alcala0001
10-15-2010, 06:16 AM
You would think the tenth mission would be easier than the first, but it's not. It's much worse, because you know what's waiting up there. I try to put it out of my mind while I go over my gun and ammo belts. Last time up a round jammed on me and I won't be in that position again. Kelsey and Graves fire up the engines and I can taste the fuel as a black exhaust cloud belches past my gun port. Tastes like kerosine. Woods is behind me, playing that damn harmonica. He blows a pretty good harp, but up here it just seems out of place. It's a happy sound - and right now I need to focus on the next few hours. He'll stop playing soon enough - once we get high enough he'll run out of breath and that fancy harp might freeze to his lips. At least he's not trying to talk to me. I think he finally gets it after watching Collins get washed out of the ball turret with a hose last time up. Before Woods there was Lawson, before Lawson there was Masino. And those are just the waist gunners. It was a regular revolving door on the Fightin' Floozy. Fly boys would enter through the hatches and exit on a bullet. Masino did the first painting of the Floozy on the nose and Graves has made a valiant effort to maintain it through countless patches and repairs. Come on baby, just get us through this one mission. The Floozy lurches and rolls down the air field, I can see the tail of Richardson's plane sticking out behind a hangar. The Savannah Savage. They haven't hauled the wreckage away yet. We lurch into the air and I hold on to the sling of my heavy gun as we climb to join the other B-17s in the sky. Woods is holding on with both hands to his gun strap as we climb. I enjoy the moment of silence as England falls away beneath us.
We glide out over the Channel and climb as we head over France. Richardson's group discovered an 88mm battery just inland. Not wanting to meet the same fate as The Savannah Savage, the lead ship must have ordered us to climb. We fan out and angle up toward the sun. I see a glint of silver on the horizon and in a flash a pack of horses comes to join the party. Mustangs. It's good to have the hounds loose to protect us from the wolves. A puff of black smoke appears out of thin air and my blood runs cold. Nothing worse than Flak, except maybe those Me 262s. The Floozy jitters and bumps as we climb. I can feel the percussion through my feet as inky clouds blossom below us. The Mustangs climb up above us, being more nimble, as we lumber our heavy butts out of the way of those 88s. The flak cloud thins out as we level out, but not all of us make it. "Hey, the Betty Rose is hit!" exclaims Woods as he stands on his tip toes, looking down and out of his window. "Did any of them get out?" I ask. There is a loud rumble and crackle and Woods turns from the window, the color draining from his face. Poor bastards.
We are welcomed by Me 262 Messerschmitt attack planes as we enter The Fatherland. Woods and I hear Franklin's tail gun rattling and we scramble to pop the hatches. I slide my door wide and latch it in place as we get buzzed. It happens in a flash, but that mottled grey color and the roar of the German engines is unmistakeable. The group spreads out, trying to minimize the risk of crossfire and I can see a dozen other ships come into view, popping hatches and readying for the next attack. They come in packs, like wolves trying to take down a bull. I open up, picking a clear line of fire and pepper it with hot lead, hoping the Jerry's fly through it on the next pass. A shadow passes over me and we lurch sideways. I grab my gun to keep from sliding back into Woods on the other side of the fuselage. I stare out the window and watch as a wounded ship lumbers down upon us, almost taking a wing off as she drops out of formation, three engines belching smoke and flames. I can't make out her tail number or nose art as she glides over a field of white clouds. No doubt Kelsey and Graves got the radio call as they dropped out of formation, assuming the pilot and co-pilot survived the attack. Before she makes the clouds I see a flash of grey as two Me 262s buzz past, strafing her with bullets as she falls, opening ragged lines down the fuselage. I swivel my guns and blaze at the Jerrys, but they are gone. I listen for the other guys as I scan the skies. The trick is to listen to the other guys in your plane. If the tail gunner starts dishing out the lead, have your gun facing rearward. If the ball turret gunner starts giving hell, be ready for an enemy to appear below you. Having all gunners alive gives you an advantage; as gunners start to die, your situational awareness diminishes. Jerry's don't usually go after the guns; they go after the engines. We might be able to make it on three engines. On two engines, we can get there, but we might not make it home. With one engine we might have time to bail - except the ball turret - he's bolted into his round ball of death. Poor Meyers. He's the smallest, so he was dealt the short straw.
Franklin opens up in the rear and I swivel my gun back, hoping to see a wolf fly past. It does, but before I can open up he flames out as he's hit by somebody else. I hear debris scuttle down the side of the Fightin' Floozy as he breaks apart, scattering into the clouds below. No sooner does he disappear from view, all hell breaks loose. Woods, Franklin, Scott in the top turret and Meyers down below - they all start slinging lead and I give a few short bursts as I guess at the angle of the next attack. I hear a staccatto popping as The Floozy takes some heat. I keep firing as a wolf pack zips by. I count five, but there may be more. A ship descends from above us, pitching sideways and nosing down as she heads straight toward the Lightning Louise. Breckenridge and Simmons and their crew are on board. The falling B-17, riddled with bullets and unresponsive, cleaves the Lightning Louise in half and loses it's wing and tail on impact. Debris (bodies?) spill out of the two mangled planes as they twist and twirl in a dance of death, disappearing into the clouds.
Several minutes go by and there's no sign of the wolves. That means two things: 1. We are close to our drop and 2. Here comes the flak.
No sooner does the thought process when the plane lurches and bumps. Dark smoke puffs start to fill the air around us as we are buffeted on shockwaves from the German 88s shelling us blindly from below. We can't climb too high - not enough fuel. I trust Kelsey and Graves to fly us through this. I trust Pendleton to chart us to the drop and sight us in on target. I trust all ten of the men in this giant tin can, even Woods. This is the worse part. At least I have a gun and a hope against a Jerry in a Me 262, but in the Death Cloud, there's nothing to do but to ride it out and see if your number comes up. The Floozy lurches as shrapnel from exploding 88mm shells peppers us, popping, pinging and rattling around inside the ship. Flying Fortress my foot. The aluminum skin between me and 19,000 feet won't stop a stray piece of shrapnel. Ask Masino, he'll tell you. So will Leyton, Billings and LaFontaine. All of them met their end up here in The Death Cloud. There's a loud bang and screech as The Floozy lurches, almost knocking me off of my feet. A smoky blast rips up from the below us, leaving a ragged hubcap-sized hole in the bottom corner of the fuselage. Me and Woods are Ok, but I hear the ball turret rotating, the electric motor humming. Woods gives me a look - he hears it too. I make my way across the lurching floor, grabbing Wood's harmonica out of his pocket as I stumble past. I grab a strut as I kneel down over the ball turret. Dents and wrinkles pock the survace of the once-smooth ball. Poor Meyers must have taken a direct hit for it to be dented like that. I rap on the bolted-shut hatch with Wood's harmonica. Nothing. At least he went fast. I cut the power to the turret and return to my gun and stare out over The Death Cloud and watch stray ships fall out of formation here and there, some smoking, some burning and some just dipping below the clouds. Come on, Floozy. One more flight.
We glide out over the Channel and climb as we head over France. Richardson's group discovered an 88mm battery just inland. Not wanting to meet the same fate as The Savannah Savage, the lead ship must have ordered us to climb. We fan out and angle up toward the sun. I see a glint of silver on the horizon and in a flash a pack of horses comes to join the party. Mustangs. It's good to have the hounds loose to protect us from the wolves. A puff of black smoke appears out of thin air and my blood runs cold. Nothing worse than Flak, except maybe those Me 262s. The Floozy jitters and bumps as we climb. I can feel the percussion through my feet as inky clouds blossom below us. The Mustangs climb up above us, being more nimble, as we lumber our heavy butts out of the way of those 88s. The flak cloud thins out as we level out, but not all of us make it. "Hey, the Betty Rose is hit!" exclaims Woods as he stands on his tip toes, looking down and out of his window. "Did any of them get out?" I ask. There is a loud rumble and crackle and Woods turns from the window, the color draining from his face. Poor bastards.
We are welcomed by Me 262 Messerschmitt attack planes as we enter The Fatherland. Woods and I hear Franklin's tail gun rattling and we scramble to pop the hatches. I slide my door wide and latch it in place as we get buzzed. It happens in a flash, but that mottled grey color and the roar of the German engines is unmistakeable. The group spreads out, trying to minimize the risk of crossfire and I can see a dozen other ships come into view, popping hatches and readying for the next attack. They come in packs, like wolves trying to take down a bull. I open up, picking a clear line of fire and pepper it with hot lead, hoping the Jerry's fly through it on the next pass. A shadow passes over me and we lurch sideways. I grab my gun to keep from sliding back into Woods on the other side of the fuselage. I stare out the window and watch as a wounded ship lumbers down upon us, almost taking a wing off as she drops out of formation, three engines belching smoke and flames. I can't make out her tail number or nose art as she glides over a field of white clouds. No doubt Kelsey and Graves got the radio call as they dropped out of formation, assuming the pilot and co-pilot survived the attack. Before she makes the clouds I see a flash of grey as two Me 262s buzz past, strafing her with bullets as she falls, opening ragged lines down the fuselage. I swivel my guns and blaze at the Jerrys, but they are gone. I listen for the other guys as I scan the skies. The trick is to listen to the other guys in your plane. If the tail gunner starts dishing out the lead, have your gun facing rearward. If the ball turret gunner starts giving hell, be ready for an enemy to appear below you. Having all gunners alive gives you an advantage; as gunners start to die, your situational awareness diminishes. Jerry's don't usually go after the guns; they go after the engines. We might be able to make it on three engines. On two engines, we can get there, but we might not make it home. With one engine we might have time to bail - except the ball turret - he's bolted into his round ball of death. Poor Meyers. He's the smallest, so he was dealt the short straw.
Franklin opens up in the rear and I swivel my gun back, hoping to see a wolf fly past. It does, but before I can open up he flames out as he's hit by somebody else. I hear debris scuttle down the side of the Fightin' Floozy as he breaks apart, scattering into the clouds below. No sooner does he disappear from view, all hell breaks loose. Woods, Franklin, Scott in the top turret and Meyers down below - they all start slinging lead and I give a few short bursts as I guess at the angle of the next attack. I hear a staccatto popping as The Floozy takes some heat. I keep firing as a wolf pack zips by. I count five, but there may be more. A ship descends from above us, pitching sideways and nosing down as she heads straight toward the Lightning Louise. Breckenridge and Simmons and their crew are on board. The falling B-17, riddled with bullets and unresponsive, cleaves the Lightning Louise in half and loses it's wing and tail on impact. Debris (bodies?) spill out of the two mangled planes as they twist and twirl in a dance of death, disappearing into the clouds.
Several minutes go by and there's no sign of the wolves. That means two things: 1. We are close to our drop and 2. Here comes the flak.
No sooner does the thought process when the plane lurches and bumps. Dark smoke puffs start to fill the air around us as we are buffeted on shockwaves from the German 88s shelling us blindly from below. We can't climb too high - not enough fuel. I trust Kelsey and Graves to fly us through this. I trust Pendleton to chart us to the drop and sight us in on target. I trust all ten of the men in this giant tin can, even Woods. This is the worse part. At least I have a gun and a hope against a Jerry in a Me 262, but in the Death Cloud, there's nothing to do but to ride it out and see if your number comes up. The Floozy lurches as shrapnel from exploding 88mm shells peppers us, popping, pinging and rattling around inside the ship. Flying Fortress my foot. The aluminum skin between me and 19,000 feet won't stop a stray piece of shrapnel. Ask Masino, he'll tell you. So will Leyton, Billings and LaFontaine. All of them met their end up here in The Death Cloud. There's a loud bang and screech as The Floozy lurches, almost knocking me off of my feet. A smoky blast rips up from the below us, leaving a ragged hubcap-sized hole in the bottom corner of the fuselage. Me and Woods are Ok, but I hear the ball turret rotating, the electric motor humming. Woods gives me a look - he hears it too. I make my way across the lurching floor, grabbing Wood's harmonica out of his pocket as I stumble past. I grab a strut as I kneel down over the ball turret. Dents and wrinkles pock the survace of the once-smooth ball. Poor Meyers must have taken a direct hit for it to be dented like that. I rap on the bolted-shut hatch with Wood's harmonica. Nothing. At least he went fast. I cut the power to the turret and return to my gun and stare out over The Death Cloud and watch stray ships fall out of formation here and there, some smoking, some burning and some just dipping below the clouds. Come on, Floozy. One more flight.