Fortress

By Eugene C. Mullen

With America thrust into war after Pearl Harbor, Steve E. Larson leaves behind a life of luxury in being the head CEO of the LHM Oil Company and joins the United States Army Air Force for the adventure. He quickly learns the harsh realities of war in flying combat missions from England in the summer of 1943.

As the heated battl

• Language: English
• Publisher: Eugene Mullen
• Release date: Jan 31, 2023
• ISBN: 9781958518458

Eugene C. Mullen

I was born in Pasadena, California. My dad was an Irish Catholic from Philadelphia; my mom went to whatever church was near, from Temple City, California. They meet in the Air Force during the Koran War, at Shaw Air Force base in South Carolina. Growing up in the sixties, I like the Twelve O'clock High TV series and as I got older I started reading books on that period of time. The 8th Air Force had a mystic about in being stationed in England in earning the tag, Overpaid, Oversexed, and over Here. To me as a kid it felt like it was (Camelot), London, with the (knights) bombers going out and fighting the dragon (Germany) and returning to Piccadilly Circus.

Book preview

Chapter 1

August 1, 1961

Lowestoft, England

HEARING THE ALARM clock going off at five thirty in the morning, Steve E. Larson of Oklahoma rolls away from his wife and turns the alarm off. His wife of sixteen years reaches out, placing her left arm around his waist, making a slight gesture for him to stay. Steve turns to look at her and bends down, giving her a kiss on the cheek. He sees a smile from her as she rolls back over, pulling the covers up over her as she falls back asleep.

Sitting up in bed, he starts to rub his forehead above his left eye, which he lost from an injury he sustained during the war. A scar runs down from his left eyebrow to just below his eye, along with a white streak of hair above his eye. Through the years, the scar has melted into his rough skin from the hot Oklahoma summers in running a dude ranch and supervising the LHM oil fields to the harsh winters that he spends in Philadelphia at the main headquarters of LHM Oil Company, which he inherited from his father and has since expanded to other fields of operations, mainly into construction, to help rebuild Europe after the war. Every August just before school starts, he takes his family back to England and France for the month to visit the children’s grandparents and to see their oldest son, who is in the Royal Air Force.

With his feet dangling down from the bed, he stretches out his right leg and rubs down his right thigh to loosen up the muscle that also got damaged from another incident during the war, almost a year before he had lost his eye. He feels around the floor for his house slippers so his feet do not get cold from the wood flooring. Standing up, he picks up his bathrobe at the foot of the bed and slips it on. Reaching into his pocket, he pulls out his eye patch, which he wears around the house instead of his glass eye. He makes his way in the dim lights of the hallway to their son’s bedroom, where John, thirteen, and his stepson, Dean, twenty, are asleep. Opening the bedroom door, he reaches his hand around the doorjamb to turn on the lights. He makes his way over to their beds to wake them up so they can start their morning chores around the farm.

Come on, boys, time to get up! Steve says, shaking their legs.

Go away, Dad! We’re on vacation! John groans, waving his hand for him to go away while turning his head and covering it with his pillow to block out the lights.

Dean slowly crawls out of bed, waving to him. We’ll be there, he said while reaching over to John’s bed and shaking it vigorously.

Seeing that they are awake, Steve smiles as he leaves their room, closing the bedroom door behind him. He continues walking down the hallway past his daughter’s room. Reaching the top of the stairs, he descends and notices that the hall lights are on, meaning that Dad and Mom are already up. Stepping off the last step, he walks into the foyer, which splits the entrance of the house in two. Off to the right of the stairs is the den and to the left the living room. He makes a sharp right and walks down the hallway that leads back to the master bedroom, the kitchen, and the dining room.

Walking down the hallway, he can smell the fresh aroma of brewing coffee. As he enters the kitchen, he sees mom busy making bread. He steps up behind her and wraps his right arm around her, kissing her on the cheek. Good morning, Ma, he says.

Good morning, Steve, she replies. Coffee should be ready.

Thank you. But what I really want is a piece of that bread when it gets done, Steve said as he walks over to the coffeepot on the stove.

So does everyone else in this house, she answers as she goes back to kneading and separating the bread dough into five separate loaves of bread. What are your plans for today? she said as she turns to look at Steve.

Dean wants to take us to Cambridge for the day. He said that there is a band playing there that he wants to take Stephanie to see—the Silver Bugs, Ants, or something like that, Steve replies as he takes a sip of his coffee. Boy, that’s good, he remarks.

Today’s younger generation and their music. It sure is not like the way it used to be, Mercia remarked.

No, it is not, but it’s not half bad either, Steve said as he takes another sip of coffee. He walks to the back door, and opening it, as he steps out onto the patio.

Sipping his coffee, he walks across the patio to the screen door, opening it, and walks down the steps to the back of the house. He looks up to the sky and the start of a new morning as the sun slowly breaks over the crest of the earth. He shakes his head with a sad smile as he remembers such mornings when he was a bomber pilot during the war, flying missions out of England over Fortress Europe.

Hi, Dad, John says as he runs through the back door of the house, through the screen door of the patio, and on out to the barn.

Steve just has enough time to raise his right hand to wave as he passes by. Hearing the kitchen door slam shut again, he looks back and sees Dean walking toward him. Steve goes up the steps and catches the screen door as Dean opens it so it does not slam shut again.

Hi, Dad, Dean said as he stops and looks at him. Have you read that article I told you about yet?

No, not yet. I’ll get to it this morning, Steve replies.

Great, I think you’ll really like it. Dean smiles as he walks past him toward the barn.

Thanks, Dean, I’m sure I will, Steve said, relieved to see Dean and John doing their chores. If they want to go to Cambridge, they needed to do their chores first. Turning around, he steps back into the patio, being careful not to slam the door as he walks back into the house.

That was very good coffee, Ma, Steve said, looking at her while placing the cup on the counter.

The bread will be done in time for breakfast, and knowing how much you like my strawberry jam, I made a fresh batch this week just for you.

Thank you, I don’t know what I would do without you, Steve said as he turns away and walks back down the hallway. He pauses halfway down the hallway by some pictures hanging on the staircase wall. They are mainly of his family, due to them living in America. Their two sons, both died in the war, Clay died defending Dunkirk, and James died as a prisoner of war of the Japanese in Burma while working as a force labor on the bridge over the River Kwai. After all these years, he still gets a lump in his throat of gratitude, for he could count on his hands how many times he cheated death. Steve’s face softens with a smile as he heads back upstairs.

***

A hot shower is just what he needed. Not having any special plans for this morning, he forgoes the glass eye until later when they go into Cambridge. He automatically replaces the eye patch before he turns toward the mirror to shave. It has been seventeen years since he lost the eye, and still he has never gotten used to looking at an empty eye socket. Looking at it sends a chill down his spine and at the same time a peace. Grabbing his robe, he turns off the lights and heads back to his room. He goes through his suitcase and pulls out a pair of khaki pants and a pale brown pullover sweater, socks, and loafers. Although it is summertime in England, it is still colder by twenty to thirty degrees than Oklahoma, where they just came from.

He looks over at his wife, who is exhausted from the flight and the six-hour time difference between England and Oklahoma. Seeing her stirring in her sleep, he notices the morning sunlight streaming through the window on her face. He walks over to the window and closes the curtains so the sunlight will not wake her up. He walks back down the stairs to the kitchen and picks up another cup of coffee before heading into the living room.

Stepping down from the landing of the foyer into the living room, Steve makes his way toward the fireplace. He stops in front of the hearth and places his cup of coffee on the mantel, reaching for his pipe and tobacco pouch. He opens the tobacco pouch as he walks over to the window and opens the curtains to let the sunlight fill the room.

He places the pipe into the pouch and stuffs it with tobacco as he walks back to the fireplace. Placing the pipe in his mouth, he puts the pouch back on the mantel and picks up a box of matches. Pulling one out, he strikes the edge of the box, getting a flame to light his pipe. Puffing away, he starts to get a good light on the tobacco, which fills the living room with the aroma of cherry.

Picking up his coffee, he steps away from the fireplace and sees the Reader’s Digest magazine that Dean wants him to read on the coffee table. Walking over to the coffee table, he picks up the magazine, walking over, and settling down into the reclining chair in front of the window. He places the coffee cup on the end table on the right side of the chair and starts to flip through the pages. Finding the short story called Confessions of a Spy, he stops and places the pipe back in his mouth and starts to read.

He is always interested in reading other soldiers’ stories no matter what side of the war they were on. It brings great comfort to him to learn of their plight and the effect the war had on them. For with each new story, it confirms his feelings that the war fought from England was like Camelot. Putting it into better words, from a saying he heard from the RAF, We would fly a mission in the morning and are back in time for our afternoon tea and a game of cricket. Turning his attention back to the story at hand about a British counterspy that had infiltrated the German High Command Staff of Field Marshal Erwin Rommel from the early days of the war to the deserts of North Africa, to the Atlantic Wall, on the French coastline:

With the tide of the war changing in 1943, the Gestapo were busy looking for any and all to blame for their staggering defeats on all fronts. They were checking everyone that was not German. Being British, my credibility started to falter among my German contacts. They wanted something substantial from me for keeping me alive. Knowing that the Gestapo were searching for a spy that had been very successful for three years, I volunteered to search him out. After following leads from Paris, we traced him to the restricted zone of Lorraine, France, in particular the area around the city of Nancy.

Steve shot straight up out of his chair like he had been stabbed with a cold knife. He placed the pipe on the end table and started to rub the back of his neck, getting a feeling that he has not felt since the war. Putting the magazine down on the arm of the chair, he reaches over and picks up his coffee cup from the end table as he gets up and walks back into the kitchen in a daze. He did not see or hear Ma as she called out to him as he walks back out to the living room in deep thought. Walking back over to the chair, he looks down at the magazine. He stares at the magazine for a few seconds before he sets the coffee cup on the end table and picks it up again. Slowly he sits back down into the chair with the magazine in his left hand. He stretches back in the chair as he grunts and clears his throat. Taking one more look at the magazine, he opens it to the page where he had left off and starts to read again.

The Gestapo, in their thorough investigation, narrowed down the area around Nancy as one of main areas where information had been leaking out from. The previous week they had captured a British agent with the purpose of going to Nancy to help correlate their activities in a response to an invasion. Being British, they wanted me to take his place and infiltrate their organization.

Steve’s mind started to race, seeing past images and what could have been if fate didn’t intervene.

Q. So you infiltrated the underground to expose them to save your own cover?

A. Those are harsh words…but true. I lost a lot of good friends, for at that time agents were expendable. We had to win the war, which came with a high price—life. You also must remember to look at the whole picture of the war. The sacrifice of one person for the betterment of the war is unsurpassable.

Q. Yes! The whole is greater than the one. As you infiltrated the underground, did you ever find out who this spy was and why he was so high on the Gestapo’s wanted list?

A. Yes, I did. I met this Green Knight at a cottage just outside of Langres, France.

Steve’s veins turn ice cold, his body rigid as steel. His heart starts to beat faster with each page he reads. He starts to rip out the pages as he finishes reading them, crumpling the pages into a ball as he pounds the arm of the chair in frustration. A pile starts growing as he drops them on the floor next to his chair. The muscles in his arms start to bulge out as he continues to make fists with each torn-out page.

Feeling rage building up in him, he reaches for his pipe on the end table. Seeing that his pipe has gone out, he leans back in the chair, closing his eyes. He drifts back in time, remembering that fateful afternoon not so long ago in Langres, France. He raises the magazine over his head, then slams it down on the arm of the chair, saying, Damn that bastard!

Steve did not notice that his youngest daughter of fifteen had walked into the room. She stopped at the foyer landing after hearing her father swear and cried out, Daddy!

Hearing a sweet, innocent voice that pierced his soul startled him. He did not know that anyone was in the room with him. He opens his eyes and looks around the room. He sees Debbie standing just inside the foyer, holding a plate of freshly baked bread. Debbie, hearing and now seeing the power of hate in her dad’s eyes as never before, just stood there dumbfounded and scared as tears start running down her face.

Steve smiles at her gently as he shakes his head and takes a deep breath, clearing his thoughts. He slowly stands up, regaining his composure. He looks at the magazine in his left hand, and tosses it back on the chair and walks over to console Debbie. With her standing in the foyer, she comes up to his shoulders. Calmly he takes the plate of bread covered in strawberry jam from her and places it on a table nearby. He looks at her with the warmest of smiles as he pulls his handkerchief from his back pocket and wipes away her tears.

I’m sorry, Debbie, he says, trying to be calm. He wraps his arms around her and hugs her tightly to him as a sigh escapes. All the while his insides are tearing him apart. The torture inside becomes too great, and he grits his teeth and steps back from her while taking hold of her arms.

No, I am not sorry, he said angrily, not realizing how tightly he was holding her, leaving marks on her arms. I need to go for a walk. He lets go of her, and starts walking toward the front door.

Debbie can hardly speak, feeling the pressure on her arms. She starts to rub them as Steve turns back around and looks at her.

Tell your mom I’ll be back and not to worry. He reaches out and caresses her face as he turns and walks away.

Debbie, sensing that something is terribly wrong, follows him out the door. She watches him as he heads out over to the northeast pasture of the farm.

Steve climbs over the last fence rail of the farm that leads out into the country, deep in thought. How could one man have such an effect in one’s life? Without his interference, my life could have been different. He slowly turns and looks back at the house from atop the fence rail and sees Debbie standing at the front porch watching him. He drops his head down as he turns the clock back to the war in the summer of 1943, getting stationed at Soufax, England, with the 382nd Bomb Squadron (H) Heavy.

Chapter 2

July 24, 1943

382nd Bomb Group (H)

Soufax, England

WITH THE SHORT summer nights of only seven hours, along with a two-hour daylight saving time change in the summer, it is well into the evening before it even starts to get dark. With a week of orientation left, Steve stayed out with his crew until they were kicked out of the pubs in the nearby village of Soufax at closing time. He does not get back to base till well past midnight, then to bed around one in the morning, knowing that he is not due at operations till ten in the morning. He was just getting to sleep when he felt a hand nudging him along with a stern commanding voice, Lieutenant Larson! Lieutenant! Wake up, Lieutenant Larson!

Steve opens his eyes slightly to see who is bothering him this early in the morning. He raises his right hand to block the light that is shining in his face.

What is it? he snarls, looking up from his bed, squinting at a silhouette of a man standing at his bedside.

You’ve been penciled in today, to fly, Lieutenant.

Go away, I’m not on active duty yet! Steve replies as he bats the flashlight away. He grabs the blankets, pulling them him over himself as he rolls over, away from the man.

Not today, sir. The man pushes Steve’s shoulder again. You’re flying. And I was told if I had to, to pick you up and carry you over to your plane, sir!

Yeah—you and what army! Steve rolls back over, looking up at the man. He blocks the light with his left hand as he tries to get a better look at him. He sees a master sergeant with an armband around his left sleeve with the letters MP (military police) on it, standing alongside his bed, looking like a big grizzly bear. Ha, you look familiar. Did you ever play football for the University of Michigan?

No, sir, Ohio State, ’39, ’40.

Yes, I remember. I played for the University of Minnesota.

Larson, Steve Larson, yeah, we should have beaten you guys.

You might not have won the game, but you sure did beat me up. That last block I put on you for the winning touchdown took me two weeks to recover.

Those were the good old days. But we got a new ball game over here, sir, and your services are required. He looks at his watch and says, It’s 0400 hours, and you have less than an hour to get ready.

To get ready! I don’t know what this is all about, Sergeant… Steve looks at his name tag above the man’s left shirt pocket. …Sergeant Ramies. Give me a few minutes, and I’ll be right with you.

Steve stretches as he slowly steps out of bed, getting his eyes focused. Looking around in the Nissen hut, he sees that everyone else is asleep and turns back to Sergeant Ramies. Sergeant, am I the only one going today?

Out of this hut, yes, sir, Sergeant Ramies answers, stepping aside to let Steve get dressed.

Long johns, wool pants and shirt, low-cut brown oxford shoes, and a black wool tie. Over this, Steve puts on his flying coveralls, fleece-lined boots, leather-lined pants, and a jacket. He finishes off by putting on his cap, and last, he slaps on his gun belt, pulling out his 45 automatic pistol and checks the clip to make sure it is loaded and that the safety is on.

Okay, Sergeant, let’s go. Steve reaches back into his footlocker, picking up his flight bag. He checks inside of the bag as he walks out of the hut: flying helmet, goggles, and gloves.

We have just enough time to stop by the equipment hut, Sergeant Ramies said as they walked out of the hut, down the five steps to a jeep that is parked at the base of the steps.

Steve tosses his flight bag in the back seat just as another jeep pulls up alongside of them. He sees Sergeant Ramies come to attention and then overhears the officer in the jeep say, I’ll take over from here, Sergeant.

Yes, sir. Sergeant Ramies salutes and then turns to Steve. Colonel Conner will take you from here. He reaches into the back seat of his jeep, picking up Steve’s flight bag and placing it in the colonel’s jeep.

Thank you, Sergeant. Steve returns his salute as he watches him step into his jeep and drive away.

Steve salutes as he walks toward the second jeep. Colonel Conner returns his salute as he says, "Sorry to do this to you, Lieutenant, but we need a pilot, and I feel you are ready. The question is, are you ready?"

Looking around the field, then at the colonel, Steve nods his head. Yes, I am. This is what I came over here to do, sir, he replies as he steps into the jeep.

Great! That is what I like to hear, Colonel Conner said as he starts to drive.

***

Driving through the living area of the flight crews, they pass rows of Nissen huts made from half-cylinder steel set on concrete slabs. Being set up on wartime status with situations being crude, Nissen huts are easy to install, which makes them the mainstay of the air bases that are being built in England, housing and supplying up to two thousand base personnel, serving from living quarters to maintenance shops, storage, mess halls, service clubs, base hospital, and base operations and headquarters.

There’s not much time left, for the crew of Wildfire are already standing by. Therefore, I took the liberty of stopping by the mess hall and picking you up a thermos of coffee and a bag of muffins. It’s not much, but it will have to do. Hopefully it will keep you from getting too hungry.

I don’t want to sound too obstinate, sir, but what happened to the pilot of Wildfire? Steve wondered as he reaches into the bag, pulling out a muffin to eat as they stop at the equipment hut.

Captain Marshall, the pilot of Wildfire, Colonel Conner replies as they step out of the jeep, was riding one of those crazy English bikes last night and fell into a trench, breaking his leg.

Steve grabs his flight bag as he walks into the equipment hut. Colonel Conner states, Those English bikes, unlike American bikes with foot brakes, have hand brakes, one for the front wheel and one for the back wheel.

Steve steps up to the counter and picks up an oxygen mask, a Mae West (life jacket), electrically heated blue bunny suits that are wired for connection to the plane’s electrical system, throat mikes, flak suits, escape kits, a parachute, and candy bars. Putting on what he can, then stuffing his flight bag as much as he can and carries the rest.

Colonel Conner continues to say, Getting used to those hand brakes has put more men in the infirmary because of accidents than from enemy action lately. He opens the door for Steve as they walk back to the jeep. When roll call came, he was absent, he said as they climbed back into the jeep and drive away. It was about half hour later when I found out what had happened to him. They turn onto the open tarmac as Colonel Conner continues, And with today’s mission being called for a maximum effort, we needed a pilot, and from what I have observed, you are ready. There is also another reason for which you might be a help. Colonel Conner turns and looks at Steve. The crew of Wildfire, you might say, is a hard-luck crew. Do not get me wrong, they are a good crew. First Lieutenant Spalding, your copilot, just needs leadership, and he’ll go along with you.

Steve gets a smile from the colonel as he stops at the hardstand of Wildfire. He looks around, seeing the bomber at her hardstand and the ground crew standing by, snickering. Steve takes a deep cleansing breath as he turns back and looks at Colonel Conner.

Thank you, sir. Steve salutes him as he steps out of the jeep and picks up his flight bag and his gear from the back seat.

Great, Lieutenant. The colonel gives him a half salute. And good luck, he finishes saying as he starts to drive away.

Oh boy. Steve sighs, seeing Colonel Conner drive off. He starts to wonder what he is getting himself into. He turns toward the bomber and sees the ground crew standing idly around her and the flight crew back by the waist also standing aimlessly around. He walks up to the crew chief and decides to take the straight-on approach, stern, with no fear, then slowly he can lower his standards.

Sergeant, I am Lieutenant Larson. I’ll be the pilot for today’s mission, Steve says as he looks over the B-17 Flying Fortress that he will be flying. She was nicknamed appropriately, with three twin fifty-caliber machine guns and five single fifty-caliber machine guns defending her. Is there anything I need to know about her before we take off? He looks only at the bomber and then slowly at the sergeant, not at the crew.

Steve receives a gritty look from the crew chief for a split second. The crew chief smiles painfully at seeing this green pilot, but respecting his rank, he points over to the number three engine. The pilots always seem to claim that number three runs rough and in flight leaks oil. That is how she got her name, Wildfire. They never know when she might flare up, which she has a few times, he says sarcastically.

I see that she has seven missions to her credit. Steve notices the seven bombs painted on her nose, each representing a mission being completed. And you can’t find the problem? Steve turns and walks over to engine number three. He hears the sounds of the other bombers starting their engines. He starts to get some butterflies, and his heart starts to beat a little faster, realizing that this will be his first mission in battle.

No, sir, every time we check her out, she runs fine, the crew chief answered as he turns to look at the crew of Wildfire. It doesn’t look like you’ll be going today either?

Has she ever been aborted before? Steve looks over at the crew, ignoring the sergeant’s remark.

Yes, three times.

Not today, Sergeant. Steve looks at him sternly. We will be going, and we will also be finding out what the problem is on number three! He salutes him as he starts to leave. Not getting a return salute, Steve stops in his tracks and stares down the crew chief.

After a few seconds, the sergeant raises his hand, cheek high in a wave of a salute. Steve nods his head as he turns toward his next challenge, the crew.

Hearing the other bombers warming up their engines, Steve gets the intro he was looking for as he walks over to them. He could see their eyes sizing him up, seeing their expression of a group of men waiting for a hanging—his hanging. Before he could say anything, a first lieutenant stepped up.

So you’re the new pilot, he says, getting the first chance to let off some of the steam that has been building up as they waited for him. Enjoy your stay here while it lasts, he continued in a rude voice.

Steve takes a quick look at his name tag. I plan on staying for the full twenty-five missions, Lieutenant Kelsey, Steve answered sternly, seeing a man of twenty-three years looking like a man of forty from the strain of flying combat missions.

Lieutenant Kelsey stormed back at Steve, This is my fourth crew and fourteenth mission. He gets into Steve’s face, ready for a fight. The tension has built up inside of him, knowing as each mission goes by, he is living on borrowed time, for the odd of making twenty-five missions, are slim to none. And now he is putting his life into the hands of a green pilot; he’d rather be placed in the brig.

That’s very good, Lieutenant, your experience will be very valuable to me, as I am your pilot for today’s mission. Steve stands tall, holding his flight bag over his left shoulder and his gear down by his feet. He looks around Lieutenant Kelsey as he looks over the rest of the crew, seeking out Lieutenant Spalding. He reads their name tags above their left shirt pocket.

Lieutenant Spalding. Steve looks at him and not waiting for a response from him, goes on, Why aren’t you in the cockpit going over the start-up procedures and getting the engines warmed up like the rest of the group? He quickly takes the sting away from their wrath as Lieutenant Spalding is left gasping for words. If you needed help to check out the plane, you got the crew chief back there. He points with his thumb over his shoulder. Or even the engineer, Sergeant Lyons. He points over to him like he had always known them. And as for the rest of you, why are the guns still wrapped in their covers?

Steve quickly takes complete control of the situation as the nine crewmembers and the four ground crew mechanics look on in awe. He quietly took over the situation without even the slightest whisper of resentment, and they stood there listening to him, unaware that he had turned their challenge into a friendly examination of themselves.

"Yes, this is my first mission, and I have been assigned as your pilot for today’s mission. In addition, I am going to need all of your help, for no one man is more important than anyone else on this crew. We are a team, from the pilot down to the tail gunner and even to the ground crew. We all work for the same goal—to smash Hitler’s Fortress Europe into oblivion."

Steve lowers his flight bag to the ground and walks over to the bomber placing his left hand on her side. For me, I have five responsibilities, to get her into the air and into formation and stay there in the protective box of the other bombers and get her to the target. In between all of that, I have to make any command decision that might come up and then return us home safely, that is all. You might think I only give orders. He shakes his head as he looks over the crew. Once we’re in the air, until we get into formation, I take my orders from the navigator, who works along with the radio operator to keep us on course. And you gunners are just like the linemen on the football team that forge out a path through the defense so we can get our most important person over the target, the bombardier. He points over to Lieutenant Kelsey, and he sees him being taken back by his comments.

That is our job, and right now we are running late, Steve states, pointing out over the field, seeing the other bombers taxiing out to the runway. Now let’s get going! He turns around, taking a deep sigh. He sees the crew chief grinning as he tips the bill of his baseball cap in a more formal salute. Steve sighs in relief as he walks over to his gear and puts on his bunny suit and Mae West. He tosses the flight bag with the rest of his gear in through the open hatch under the pilot’s compartment. Jumping up, he grabs ahold of the hatch as he swings his legs through the hatch and then pulls himself up through it.

Without looking over to make eye contact with Lieutenant Spalding, Steve sits in the pilot’s seat and starts to read off the checklist out loud to him.

They go through their start-up procedures for each engine while the rest of the crew are busy getting each of their stations and guns ready for combat.

Everything checks out, sir, Lieutenant Spalding replies, looking at Steve.

Thank you! Now let’s get her going. We have a lot of time to make up, Steve remarks. With teamwork, they both pulled on the throttles. Releasing the brakes, the bomber lurches forward and starts to taxi down the tarmac to the empty runway.

Running a half hour late, Steve has his first command decision: to abort and go back to bed or to go on. After his speech to the crew and his remark to the crew chief of never aborting, he has to go through with it. Having just finished classes on flight procedures and knowing that they have till Checkpoint Able to take their slot in the formation, he gets on the interplane mike, pinching the throat mike around his neck.

Pilot to Navigator, Steve says in a very firm voice, not the scared one in him that is dying to come out.

Navigator here.

Set a course between Splasher Six and Checkpoint Able, heading for Checkpoint Able, in catching up to the formation.

Roger.

Sitting at the top of the empty runway, they start to build up engine speed for their takeoff. Releasing the brakes, the plane lurches forward, picking up speed as they start rolling down the runway but seeming to slow as they lift off the ground, having a full load of bombs on her. After a few minutes, the navigator comes back on line, giving Steve a new course to fly. They finally catch up to the 26th Combat Wing of fifty-four bombers, which is made up of eighteen bombers each from the 306th, 317th, and the 382nd Bomb Groups. The 382nd is made up of four squadrons: the 173rd, 174th, 188th, and the 204th, with at least six to nine bombers in each, with a rotation of flying three out of every four missions.

Steve found a new problem, seeing that the 382nd is flying the low group of the wing of eighteen bombers, with the 317th in the high group and the 306th leading the group in the middle. He can see that all the slots are full, even the one spot for Wildfire is taken by a supers.

For each mission, there are three extra bombers called supers that take off with the rest of the group. They fill in any holes in the formation caused by any problems a designated crew might have, in having to abort.

Pilot to Navigator.

Navigator here.

Have we reached Checkpoint Able yet?

No, sir.

Good, we’re going in. Steve, for the first time, looked over to Lieutenant Spalding with a smile. Lieutenant Spalding smiles back as they both reach for the throttle, adding power to the engines, increasing their speed.

Pilot to Radio.

Radio here. Hearing over the headphones of what is going on, he already knew what Steve wanted. I’ll get you in touch with Lucky Duce, the supers that took our spot.

Thank you, Sergeant… Steve looks over at Lieutenant Spalding for help, not knowing the names of the crew.

Sergeant Pierce, Spalding replies.

Steve nods his head in the acknowledgment of Lieutenant Spalding.

Radio to Pilot.

Pilot here.

I’ve got Lucky Duce on the air for you. They don’t seem too happy, sir.

Thank you, Sergeant, Steve replied, looking out his port window. He sees them waving him off. Steve looks over to Spalding. Who is the captain of Lucky Duce?

That would be Captain Stratton, sir.

Thank you. Steve nods his head to Lieutenant Spalding.

Captain Stratton, this is First Lieutenant Larson of Wildfire. You have our spot, and we’re coming in, so you better get your Duce out of there and take the rest of the day off, over! Steve maneuvered Wildfire into a position at the top and off to the right of Lucky Duce.

We are already here, and we are not moving! Captain Stratton replied sternly back.

Lieutenant Spalding looked at Steve, waiting for him to cower under to a higher-ranking officer. He was just waiting for this moment and was just about to say something as Steve turned to him.

If that’s the way he feels about it. Steve looks over to Lieutenant Spalding. Steve pinches his throat mike and replies, smiling confidently at Lieutenant Spalding, Supers don’t get spots until Checkpoint Able, so we’re coming in, taking our rightful spot in the formation. Steve starts to lower Wildfire into position over Lucky Duce.

There she goes, Lieutenant Spalding said, surprised in seeing Lucky Duce dive away to the right. He shakes his head, looking back over at Steve and thinking, Shit, we got ourselves a pilot, and trouble when we get back home.

Steve smiles back as they take the right-wing position of the lead group of the 382nd. He sighs as the start of his first mission sinks in, knowing that the whole wing of the 382nd, as well as all the bases of the 26th Bomb Wing, has seen and heard what he just did. This adds another worry to Steve’s mounting lists of worries, on his first mission, and they had not even left England’s airspace yet. He could not believe the morning he has had already as he looks over at Lieutenant Spalding.

Lieutenant Spalding, Steve Larson. Steve reaches out his hand to him.

Tom, Tom Spalding, Tom replies, taking Steve’s hand firmly and shaking it. You got balls, sir. Captain Stratton is one of the originals.

He’ll get over it. Steve smiles half-heartedly, knowing that his playing hardball and no fear has just gotten bigger. So, Lieutenant, where are we going to this fine morning?

Tom burst out laughing. You got to be kidding me. They didn’t tell you where we are going? You’ll be wishing that you had taken that chance to turn back.

No way, Lieutenant Spalding, we will never turn back! Steve snaps back at him.

Navigator to Pilot, we just passed Checkpoint Able. Mission is official.

Thank you, Lieutenant… Steve replies, looking at Tom for help again.

Second Lieutenant Thorp.

Thorp, Steve finished saying as he looks at his watch reading and writes down in his logbook 0703 hours.

We’re headed for Norway, Tom says with a grin.

Norway! Steve says, surprised.

Yeah, there’s some sub pens at Trondheim they want us to hit.

Trondheim? Isn’t that about a thousand miles away? Steve lifts his head in the air, taking off his earphones. He starts to hear something that does not sound right from one of the engines.

The S-2 [intelligence officer] said it’s about 950 miles one way, and it will be about a fifteen-hour flight, round-trip.

Fifteen hours, nineteen hundred miles, no breakfast, and all I got to eat are three muffins and a thermos of coffee.

Knowing the distance of the target, I packed a good lunch, Tom says.

Do you hear that pitch? Steve said, straining to listen to the noise.

Hear what? Tom started to pay attention to any foreign noise that Steve thought he was listening to. He removes his earphones, remembering the particulars of Wildfire. He starts to look at engine number three and focuses his attention on it. It’s number three again, sir. She’s acting up early today, probably because of the extra strain we put on her in catching up to the wing.

Lieutenant, take the controls for a bit, Steve says as he turns the controls of Wildfire over to Tom. He lies back in his seat and closes his eyes, concentrating on the noise. After a few seconds, with Tom looking at him weirdly, Steve righted himself in his seat and reached for the oil and gas mixture for number three engine. He remembers that when he was racing cars what effects the proper oil and gas mixture can make on the performance of an engine. After making a few adjustments, the engine starts to purr like a cat.

There, that sounds a lot better. He looks over at Tom, who is beside himself.

***

They follow the wing as they head out to the North Sea, taking their time to climb from 2,000 feet to 26,000 feet to make their bombing altitude. Flying out over the North Sea, seeing it covered by endless clouds below and a bright sun over them, the hours dragged on.

Steve kept looking at his watch, feeling hopeless not having control of the flight plan. Just as his crew has to trust in him, he has to trust the lead crews to take them to the target. Landfall finally broke through the clouds, and the coast of Norway lay below. Finally, after about eight hours of agonizing flying, they come upon the target.

Light flak dotted the sky around them as they start their bomb run, shaking them back and forth. Steve’s first impression is, Is this all they have? Seeing only sporadic flak, he thinks, Lucky, there are no hits. Suddenly, Wildfire shook with the concussion of the bursting flak brought him back to reality. A scared feeling grew in him, which he could not let Tom know about if he is to keep up his no-fear contingency. He looks over at Tom to see how he was handling it.

This is nothing. Wait till you’re over the continent. It’s ten times as much. Tom looks back at Steve. It’s sort of a gut-wrenching experience, isn’t it?

Yes, it is. Steve smiles to himself under the oxygen mask.

Bombardier to Pilot, bombs away.

Roger, Steve replied. He checks and logs the time of 1341 hours.

You look disappointed. Tom sees the look on Steve’s face.

Where is the action? Flying this long, I was positive that we would see some German fighters.

Tom started laughing. You will be glad when you get a mission like this one. Even though it is long ride.

Tail to crew, fighters five o’clock high, looks like a Me 410 [Messerschmitt twin-engine German fighter].

Spoke too soon, Steve said. He looks out his window and sees two fighters come abreast in line. He can hear the ratcheting sound of the fifty-caliber machine guns firing at the two fighters. All at once, the firing stops as the fighter’s dive away.

That’s it, Steve says as the butterflies that were building up in him started to release through his body. It is just like those of the first-game jitters of starting the football season at the University of Minnesota.

Enjoy it, Lieutenant, enjoy it. We still have about another seven hours of flying to get back home, Tom says as he digs through the bag of food that he brought with him and hands Steve a stale BLT (bacon, lettuce, and tomato) sandwich.

That’s seven hours too many, Steve says as he removes his Colt 45 and holster from his belt, which has been playing havoc on his ribs. There, that feels much better. He puts the 45 under his seat and then takes the sandwich from Tom.

You’ll learn that that’s the first thing that comes off as we do our preflight check, Tom, said, smiling.

***

Navigator to crew, there’s Scotland on the starboard side.

Steve looks out over the starboard side, having gradually descended to three thousand feet. He could see small fishing boats, along with Navy escorts, heading for ports along the coast. Looking further inland, he could see clouds covering the land and shakes his head.

Typical English weather, Tom remarks. They should have called it Fog Island.

***

Sitting in the pilot’s seat with his hands resting on the controls after they had landed, Steve gazes out the window. What a feeling! He looks over at Tom as they taxi off the runway to their hardstand.

You’re nuts! In time you’ll be glad just to make it back in one piece, Tom says. Steve shakes his head with a smile as they pull into their hardstand to a stop and turns off the switches to the engines.

We’ll see, Lieutenant, we will see. Steve notes the time for his final entry in his logbook: Mission 75 completed, 2114 hours.

Jumping out of the hatch below the cockpit, Steve sees Second Lieutenant Ted Fischer, his college buddy, and greets him with a hearty handshake.

Ted! Steve gushes, it was great. Just wait until you get your chance. The adrenaline rush you feel is the highest high I ever felt. Seeing those fighters come in at you, then gone in a split second, and you’re still there, the heart-pounding flak. Steve replays some of the action he saw to Ted with his hands.

Ted Fischer, from Truckee, California, is the last of five children and the fourth boy. Ted, like Steve, was and still is on training status. He met Steve at the University of Minnesota, where they became good friends. Both played important parts in helping Minnesota win two constitutive national football championships. After graduation in 1942, they both enlisted in the army as officers after going through four years in the ROTC program at Minnesota. After six months of basic training, they were reunited in pilot’s training school in Texas, and by pure luck, they both were assigned to the 382nd.

Tom just looked at Steve, overhearing him, and smiles, shaking his head. You just had it easy this time. They are not all going to be like this one. Tom points to Wildfire. See, there is not even a scratch on her. Just wait till we fly into the teeth of the Luftwaffe over Fortress Europe itself.

Ted looks over at the bomber, seeing that there was not even a scratch on her as the three of them walk over to the jeep.

Are you always this pessimistic, Lieutenant? Steve said looking at Tom, as he jumps in back of the jeep with Ted as they talk more about the mission. Tom, the odd man out drives them to Group Operations, for their mission debriefing.

After debriefing and a quick dinner at the mess hall, Steve headed right for his barracks. After a long day of flying with only about two hours of sleep, he is sore and stiff, and all he wanted to do is sleep. Entering the barracks, he saw that Ted had a surprise party for him with their two respective crews who are still on training status. A youthful atmosphere filled the room, the crews boasting how they are going to kick Hitler’s Luftwaffe all the way back to Berlin. Steve did not reach his cot until well past midnight again. He stretched out just to rest a bit, but fell fast asleep fully clothed.

July 25, 1943

Kiel, Germany

Steve feels a hand pushing him and then a strong voice saying. Wake up, Lieutenant! Sorry to do this to you again, sir, but you’re flying again!

Is that you, Sergeant Ramies? Steve looks up through bleary eyes.

Yes, it is.

What time is it? Steve, covers his face with his pillow.

It’s 0600 hours this time, sir. Sergeant Ramies looks at his watch.

Six? I feel like I could sleep another ten hours. Steve rolls out of bed.

That you might, sir. Instead, you have less than thirty minutes this time before takeoff. Good thing you are still dressed.

Dressed? Steve looks at himself and smiles. Long day.

You’ll get used to it, Sergeant Ramies said.

***

Stepping outside of the hut, Steve sees a light fog has settled on the base. He gets into the jeep with Sergeant Ramies. Stopping by the equipment hut and then out to the hardstand, he notices the fog has getting thicker. They pull up to a stop at Wildfire’s hardstand just as another jeep pulls up alongside with Air Exec Major Clark Galvin.

Lieutenant Larson, he says, looking at him.

Yes, sir!

We are on hold for another half hour. Our new start time is 0800 hours.

Yes, sir, 0800 hours. Steve salutes as Major Galvin drives off to the next hardstand. He picks up his gear as he climbs out of the jeep and heads for Wildfire with a smile. He sees that the crew is ready this time. Lieutenant Spalding has the plane all checked out, engines warmed up, and the rest of the crew are busy working on their guns, getting them ready for action.

Good morning, Lieutenant Larson, Wildfire is all checked out, sir. Sergeant Wilcox steps up to him. We even checked out the mixture valves on number three, and you were right, one of the oil lines was bigger, letting in too much oil, causing it to overfill and leak out, which gave an illusion that there was a major oil leak.

Thank you, Sergeant, Steve replies, seeing that with each passing minute, the fog is getting thicker.

Steve walks around the wing over to the starboard cockpit window and looks up. With his palms down, he waves his hands back and forth at his neck, getting the attention of Lieutenant Spalding to cut the engines.

What is it, Captain? Lieutenant Spalding shouts out the window.

Steve looked at him with a wry smile, knowing that a pilot is sometimes called captain of the crew although he is only a lieutenant. New start time, 0800 hours, Steve said, pointing to his watch.

Roger, Captain. Tom tips his forehead with his fingers.

Steve puts on his bunny suit and his Mae West, then walks under the plane to the open hatch and jumps in. He gets into the pilot’s seat and looks over at Tom. You guys must have it in for me. First a fifteen-hour mission yesterday with no breakfast and now a fog that you can cut with a knife.

That’s England for you. One day it could be great, then for the rest of the week, fog! Tom says, smiling.

***

Sitting at the end of the runway, facing an endless wall of fog, they wait for thirty seconds to take their turn to take off. Steve locks the tail wheel, holding the brakes hard until the engines reach full takeoff power of 2,500 rpms, plus another 250. Taking off in fog, he wants every bit of an advantage as possible in having to do an instrument takeoff.

Sergeant Lyons. Steve tilts his head back to the rear of the cockpit.

Yes, sir, Sergeant Lyons comes forward from his turret position.

I need you to read the air speed to us as we take off.

Yes, sir.

Steve looks at Tom, nodding his head as they release the brakes. Wildfire lurches forward as the four engines grab the air.

Lock throttles! Steve says.

Throttles locked, replied Tom a few seconds later.

Sixty…sixty-five… Sergeant Lyons starts to read their air speed. Seventy…seventy-five…eighty…eight-five…ninety…ninety-five.

Steve gently pulls back on the wheel as Tom lowers the flaps, starting a series of gentle bounces, giving Steve a feeling that will tell him when there is enough lift on the wings to get her into the air.

One hundred…one-oh-five… Steve pulls back on the wheel, and Wildfire lifts off the ground. One-ten…

Wheels up, Steve says as Tom throws the switch, raising the wheels.

One-fifteen…

Wheels up and locked. Tom looks over at Steve as he starts a right-hand turn and climb.

Pilot to Navigator.

Navigator here, Lieutenant Thorp replays.

You got the football. Get us out of this soup.

Roger.

Steve followed the flight plan given to him by Lieutenant Thorp of a specified rate of climb and speed for so many minutes, then a forty-five degree turn, until they finally broke out of the clouds after an hour and a half later. It is the most strenuous flying he has ever done—flying blind with a hundred other aircraft doing the same thing, each in their own square mile of space, and if you miss a course change, you’ll end up in their space or they in yours. This has accounted for nearly half of the lost aircraft so far.

Climbing out of the clouds, the bombers looked like giant moths as they emerge into clear blue skies. Streaks of colored flares line the sky above, each colored flare representing a wing to which group you belong to. One flare forms up into a wing of six planes; another set of flares goes off to form up into a group of eighteen. From there, the 382nd climbs another thousand feet south toward London to rendezvous with the rest of the 26th Bomb Wing. Then they turn back north toward Norwich, gaining another thousand feet as they meet up with two more wings of the 3rd Bomb Division. With ninety-eight bombers in all, they head out over the English Channel to northeast Germany and the U-boat pens in Kiel.

Pilot to crew, we are at ten thousand feet. Put on oxygen masks and check your guns. In putting on the oxygen masks, it relives them of their throat microphones. For inside each mask, there is a built-in mike that stays on all the time.

They fly out over the North Sea at forty degrees, then do a right turn to a heading of ninety degrees over Denmark, where they pick up an escort of British Spitfires. Halfway across the North Sea, the clouds start to break just as twelve enemy fighters get caught by thirty British Spitfires coming out of the clouds. Hearing the gunners detailing the action, Steve could sympathize with them as he smiles to himself in seeing the action. It was like two dancers on a blue-back ground.

Turret to Pilot, Spits leaving, Sergeant Lyons said as he watches them dip their wings, returning home, being low on fuel.

Roger! Okay, crew, don’t get too overzealous, Steve’s voice comes over the intercom. Keep an eye out for more fighters. I’m sure there will be more, he says, readjusting his oxygen mask.

They reach the bombing altitude of twenty-four thousand feet. As they reached landfall at the Kiel peninsula, Steve’s premonition came true. Bullets started ripping through the left wing, stopping just short of the cockpit as twelve Me-109s and FW-190s (Messerschmitt and Focke-Wulf single-engine fighters) came out of the sun.

Where in the hell did they come from? Tom yells out.

Gunners, get back on your toes, and, Turret, keep a look out form the sun, for anymore fighters! Steve fervently says as he looks around hopelessly for he could not do anything except keep Wildfire in the defensive box of the formation.

Right waist, two bombers going down.

Steve hears and feels the rat-tat-tat-tat of her guns, almost sounding like one continues racket. Short burst, short burst, Steve reminds the gunners as he starts to smell cordite and scorching oil from the top turret guns. He readjusts his oxygen mask again as sweat pours through his mask and into his mouth.

Navigator to Pilot, reached IP, new heading one-three-five degrees.

Roger, one-three-five degrees, Steve replies as he turns Wildfire toward the U-boat pens of Kiel.

I got one! I got one! shouts right waist gunner Sergeant Danny Ferrell.

Keep your cool, Sergeant, we’re not out of the woods yet. Steve wipes the sweat from his forehead and his face as he readjusts his oxygen mask again. Although it is minus twenty degrees, it feels like it’s one hundred twenty degrees.

I see you forget to shave this morning, Tom remarks, having seen Steve adjusting his mask countless of times. Oxygen masks are made to fit snugly on the face, and when one forgets to shave, his beard can cause leakage, causing you not to get enough oxygen.

Yeah, if you lived these past forty-eight hours like I have, Steve says as the fighters made another run at them, flying through their own flak.

German gun batteries fill the sky over Kiel with flak, wing-tearing, fuselage-ripping pieces of jagged metal. Flak, exploding shells, in the air make black puffs of smoke, spreading pieces of metal everywhere. If the explosions do not get you, the shock waves will as they travel through your body, pounding at your heart.

Seeing flak this intense for the first time, Steve just shook his head, grimacing as he hears a strange sound. What was that? He looks quickly behind him. All of a sudden, there is a sound like a volcano-type sparkler going off in the bomb bay. He looks up over at Tom and jerks his head toward the bomb bay as he says, You better check it out.

Yes, sir, Tom answers. He removes his headgear, oxygen mask and unplugs his bunny suit as he steps out of his seat.

Fortress hit, portside, going down, no chutes! a cry comes through the intercom.

Fighters twelve o’clock! Reports run rapidly through the intercom.

***

Feeling a hand resting on his right shoulder, Steve looks up and sees Tom quietly sitting back down into his seat. Tom closes his eyes, taking a few seconds to reflect before he picks up and puts on his oxygen mask. He places it over his mouth and takes a couple of long drags of oxygen.

Bombardier to Pilot, starting bomb run, First Lieutenant Robert Kelsey says.

Roger, she is all yours. Steve turns on the autopilot as he looks over at Tom again, who is looking lost. He contemplates what name to use, seeing that Tom is looking lethargic as he wipes his face. Using a stern voice in try to snapping him out of it, he barks out, "Lieutenant! What in the hell happened back there?"

Bombardier to Pilot, doors open.

Roger, Steve replies to Lieutenant Kelsey.

Shaking his head, Tom looks up with a grin, along with a look of total relief, and states, A flak shell went through the bomb bay and knocked one of the fuses off one of the bombs—

"Another one is on fire to the left and