Above and Beyond: radio silence

By William A. Wright and Dale Ann Edmiston

Above and Beyond: radio silence is a historical fiction account of an airman's World War II

experience. While much focus is given to Generals and those who rise to glory in fierce battles, this

story focuses on a select group of airmen. Those who flew in unarmored, unarmed aircraft behind

enemy lines, over battles--to

• Language: English
• Publisher: Brave Knight Writers
• Release date: Apr 6, 2023
• ISBN: 9798987731918

Book preview

Preface

Before we begin, I must make a couple of qualifying statements about the accuracy of anecdotes that I share throughout these pages, which I credit to my father. One, they were told to me once or twice over my lifetime, so my memory is a factor, and two, my father didn’t talk about the war much until he reached old age, which is when he went to squadron reunions, and I’m sure he spoke more at these reunions than he did around home. Returning from one reunion, he confided in me that everyone told stories, some of which he thought were his but other men from the squadron laid claim to them. He also wondered if he wasn’t guilty of doing the same with others’ stories. He said it no longer mattered; they were entertaining, and no one argued or questioned anyone’s claim. As you read this remembrance, take heart, someone lived the anecdote. This is the spirit and the important part.

In Europe, changes had been occurring throughout the 1930s, with many in America debating their meaning and significance. By 1940 a clear picture emerged as Hitler sped up his plans. The invasion of Oslo, Norway, brought to light a new and extremely dangerous group of elite fighters: airborne warriors who could drop from the skies anywhere anytime and kill with a vengeance.

When the Norwegians sunk the German heavy cruiser Blücher to put a cold stop on a naval invasion, Hitler’s henchmen came by air. On April 9, 1940, Hitler dropped his elite airborne to secure the Oslo Airport. With the airport under German control, reinforcements flew in, and the Norwegian resistance went underground. A new era of warfare was established, and the British took notice.

In January 1941 Adolf Hitler gave a speech at the Berlin Sports Palace. Here are two excerpts from his speech to the German people:

The German nation had hoped to gain, in turn, the goodwill of others, but it met only the naked egotism of the cruelest and meanest vested interests, which began to loot everything there was to loot. One should not have expected anything else. But now the die was cast. One thing seemed obvious to me: any rise could not originate from outside. First, the German nation had to learn to understand its own political struggle, which enabled it to rally Germany’s entire strength above all its idealistic strength. And this idealistic strength was at the time only to be found in two camps: in the Socialist and in the Nationalist camps. But these were the camps between which there was the most mortal feud and strife. These two camps had to be fused into a new unit...

When we came to power in 1933, our road was clearly mapped out. It had been defined in a struggle of 15 years, which in a thousand demonstrations had put us under an obligation to the German people. And I would be dishonorable and deserve to be stoned if I had deviated but one step from this program, or if I were to do so now. The social part of this program meant unifying the German people, overcoming all class and race prejudices, educating the German for the community, and, if necessary, breaking any opposition to this unity. Economically, it meant building a National German economy which appreciated the importance of private initiative but subordinated the entire economic life to the common interest. Believe me, here, too, no other aim is thinkable. In times in which the sons are arrayed for defense in battle, and where no difference can be made between those who represent much, and those who represent little, economic advantages or privileged positions to the disadvantage of the total community cannot be maintained. As anywhere, I proceeded here by teaching, educating and slow adaptation, for it was my pride to carry out this revolution without one single windowpane being broken in Germany. A revolution which led to the greatest changes ever achieved on earth, but which destroyed nothing, only slowly reorganized everything, until at last the entire great community had found its new road, that was my goal.[1]

One thing I am sure of, on Christmas Day in 1941 everyone in uniform huddled around a squelchy radio to listen to FDR’s speech. These words inspired all:

"We are confident in our devotion to country, in our love of freedom, in our inheritance of courage. But our strength, as the strength of all men everywhere, is of greater avail as God upholds us.

"Therefore, I... do hereby appoint the first day of the year 1942 as a day of prayer, of asking forgiveness for our shortcomings of the past, of consecration to the tasks of the present, of asking God’s help in days to come.

We need His guidance that this people may be humble in spirit but strong in the conviction of the right; steadfast to endure sacrifice, and brave to achieve a victory of liberty and peace.

Our strongest weapon in this war is that conviction of the dignity and brotherhood of man which Christmas Day signifies—more than any other day or any other symbol.

Against enemies who preach the principles of hate and practice them, we set our faith in human love and in God’s care for us and all men everywhere.[2]

As history unfolded, so did the truth as well as Hitler’s lies. While some may think of war as a horrid interruption of life, note these words by C.S. Lewis: We must stop regarding unpleasant or unexpected things as interruptions of real life. The truth is that interruptions are real life. Kernels of knowledge exist in a vast empty void known as ignorance; such dispersion of powerful thoughts still connects people to each other, but no one person can grasp all knowledge.

When a society turns over its decision-making authority to someone who believes in central control, things go awry. Each person knows best his or her own wants and needs. Freedom drives markets, and markets adjust to needs when left alone. Who makes the best decisions regarding the individual? The fate of the world fell into the hands of one man making choices for an entire culture, and everyone suffered the consequences.

In ancient Greece, Plato writes of a discussion between Glaucon and Socrates about soldiers and war:

But can’t the citizens fight for themselves?

Not if the principle, on which we all, yourself included, agreed when we started constructing our state, is sound. And that was, if you remember, that one man could not do more than one job or profession well.

Yes, that is true.

Well, soldiering is a profession, is it not?

Very much so.

And is it of any less consequence to us than shoemaking?

Certainly not.

Well, we forbade our shoemaker to try his hand at farming or weaving or building and told him to stick to his last, in order that our shoemaking should be well done.[3]

In struggles for power, two sides make their case.  Their rhetoric inspires many young men to become soldiers: caught in the middle.

Chapter 1

What does it mean to be alive, a spirit trapped in the flow of time? There has been a lot of death of late, I can attest to it. So many souls cast out of the flow of time and left along the shores. Is this my fate? Am I also dead? I can’t be sure. There are distant voices and the sounds of clanging and clatter. If this is dead, nothing is clear or understood. I thought there would be a glorious light, an awakening.

One thing I know, I’m not supposed to take up space. Yes, this is a place for the wounded, and I am not wounded or dead. With a great gasp of air I sit up, soaked in sweat. Nothing makes sense except to flee this place. Jumping from the bed, I bump into something, and things crash to the ground. It’s a woman carrying a tray, with her hands now free. She grabs me, but she’s no match. She screams for help, and two men in khaki clothes grab my arms, but even they are no match. Others, I don’t know how many, rush into the room to knock me back onto the bed. Restrained, I can only flail and shout.

Let me go. This bed is for the wounded. I’m not wounded. Let me go!

The woman jabs something into my arm, and I fade back to where muffled voices make no sense.

What’s going on, soldier? I remember the doctor’s voice from when I first arrived, but my lips only tremble and nothing forms as a reply.

He was calling out to his mother, the woman answers for me.

The doctor looks at the tattoo on my arm. Roses on a trellis along with the words, In Memory of Mother. The doctor shakes his head, says nothing.

Mother, yes... she was here. I saw her. Didn’t any of you see her? I try to ask, but no words form.

When unconscious, seconds can cover years, and I’ve traveled back in time. I just turned sixteen. Mother had been sick for a while, but no one explained any of it to me. My father didn’t have conversations with children. Men of his era were strong, silent, and stoic. As an amateur bare-knuckle boxer, he captured championships. He supported the family’s finances by repairing boilers on locomotives. The Great Depression had left many without work, but he never missed a day.

My eight-year-old red-haired brother sat beside me outside Mother’s room as Father spoke with the doctor in whispers. In those days, the doctors came to the patient’s home. Doc put his hand on Father’s shoulder, and I heard a burst of cries from my two older sisters while my big brother stood motionless and stoic. The red-haired boy we all call Baby looked up at me. He probably thought I knew what is going on, but I sat in a trance as the older girls rushed to Baby and bathed him in tears, bumping me aside. Father entered Mother’s room as the doctor retreated down the stairs. Nothing would ever be the same.

When death strikes, it sucks away all the air for miles around. Those left to grieve struggle to find their next breath. Even drinking water causes a drowning reflex, and food becomes a sacrilege. Time, like a runaway train, stops for no one. Loved ones want it to stop, to jump off and stay with the one who fell out of time. Every living creature is a time traveler, and when time stops for any living being, it screeches to a halt while everyone else clammers on.

Loved ones don’t want to go on, but do. They take another breath, then another; there is no say in it. We are all destined to travel through some portion of time for some unknown reason. When our loved ones leave this world, pieces of ourselves rip away, and holes form in our souls, never to be filled by anyone or anything. Real hunger is craving conversations with a deceased loved one.

Mother was the keeper of her family’s history; she often told the children stories about the Delancey clan and knew things clear back to the revolution when her great-great-grandfather served as an aide to Lafayette. On our father’s side of the family, there was little said. Even though the valley through which Sandy Creek flows has the Isherwood, Delancey, and Wright families, among others, I knew little of the Wrights.

There were some stories about the feud when people shot across the valley at each other. Mother remembered back when the mines operated and a trolly train ran on the old trestle crossing our valley and the great-uncle who died during the Civil War at Andersonville prison along with thirteen thousand fellow prisoners. Most died of scurvy or dysentery. And then there was the mine superintendent who died crushed between railroad cars under suspicious circumstances. One must ask how a superintendent got between two uncoupled railcars, became crushed, and no one witnessed it. Mother thought it sad when children cared little about past generations. She said a successful family appreciates the sacrifices of the generations before them. Father knew world history and current events; he would receive male visitors and they would talk about politics and such.

On the hill across the valley from our house, a mine fire breached the surface of a hillside. We kids often took sport from standing on the edge of the abyss looking down into the hot coals, dropping rocks, and sometimes bugs. It must be what hell is like. It sure smelled like rotten eggs. We kids decided none of us wanted to spend eternity sniffing rotten eggs. It had more influence on us than any church sermon.

I remember a day long before Mother got sick, when Father put me at the wheel of his Model T pickup while he unloaded gravel from the bed on our long-sloped driveway. A simple job, to keep my foot on the brake. It doesn’t take ten-year-old legs long to grow weak, nor his attention span to grow short. The old pickup drifted backward, and Father threw his shovel, ran alongside, and wrenched the steering wheel of the runaway truck to glide it into the dirt bank. His actions of muscling the truck into the bank along the driveway impressed me. But with a powerful hand, he grabbed the back of my shirt and ripped me from the truck. Not a word was