Greg Iles - Black Cross

McConnell studied the olive-skinned face and bleary eyes. Randazzo had been drinking. Probably for several days. “Maybe you should just tell me what happened, Captain.”

The young officer looked out of the window at the dark skyline of Oxford. Only black spires broke the indigo screen of sky and stars. “Yeah,” he said. “That’s what I came for.”

McConnell waited.

“The raid went okay. Made the Initial Point with only two losses in the squadron. We dropped all ten bombs within a thousand feet of the Mean Dropping Point. We creamed ’em. Won’t be no fighters rolling out of Regensburg for a while.”

“The problem came after?” McConnell prompted.

“Fuckin ’ay right. After we left the Rally Point. The return leg. A real problem.”

“What happened?”

“About five flak shells, that’s what. They happened to blow about ten holes in Shady Lady . The Germans had us conned before we ever passed over. Add in about twenty ME-109s attacking wingtip to wingtip.”

Randazzo licked his lips and stared out of the window. “Looks like some kind of castle out there, huh? Like an Errol Flynn movie or something.”

McConnell waited, but the captain said nothing further. “What do you remember about David, Captain, after the flak hit the plane?”

“Those fuckin’ bastards!” Randazzo screamed suddenly. “Goddamn murderers!”

McConnell rocked back on his feet. Spittle flew from Randazzo’s mouth as he tried to get to his feet using one crutch. Mark hurried over and gently pushed him back down onto the chair. “Take it easy, Captain. You said you were hit by flak. What happened then?”

“Flak,” Randazzo said in a remote voice. “Yeah. After five or six hits, Shady Lady was buckin’ like a Jersey hooker. Guys were screamin’ in back. Joey, our ball turret gunner, was dead already. I told Dave it was time to bail out, but he wanted to try to nurse her back to England. We were somewhere near Lille. That’s in France. After the Messerschmitts made their pass, I knew the Lady wasn’t ever gonna see England again. The engines were on fire and she was dropping like a brick off the Empire State Building.”

McConnell felt his mouth going dry. He actually heard the scrape as Randazzo drew a hand across his heavy black cheek stubble.

“I screamed at Dave to hit the silk, but he says we gotta wait ’til the crew gets out. I tell him I think the crew’s dead. He tells me go check. Pilots sit way up high in a Fortress, you know. So I go back. Radio man, waist gunners — dead. I hump down the chute. Bombardier and navigator cut to shreds. Nobody on the interphone. It was time to bug out. Shady Lady was shaking herself to pieces. Dave held her steady while I jumped. He jumped a few seconds later.”

Randazzo cleared his throat and took a deep, shuddering breath. “Dave had got us away from the flak batteries, thank God, or they’d have shot us while we fell. We landed about a quarter mile apart. I stayed put. My leg was broken. I didn’t know that then, but I knew it hurt like a son of a bitch. Dave got unharnessed and started working his way toward me.”

“Were you in a forest? Fields? What?”

“I was at the edge of a tree line, in a big bunch of bushes.” Randazzo looked at the floor. “But Dave was exposed for the whole walk. Open field.”

McConnell looked at the floor.

Randazzo’s voice was barely a whisper. “We didn’t know it, but we’d landed fairly close to a village. An SS unit saw us coming down. They sent out a patrol to follow the chutes. A Kubelwagen — that’s a German jeep — came over the top of a little rise while Dave was still walking. He dropped to the ground when he heard the motor, but they’d seen him. Drove straight to him.”

Randazzo scratched violently in his hair. “They started interrogating him on the spot. There was a lieutenant there, and four other guys. All SS. One sergeant, I think. They were asking Dave where I was. He wouldn’t tell ’em. Name, rank, and serial number, just like in the movies. John fucking Wayne.” Randazzo buried his face in his hands, sobbed once, then fell silent.

Mark struggled to find his own voice. “Then what happened, Captain?”

“Well . . . three of the SS guys stood Dave up in front of the lieutenant. Lieutenant pulls out his SS dagger. Ever seen one? Like some kind of miniature sword. This Kraut holds the dagger up to Dave’s chest and starts asking questions.”

“In German or English?” McConnell asked, not knowing why except that David understood no German.

Randazzo looked temporarily at a loss. “German,” he said finally. “Yeah. Didn’t matter, though, ’cause Dave wasn’t having any. After about the third question, the lieutenant slaps him. Hard. Right then, Dave spits in the guy’s face.”

Mark closed his eyes.

“The Kraut lieutenant stabbed him. The guy just exploded, went crazy.”

“No.”

Randazzo’s face worked strangely as he spoke. “The other guys let go of Dave. He fell. He laid there on the ground a minute, then rolled over onto his back. Then they . . . uh—”

Mark held up his hand. “Don’t tell me the rest, Captain. I don’t think I want to know.”

“I gotta tell you,” said Randazzo. “It was my fucking fault !”

McConnell realized then that the young copilot was wounded far more extensively than in the leg. “All right,” he said softly. “What happened?”

“I never seen nothin’ like it. Dave was still alive, but they started puttin’ dirt in his mouth. Dirt . Then the sergeant finds a stick and starts shoving the dirt down Dave’s throat.” Randazzo was crying now. Mark couldn’t stop himself either. “He died like that, Doc. Those Kraut lowlifes choked him with dirt, and . . . and I just laid there and watched it happen!”

McConnell could scarcely move. He forced himself to reach out and squeeze Randazzo’s shoulder. “There was nothing you could have done, Captain. Not without sacrificing your own life.”

The Italian looked up with tear-filled eyes. “Dave would have done something.”

McConnell wanted to deny this, but he knew it was true.

“That redneck son of a bitch would have come screamin’ out of those bushes like a whole goddamn division, armed or not.” Randazzo was sobbing and laughing at the same time. “Not the Wop though.” He shook his head pathetically. “I just laid there like a goddamn yellow coward and pissed my pants.”

McConnell waited until the man had regained his composure. “Captain?”

“Goddamn it—”

“Captain, I’d like to know the rest. How did you get out?”

“Well . . . the SS kind of seemed to lose interest after Dave was dead. They poked around the field awhile, but by the time they got to the woods it was getting dark and I’d been crawling for all I was worth. I was damn lucky. The next morning some Resistance guys from the village walked right over me. They were half crazy, arguing all the time like a bunch of senators, but they got me to some people who’d taken flyers out before.” Randazzo shook his head. “So here I am. And Dave is still back there in France. I don’t know, Doc. HQ doesn’t like these kinds of stories to get out, but . . . I just had to make sure you knew the truth. Your brother was the bravest son of a bitch I ever met. He was a goddamn hero.”

“You’re probably right, Captain,” McConnell said, absurdly trying to maintain some semblance of professional distance. “But you’re no coward.” He let his gaze wander to the window. “What will you do now?”

Randazzo leaned over and picked up his crutches, then struggled to his feet. “If this leg heals up right, I’m goin’ straight back to the flight line.”