James Benn - Death

The hatch closed behind me, the metal clang echoing inside the fuselage. The Halifax, converted from bombing to ferrying men and supplies, wasn’t built for comfort. Kaz, Hamilton, and I sat crowded on a narrow bench, surrounded by wooden crates and canvas bags. The aircraft lurched forward and picked up speed, the four engines snarling as they carried the plane out over the water, climbing until Brindisi was nothing but a smear on the horizon. As we headed north, I thought of Diana waiting for release in Rome. I trusted the truth of my dream more than I trusted what I’d been told by Croft and Hamilton. Not that I thought they were lying to me, only that the chances were good they’d been lied to. The OSS had already hidden their involvement from General Eisenhower himself; what else had been hidden from their own junior officers? If Colonel Harding didn’t know the whole story, what had Captain Croft missed?

Diana was alive, I was certain of it. I couldn’t say why-other than because of the dream-but I was. Clandestine organizations like SOE and OSS played fast and loose with the truth-of that I was dead certain. What was waiting for us at the Vatican? Of that I was less sure. A helluva lot less.

“After we land, I’ll brief you on the route in,” Hamilton said, his voice raised against the engine noise and the wind beating against the bomber. “We set sail as soon as it’s dark.”

“I do not like boats,” Kaz said, as he peered out the small Perspex window. “Look, that must be our escort. Four-no, six fighters.” He pointed to small dots in the distance, descending from high cloud cover.

“I thought Croft said two Spitfires,” I said.

“Goddamn!” Hamilton said. “Those aren’t Spitfires.” Faster than I thought possible, the fighters were on us, machine guns chattering, tracers white-hot against the blue sky. The Halifax picked up speed, but outrunning Me-109s in a lumbering bomber wasn’t in the cards. Rounds hit the wing and the top of the fuselage, shredding the metal and sounding like a thousand stones blasting a tin roof. The Halifax’s machine guns answered, their fire trailing the German planes as they split into two groups. One probably going after the escort, the other coming in for the kill.

We didn’t stand a chance. A single bomber, no matter how many machine guns it has, is no match for fighters. Bombers were meant to fly in defensive boxes, covering each other with their guns. Alone, the fighters would swoop down on us, like a cat batting at a cornered mouse.

“Hang on,” Hamilton said, as the aircraft banked left and began a slow dive, the pilot using gravity to increase our speed. Not a bad idea, until the ground got in the way. I hung on, as Kaz kept his nose pressed to the window, watching the show. Hell, why not? It might be the last one we ever saw.

Two Me-109s came at us from the port side. Their noses were painted bright yellow, the rest of the sleek, deadly plane in dappled camouflage. They were overhead in a second, the noise of machine guns, cannons, and throaty engines incredibly loud. I thought they missed us until I saw one of our engines spew black smoke. In a flash, another fighter was coming in, but this one was a Spitfire, the distinctive spade-shaped wings instantly recognizable, and welcome. But he wasn’t coming to the rescue. He twisted and turned, then dove, trying to shake off two Me-109s on his tail.

The Halifax was vibrating now, the damage we’d taken slowing it, making us even more vulnerable. All of the bomber’s gunners opened up, meaning we were being hit from every direction. Tracer rounds stitched through the plane, leaving blackened and smoking holes of jagged metal. I looked at Kaz and Hamilton, all of us wide-eyed at not being hit.

The firing died down, but I knew it would only last a moment while the fighters gained altitude for another run at us. It might be the last.

“There!” Hamilton shouted. “He’s going for that cloud bank.”

Ahead of us, a wall of dark cloud rose in the distance. Safety. The Halifax strained in an even steeper dive, as fighters swarmed around us. I saw the two Spitfires, still aloft, circling higher in a tight weave, pulling the Me-109s away from us.

“Look!” Kaz said, pointing to a trail of black smoke heading for the sea. One Kraut fighter down.

“That got their blood up,” Hamilton said. “They’re going after the Spitfires.”

The sound of firing faded as the bomber descended and the fighters drew away. We were almost to the cloud as the pilot feathered the stricken engine. The propeller stopped as part of the cowling flew off and a last burst of thick, black, oily smoke billowed from the engine, turning the wing black before the cloud swallowed us in protective, gray nothingness.

Compared to the noises of the fight, it was silent. Only the remaining three engines and the sound of hearts pounding against terrified chests competed with the hydraulic whirr of turrets as the gunners remained alert, knowing the clouds could disappear at any moment. We listened for the snarl of engines, straining to pick out the sound of approaching fighters. Minutes passed and the cloud cover held. I felt myself relax, and saw Hamilton puff out his cheeks, exhaling a breath of relief.

“I’ve decided I do not like airplanes either,” Kaz said, crossing his legs as if he were in a London parlor. Hamilton and I looked at each other for a long second, then burst out laughing. Laughter that comes from cheating death, the relief of feeling life for another hour, appreciating the sensations of the body as the reaper retreats, vanquished. The giddiness of war.

“Both Spitfires went down,” Hamilton said. “One pilot bailed out. The other didn’t make it.” He lit a cigarette and blew out a long plume of smoke, keeping his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Damn shame.”

We were in the RAF mess hall in Termoli, waiting for a truck to take us to the boat. Our pilot and crewmen sat at a table opposite us, nursing mugs of tea and pointedly ignoring us, as if we were to blame for running into a Luftwaffe fighter sweep. Maybe they had a point. At the next table, half a dozen Italian laborers sat smoking, their old army uniforms grimy and stained.

“If enemy agents were observing the Lysander flights,” I said, “wouldn’t they report a Halifax taking off as well?”

“They might,” Hamilton said. “That’s why we had an escort. We weren’t even crossing the front line, so it seemed unlikely they’d find us before we got to Termoli.”

“Who knew about the flight?” Kaz asked, glancing at the Italians.

“Me, Croft, the aircrew, and my first mate. Likely others at the Brindisi RAF base, not to mention OSS headquarters in Caserta,” Hamilton said. “It wasn’t out of the ordinary. We fly back and forth all the time.”

“Getting jumped by six Me-109s is damn well out of the ordinary,” I said. “That Spitfire pilot getting killed was out of the ordinary.”

“No, it wasn’t, Lieutenant Boyle. You know that. Yeah, maybe someone blabbed, or maybe the Luftwaffe wanted to show us they still can pack a punch. It’s war. People die.” I couldn’t argue with that.

“He’s right, Billy,” Kaz said. “We can’t change what happened. But we need to be sure that not too many people know about the rest of our route.” He eyed Hamilton, then turned his attention to his tea.

“Okay, okay,” Hamilton said. “We have to set sail tonight, and make our rendezvous in Pescara, there’s no getting around that.”

“Why?” I asked.

“Tides and minefields. The tides have to be just right to navigate around the minefields. I have two of my men ashore with a radio. They’ll contact us if anything looks suspicious.”

“Do you trust them?” Kaz asked.