Alex Scarrow - A thousand suns

Damn, we should have won this war on balls alone.

The ginger-haired lad, Stefan, seemed to have a natural ability with the ball. He deftly flicked it up with his toe and kept it in the air alternately with both feet. Both Max and Pieter clapped him on, as they counted each touch.

Good men, both of them, older than most. Max was twenty-nine and Pieter, two or three years younger. They had experience and the calmness that comes with maturity in their favour, important qualities for a pilot and co-pilot. Both of them had already taken turns flying the bomber at dawn and dusk, and both had adapted efficiently to the abnormal size and handling of the plane.

Rall watched Max receive the ball, trap it and lob it to Hans.

Oberleutnant Kleinmann was an interesting parcel to unwrap. The personal records of the crew had been forwarded to Rall many months previously, when the project was in its infancy. Back then Rall had asked for the service records of the best, longest-serving bomber crews in the Luftwaffe. There had only been half a dozen sets of records forwarded to him, and by the time Rall had been able to start pulling in men for the operation, four of these crews had already been either captured or killed. Max’s crew had a longer and far more impressive service history than the other remaining crew and so, by process of elimination, they were chosen. Max, being their pilot, was of course the most important part of the equation. Rall had been instructed to vigorously examine the records for the crew that were to deliver the bomb. The weapon, he had been told, represented a significant technological advance and could not be allowed to slip, intact, into the hands of the enemy. Thus there had to be no doubts about the crew and their loyalty. Their motivation had to be beyond question. It was for that reason alone that Rall had advised his superiors that the crew be offered the opportunity to volunteer for the mission rather than be ordered to carry it out. Max remained a small concern for Rall. The man had one black mark on his records. He had apparently questioned an order to release bombs on a retreating column of Russian soldiers. The column had contained civilians. His bomb load was eventually dropped but had missed the column. No disciplinary action was taken, but the incident remained an indelible mark on an otherwise exemplary record. Rall knew that Kleinmann was now prepared to drop this bomb on American civilians. He knew it hadn’t been an easy decision for the pilot, but the rationale was there, and Max had acknowledged it made sense if this was to end the war. However, what caused Rall some degree of concern was that Kleinmann wasn’t an automaton, he was a thinker, as demonstrated by this incident on record, someone prepared to think beyond the order. An admirable trait in anyone other than a soldier.

What else worries me about Max?

He was not a Nazi. It would have made things a lot simpler for Rall if he had been. The issues of motivation and loyalty could be taken as a given. He would carry out the mission unquestioningly for his Fuhrer and the party; but Max had to be handled a little more carefully and his motives analysed more closely.

Rall had decided not to pass these niggling concerns up the chain of command. There was now no more time left to mess around finding another crew. Max had fought dutifully for the Luftwaffe for the last five years, whatever his reasons — loyalty to the Fuhrer, the Nazi party or simple patriotism — and he had volunteered willingly. There was no need, or time, to doubt him now.

Max kicked the ball back to Stef and looked at his watch. It was half past five. The sky was overcast, and the pallid grey light had begun to make it difficult to see the football. It was time again. He looked towards the bunker and spotted Rall standing near the entrance. He pointed to the sky and Rall gave him a thumbs-up.

The old boy’s got sharp eyes.

‘Okay, lads, playtime’s over. Time for another spin.’

The men headed back inside the hangar towards the B-17. Max ducked underneath the fuselage, hoisted himself up through the belly hatch into the bombardier’s compartment and then climbed the ladder up into the cockpit. Pieter followed behind him, squeezing his stocky body awkwardly through.

‘Max, am I flying this thing tonight?’

Pieter was desperate to get as many hours as possible on the bomber before the mission date. Both men had discussed the flight schedule of the mission and Max would be flying the plane through the most hazardous portion of the journey, across southern Germany and France. Once they were across the French coast and over the Atlantic, Pieter would take over and allow Max some rest.

Pieter needed more time at the controls.

‘Think you can handle take-off?’

He grinned. ‘Of course.’

‘Well, make sure it’s a tidy one, the Major’s got his eye on us.’

The pair of them slipped on their thick sheepskin flight jackets and flying caps and sat in their seats. Max lifted the oxygen mask to his face and spoke into the interphone. ‘Hans, Stef? Are you boys dressed and ready?’

‘Yeah,’ said Stefan.

‘Waist-gun port and starboard check, ready to go,’ answered Hans.

Max fired up the engines and gunned the throttle several times. He turned to Pieter. ‘Okay, let’s run through this in order. Set the aileron, elevators and rudder trim tab controls to zero.’

Pieter found the tab controls easily and reset them. ‘Aileron, elevators, rudder to zero.’

‘Okay, test the wing flaps.’

Pieter tested both sides full up and full down. ‘Check.’

‘Okay, Pieter, next?’

‘Test the propeller pitch, test the super-chargers?’

Max nodded. ‘Yes.’

The engines roared momentarily. ‘Check.’

‘Okay. You can take her out and taxi to the end of the strip.’

Pieter signalled to one of the ground crew and the chocks were pulled away from the wheels. The B-17 eased forward and rolled out of the hangar, across the grass and up onto the tarmac of the strip at a sedate pace.

‘A little, faster, Pieter. The less time we’re down here on the ground the better.’

He nodded, eyes locked firmly on the ground passing them by outside. He opened the throttles slightly and the bomber lurched as she picked up some speed. As the end of the strip approached Pieter eased back and swung the plane round.

Max patted his shoulder. ‘Looking good. Now remember, a hundred miles per hour and we’re off the tarmac, ease her away but get the speed up there as quickly as possible, all right?’

Pieter nodded and licked his lips.

‘Relax. Now remember what do you need to do next?’

Pieter closed his eyes, recalling the take-off procedure they’d read from the translated USAAF training manual.

‘Tail wheel lock to ON.’ He fumbled for the switch and found it.

Max smiled reassuringly at him. ‘Go on, Pieter… she’s all yours.’

Pieter tentatively eased his foot off the brake and adjusted the manifold pressure. With a face locked with concentration he began to open the throttle. The four Wright Cyclone engines roared angrily and the bomber shuddered forward along the strip. Pieter kept one eye on the cockpit window, watching the concrete race past to ensure they were steering a straight line down the strip and not drifting to one side or the other, and one eye on the speed indicator. As the bomber approached a hundred miles per hour they felt the force of lift pulling the bomber up, and Pieter began to ease up on the control column.

‘That’s good, Pieter.’

The tyres swiftly cleared the ground, and the plane pulled up quickly to an altitude of several hundred feet in only a few seconds. Pieter retracted the landing gear and, a minute later, at an altitude of 700 feet and an IAS of 150 mph he eased the throttle back to 2300 rpm by adjusting the propeller pitch controls.