, Raymond Haskell, with his spit-polished manner and by-the-book attitude.
Everyone around the base kissed his ass. Like they thought that maybe Haskell would part with some of his old man’s dough. Like he’d give it up just for the asking. Sure he would…what a laugh. Earl doubted that the son-of-a-bitch would ever help a crewmate out until payday when he ran a little short. Haskell never gave Earl a damn thing.
Haskell had snubbed him when Earl shook his hand at their first meeting. He knew Haskell had grown up in the snooty Bel Air section of Los Angeles. When Earl mentioned that he was from a jerk-water town back east, Haskell just nodded once. He didn’t say anything but Earl could tell from the look in his eyes that Haskell thought he was scum.
Earl knew Haskell would never abort a mission. He wanted to be a hero. Goddamn him! He wanted more citations and he wanted more bullshit write-ups in Stars and Stripes highlighting the brave exploits of the courageous captain. Earl figured Haskell wanted to go home a frigging conqueror and wave his shiny metals under his fat old man’s nose, regardless of how many of his men had to die.
But the men and officers of the B-17 crew adored Haskell.
No, he was not going to die today, not for these assholes.
Fuck ’em. They’re all dead anyway.
“Toe-to-toe my ass,” he muttered under his breath.
He bailed out through the main entrance hatch.
CHAPTER 20
We left the Beverly Wilshire in the wee hours of the morning. I wanted to take off right after the meeting with Haskell; so did Sol. But Rita was having the time of her life, so I decided to stay out of her way and let her enjoy the evening. I found a cafe in the hotel and drank coffee until it was finally time to leave.