Precious Cargo, Version II
Since I received good feedback during the last writing contest, I decided to go back and revamp my entry. Had there been no constraints in terms of words, this is probably what it would have looked like. I hope you all enjoy.
Precious Cargo
“‘Oy, Yank! Wake up!”
I woke up with a start by the British airman next to me. It was Commander Blake, the self-proclaimed Godfather of the Skies.
“Fallin’ asleep again?” Blake asked. “You need to stay awake, lad, at least until we’ve reached the coast.”
“Sorry ‘bout that,” I replied, rubbing my eyes with a gloved hand. “I haven’t exactly been able to get much sleep as of late.”
Blake put a hand on my shoulder. “I know how ya feel, lad. The war hasn’t been kind to anyone. Don’t worry about it too much. You’ll have plenty of time to sleep after we get back to England.” Rising to his feet, he headed back in the direction of the B-17’s cockpit. He was tough, no questions asked, both mentally and physically. This was a miracle, considering he was a few years shy of 50. We all knew he was involved in the trench warfare of the First World War, which pretty much explained where and how he got his rugged attitude. We didn’t complain, though. If there was one person we could depend on to lead us to success, it was him. He served as navigator, and for good reason; he knew his way from England to Germany and back like the back of his hand, or so he claimed.
The sound of the propellers was now keeping me wide awake. There wasn’t much of a view outside the nearest window besides the sky and dark clouds. The sun was setting in the west, giving off bright orange rays. The waters of the English Channel were below us.
My friends back home call me Jake. The British Army calls me Private Jake Hunter. But everyone around here calls me Yank. Just because I was the only American soldier in a British unit doesn’t mean I had to be called a stereotypical name, does it? Deep down I wished it would end, but I guess it couldn’t be helped. Within a few days of me joining the group, the nickname stuck.
The mission our B-17 was involved in seemed ordinary enough, but in reality it was far more than that. We were on a special mission of dire importance for British Intelligence. In June of 1944, the Germans had started to use a new type of weapon against England - something the Brits were calling the Doodlebug. From what we learned, it was a flying bomb powered by a pulse engine, which made a noise that could be instantly recognized. It was due to the noise it made that it also became known as the Buzz Bomb. Radar could detect them, but it wasn’t enough. This was because these self-propelled weapons could strike without warning, not to mention they could outpace the aircraft the Allies had at their disposal. The only thing we had going for us before this mission was that several catapult-like ramps were positioned on the north coast of Nazi-occupied France. However, no one knew where exactly each was pointed.
That’s when we were called upon.
The division I was a part of was what one might say a reconnaissance unit. If we were lucky, we would be able to fly over enemy installations and photograph them without them ever knowing we were there. When I wasn’t acting as bombardier, I’d be charged with this task. I guess my parents knew what they were doing when they kept encouraging me to take up photography.
Such was a day in the life of Mr. Yank.
The camera at our disposal was unusual, to say the least. It looked like a black box with a lens on the front - or bottom, since that’s the direction it was in most of the time. Then again, there was a good reason why it was so unusual - it was one of only a few remaining models in existence. The film was hard to come by, naturally. This sad excuse for a box wasn’t the most advanced or prettiest pieces of equipment, but it was reliable enough for the job. In fact, it could take some of the best black and white photographs one could ever imagine.
We had finished taking photographs of these launch ramps and were heading home. We hoped that British Intelligence could use them to determine the angles and directions of each launcher, giving them the path of travel for incoming bombs. That way, they’d know where to set up defenses against them. We knew for a fact that many were aimed at London, itself, and dozens of these flying bombs had hit already. The sooner we could get these photos to them, the better off they’d be.
“That’s it…easy does it…”
I could hear these words coming from McCarthy, our pilot. From what I read about him before joining up with the bomber division, he was a veteran in his own right. Several of the other airmen enjoyed joking around with him, claiming that he was alive “when the Yanks were fighting for their independence.”
Currently he was guiding Alex, the new recruit and a Private about the same age as me, through the flight controls. From what I could understand, he had only been behind the controls of a B-17 once before, and that was during a very basic exercise. The rest of the bomber crew had hoped that we could wait until he was truly prepared for a mission as important as this. Unfortunately, McCarthy’s copilot had come down with a bad case of pneumonia the day before the assignment, and Alex was the only one available to take his place at such short notice. We were hesitant at first, but in the end things turned out alright. In fact, it was thanks to his partial control of the plane that I was able to take clear and precise photographs of our objectives.
“‘Oy Yank, want a smoke?” I turned to see Sykes, a smoking cigarette between his teeth. He was our gunner in the B-17’s upper gun turret. Other crewmen thought that this was perfect, since the turret could easily swivel around to track and shoot down passing enemy aircraft. Sykes, however, believed that all it did was leave him exposed. He was a joker at times, but when the time came for action, he was all serious business. This was especially true since he was the plane’s flight engineer. He was holding out a second cigarette, apparently for me.
“You know I don’t do that sort of thing,” I replied.
“Come on,” he went, grinning from ear to ear, “what’s the matter with having a couple now and then?”
“Asks the Brit who goes through a pack of smokes a day,” I remarked. Sykes just laughed, contrails of smoke filling the air in front of his face.
“Since he doesn’t want it, I’ll take it!” Sykes tossed the cigarette and his lighter to the Brit who had jumped into the conversation. Gaffney was his name. He was the radioman, or ‘Communications Officer,’ as he wanted us all to call him in terms of position. Most of the time he was nothing but a big loudmouth, something that was frowned upon in our unit. However, such a bad trait actually worked in his favor, since he made sure that those listening on the other end of his radio got every single message loud and clear.
The rest of the crew was just as important, or so I would come to believe. Jackson was almost like Sykes’s twin brother; one, he was in charge of the ball turret underneath the rest of us; two, he had a similar attitude and mindset as Sykes. Richardson and Simmons, well…I didn’t know too much about them personally, since they were recently transferred to this unit. What I did know was that they were a pair of troublemakers, pulling pranks every chance they got. Peeling potatoes for hours on-end wasn’t seen as adequate-enough punishment. Instead, since they loved being in the air and shooting down enemy planes during bombing raids, working with a flying unit that saw little action was perfect. Despite all this, the two kept their normal posts - Richardson at one of the side guns, and Simmons in the tail gun. Hanlan, McCarthy’s drinking buddy since the war began, served as the gunner opposite of Richardson.
All in all, a ragtag group that seemingly had no business of working as a cooperative unit.
We were alone in the air, without any fighter escort. Everything seemed fine, since the skies were uncharacteristically clear. Then again, we had planned this recon at the same time as a bombing campaign going on in the western part of Germany. The pilots of the P-51 Mustangs designated to campaigns such as this had it relatively easy, with hardly any kind of enemy attacks. It got to the point where P-51 and B-17 pilots alike started calling the missions ‘Milk Runs.’
At any rate, we figured the Germans would concentrate their aircraft to try and shoot down the bombers on assignment. Nevertheless, everyone was on edge. After all, an attack could come at any time. We weren’t loaded with bombs, so our lower weight made for a higher speed than normal. Nevertheless, we still had all guns armed and ready, just in case something did happen.
Thank God for that.
“We’ve got company!” McCarthy yelled. “Multiple contacts at 10 o’clock high!”
“Damn it all,” Blake growled. “How many are there?”
“I count three…no, four! They’re using the sun as cover, can’t tell what make they are! They’re coming in quick and they mean business!”
Blake snorted angrily. “Man the AA guns! We’re not going to let them shoot us down here!” As the flight crew got into position, he yelled back to the cockpit. “Bring the camera in! We can’t afford it to be damaged by the Krauts’ strafing runs!” I was brushed aside as Sykes climbed a makeshift ladder up to his turret. Blake turned back to me. “Yank, make yourself useful and keep that piece of junk safe.”
“That ‘piece of junk’ is what may help your own save countless lives!” I snapped. “And shouldn’t I be using the forward AA guns?”
“Those guns are still busted. The repair crews never got around to fixing them!”
It was by this time that I became royally ticked off. “And you’re telling me this now?!”
“Never you mind, Yank!” Blake barked back. “We weren’t expecting company! This is the first time this B-17 has seen Jerry planes. You may be a good shot, lad, but you’re the only one who knows how to develop the film from that camera. If you get killed, this whole operation will be blown to Hell! Just get to your normal post and guard that thing as if your life depended on it!” As much as I hated to admit it, Blake had a point. Disgruntled, I headed to the cockpit to retrieve the camera as it was brought in.
“Here they come!” Alex called. As the planes came closer, we could instantly tell what we were up against. By their dark gray color scheme and bubble canopies, they had to be Focke-Wulf 190s. These were the deadliest propeller-driven fighters Germany had to offer. Each was armed with two 13-millimeter machine guns and two 30-millimeter cannons. With the right pilot at the controls, a 190 could make Swiss cheese out of its target.
Sykes and Jackson let loose with their gun turrets, .50 caliber rounds filling the sky in front of us. Three of the fighters evaded, while the last continued coming towards us. This one was different from the rest, as it had red markings on the fuselage and wings. It was most likely the leader of the flight. The sky was suddenly lit up as he opened fire.
“Get down!” McCarthy yelled. We all ducked as bullets ripped through the bomber. One whizzed over my head, barely missing.
“Full speed!” Blake ordered. “We need to get into Allied territory!” Everyone felt a jerk as the lumbering aircraft accelerated as much as it could. Unfortunately, the Fortress wasn’t built for speed. Blake then turned to Gaffney. “Call the mainland! We need fighter support!” Even with his ‘big mouth,’ I could barely hear Gaffney making the call, for our anti-air guns were firing like no tomorrow.
Outside, the 190s were dancing around the AA fire, avoiding it by diving down towards the Channel when necessary. Two came around on our left side and belched out cannon rounds. Richardson cried out as one round ripped through his right leg. Despite the blood he was losing, he stayed at his post, attempting to bring down the Kraut who had wounded him.
“Shoot those sons-of-bitches down!” Blake barked. He noticed me as I was getting up. “Yank, what did I tell you?!”
“Don’t worry about me!” I retorted. “You worry about shooting those planes out of the sky!”
The onslaught continued, bullets slicing into the far engine on the left wing. It lit on fire as oil began to leak. “Losing oil pressure in engine 1!” McCarthy said. “Shutting it down!”
“Damn it,” Blake muttered under his breath. “Any word from the mainland?”
“I’m trying my best,” Gaffney called. “I’m getting lots of interference. Don’t know if-” He wasn’t able to complete his sentence, as another strafing run filled him with lead. He was dead before he even knew what hit him.
Hanlan was immediately taken aback by Gaffney’s death. He yelled out a obscene curse as he took aim at a 190 flying past him. He led his target and opened fire, white-hot ammunition cutting through the air. His technique was perfect, as the German flew right into the path of the anti-air rounds. The plane’s fuselage burst into flames as it spiraled out of control towards the water below.
There was no time to celebrate, as another 190 swooped in front of us, attacking the cockpit again. “I’ve got bullet holes in my windscreen!” McCarthy cried out. “Get those bastards off our nose!”
“We’re trying!” Richardson responded, firing at the attacking 190 as it flew by. “But they’re coming in too fast!”
“Then try harder!” Blake yelled back.
The dogfight seemed to continue on for ages. With so much flak hurtling through the air, the 190s were having difficulty getting in another strafing run. One attempted it, but he was shot to pieces for his trouble. Things would have been looking up at that moment, but we were running low on ammunition. Then, the first bit of good news we had all day…
“England!” Alex shouted happily. “The coast is up ahead!”
The bad news, however…
We heard the cannon fire cut through the cockpit, followed by the 190 screeching past. McCarthy screamed as Alex slumped over, dead, blood and gore spilling over the gauges and controls. The strafing run had cut through his head and chest. Hanlan’s fate was met at the same time, as he was hit in the back while attempting to avoid the attack.
“I’m losing control!” McCarthy cried. He was right, as the plane began to list, the nose slowly turning downward. Blake hurried over to the cockpit, getting Alex’s body out of the way before taking the controls. He pulled back on the stick with all his might, getting the plane as leveled off as he could.
It was at that moment that time seemed to freeze for me. Camera still in my tight grasp, I looked around and saw the carnage. Three good soldiers had been killed, and another was close to it thanks to the blood he was losing. I could see Richardson begin to lose consciousness, nearly slumping over the gun he was manning. All of this was going on, and I was being told to do nothing but guard a ridiculous box for a camera?
I’d be damned if I followed that order.
Instinct took over reason as I dropped the camera. As quickly as I could, I proceeded to the middle of the bomber and took the place of Hanlan. It took a few seconds to add more ammunition, but then I was locked and loaded. Blake obviously heard the noise, as he looked back with a mix of shock and rage. “Yank, what the hell are you doing?! You should be guarding that camera!”
“Screw the camera!” I replied. “What’s more important, our lives or some stupid piece of equipment?! You concentrate on getting us home! I’m doing what I do best!” I turned my attention back to the fight. “Come on, boys, give ‘em hell!” I unloaded, doing what I could to rip the 190s to shreds.
“These guys just won’t quit,” I heard Jackson complain. His voice was muffled because the compartment door leading down to the ball turret was closed.
“Down!” I cried. All the gunners ducked as yet another strafing run cut through the aircraft. We gave the attacker a sendoff, and it appeared a few rounds nicked the 190 in the tail rudder. I was planning on hunting for the other plane, but then I noticed that the first was swinging around for another pass.
“Sykes,” I called to the gunner in the upper turret, “he’s coming back, 9 o’clock high!” I aimed at the 190 I had pointed out and fired. The fighter peeled away to avoid the incoming rounds, only to fly right into the ball turret’s line of fire. The attack caused the plane to explode in a ball of flame and metal. Its propeller, still spinning, was blown away, and it continued on in the direction the plane was traveling.
“Got him!” Sykes cheered.
“Don’t get cocky!” Simmons called. “There’s still one more!”
There was one more, alright - the leader. One would assume that this German would retreat after his wing mates were shot down. But apparently, that wasn’t the case with this pilot. It was as if he was being driven to bring our bomber hurtling to the ground at all costs. We felt that he would dog us until either he ran out of ammunition, or we shot him down ourselves.
He was either very determined, very stubborn, or very stupid.
How the B-17 was still flying, I would never understand. We nearly had to lay flat on the plane’s floor as the 190 pummeled us with another strafing run.
“He’s coming around for another pass!” Sykes called.
I opened fire on the 190, but I only got off a dozen rounds before I began to hear a clicking noise. “I‘m out!” I cried.
“Me, too!” Sykes replied.
The German began his latest strafing run when the amazing happened-
He too had run out of ammo.
That’s when he did the unthinkable. He changed direction and sped past our B-17, leaving us in his dust.
“What’s going on?” McCarthy exclaimed. “Is he ditching?”
“Can’t be,” Blake replied. “If he was, he’d be heading back to France. You don’t think he could be…Jesus bloody Christ…he’s going to ram us!”
Our worst fears were realized, as the 190 turned around and came straight at us. His closing speed was so fast that, with the bomber in its current condition, whatever evasive maneuver we could try to make would not matter.
Was this the end?
Machine-gun fire filled the air once again; surprisingly, this barrage came from behind the 190, tearing it apart. As the ‘Sour Kraut,’ as we’d call him later, went down in flames, a pair of P-47 Thunderbolts flew past our bomber. We gave a cheer when we realized that we had been saved.
“Sorry we’re late,” one of the P-47s called. “We just got back from patrol.”
“Took ya long enough, ya sons-of-bitches!” Blake barked into the cockpit’s radio. “We’re shot up to hell, three dead, one seriously wounded.”
“Roger,” the Thunderbolt pilot replied. “We’ll escort you back to base and see to your casualties.”
“Copy that. Over and out.” Blake cut the transmission, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. “My god, we made it, lads.”
Simmons had heard Richardson get hit earlier, but didn’t have the chance to check up on him until now. He was scared out of his wits as his friend almost collapsed. Instinctively, Simmons grabbed the med kit and did what he could to treat Richardson’s wounds. “Don’t die on me, you hear?”
Richardson gave a weak chuckle. “Of course not. Why would…I die now? We still have...dozens more ideas for…pranks to put into motion.” The two friends shared another laugh as the B-17 finally flew over the English mainland.
“‘Oy, Yank!” I turned to see Blake, who was craning his neck around to look at me. “Hate to admit it, lad, but you had guts. If it wasn’t for you, we may not have survived. Remind me to put you up for a medal when we get back.”
“Thank you, sir,” I replied. The worst over, I went back to the bombardier position to check on the camera. I nearly screamed bloody murder when I saw a gaping hole. A cannon round had pierced through the box, in one end and out the other.
Was this it? Were all of our efforts and sacrifices put to waste?
Wanting to be sure, I covered the camera with my jacket, to make it as dark as possible, before opening the lid. Incredibly, the film was still intact.
Now it was my turn to breathe a sigh of relief. Our mission was a success, after all. It proved costly, but we knew that the lives lost this day would not have been in vain. Thanks to the heroics shown on this dire mission, countless more lives would be saved…
Fin
Your winner's banner does exist! It's at home, and I'm not at home, but will post it once I am. On a semi-related matter, would you still like your fic reviewed by the FFRO? And would you like it reviewed by someone other than myself (since it's good to get a different perspective)? (Because I just got my previous review done.)
Feel free to hotlink from Photobucket. You might want to shrink it though. About the FFRO, I refuse to review this short story again. 
I was talking about Digimon: Frontier Legacy. But I'll see if anyone else wants to take it before I decide which fic to do for my next review. It'd probably help matters if you posted more around the forum though; people know you exist and thus know your writing exists, hehe.
