Call to Duty (35 page)

So far, he had lived a charmed existence and he fully expected to live through the war. What then? What would he do when the world returned to normal? Or could it ever resume its old, ordered ways? What would happen after the victory parades and shouting died down? Would he ever find Chantal again? He forced that thought away, back into its own hidden niche.

“There,” Ruffy said, pointing to a faint fluorescent line of surf in the dark below them, the coast of Holland, bringing Zack back to the job at hand. They threaded a narrow corridor between The Hague and Rotterdam that the Dutch Underground had reported to be relatively free of German defenses, skirted to the south of Gouda, and headed for the town of
Doorn, looking for the big house where Kaiser Wilhelm II, the emperor of Germany during World War I, had lived in exile until he died in 1941. The Germans had made it into a shrine after they occupied the Netherlands in 1940, but the Dutch Underground used it to send messages to the RAF. Zack racked the Mosquito up into a sixty-degree pylon turn as they overflew the town. The distinctive sound of the Merlins announced they were British. A light blinked twice at them from an attic window of house Doorn, the Kaiser’s shrine. The Dutch caretaker who lived in the attic was a member of the underground and was the end destination of a telephone relay. “Set course zero-one-zero,” Ruffy said. “Jerry’s taking off to the east tonight.”

Zack turned to the new heading and rooted the airspeed indicator on three hundred miles per hour. By going at exactly five miles per minute, one mile every twelve seconds, it was easier for Ruffy to navigate. They were less than one minute away from Soesterberg. They had no black boxes that could replace the Mark I eyeball or the intimate knowledge the two men had of the area and how the Germans operated. A flicker of light caught Zack’s attention—an aircraft’s exhaust. It was little more than a short stub of blue flame knifing the darkness. “Tallyho,” Zack called over the intercom. His hands flew over the controls, automatically configuring the Mosquito for combat: supercharger switch to Auto, increase rpm to 3,000, set the throttles to climbing gate, pull the boost control cut-out. Ruffy hit the gun master switch, making sure it was down. “Guns are hot,” he told Zack who was concentrating on their target. They were less than fifty feet above the ground, the airspeed indicator touching 330.

A shadow materialized in front of them and instantly grew into a JU-88 night fighter. “Oh, shit!” Zack shouted as he yanked back on the stick. They ballooned over the Junkers in an overshoot.

“He’s turning into us!” Ruffy shouted.

“Got the bastard,” Zack grunted. He barrel rolled, arcing over the German’s turn, and disappearing into the low cloud deck above them. He continued the roll and sliced down out of the overcast, anticipating the German’s position. He guessed correctly and slid in behind the Junkers. His thumb brushed the twenty-millimeter trigger and the four barrels
mounted under the nose flashed. The heavy shells ripped into the aft fuselage and walked forward across the greenhouse canopy. The crew were dead before they hit the ground.

“We took a hit,” Ruffy said. “We may have picked up some frag when he came apart.”

Zack headed to the south and checked the instruments. “Port engine temperature gauge is climbing.”

“Radiator must have packed up,” Ruffy said. Rather than risk blowing the engine from an overheat, Zack shut it down. He could always restart it in an emergency. They headed for home on one engine, maintaining 200 mph until well out to sea. They had been over the Netherlands less than thirty minutes, destroyed an enemy aircraft, killed two men, and caused the Germans to stop all operations out of Soesterberg for the next two hours. Now all they had to do was to convince the two young men who tended
Romanita
on the ground that they hadn’t damaged her unnecessarily.

“Sandringham should be to starboard,” Ruffy said. Zack did a quick check of his blind-flying instruments, looked out the windscreen, and tried to find the royal family’s country home in the thick haze. No luck. “Remember what the Old Man said,” Ruffy reminded him. The station commander at Church Fenton had sent them on the way to their new assignment with a simple warning, “They’ll have your guts if you fly over the place.” Both men tried to find a recognizable landmark on the ground but the flat Norfolk countryside lacked sharp definition. The weather was not cooperating. “On the nose!” Ruffy warned him. A large multistory stone house was directly in front of them. Zack rolled the Mosquito onto its left wing and flew around the palace.

“I expected walls and a moat,” Zack said. “Well, at least we know where we are.” They headed due east and entered the circuit around RAF Sculthorpe, waiting for clearance to land.

“They’ll be watching us,” Ruffy said. “Make this a good one.” The Mossie had one very unpleasant vice: It swung badly to the left on landing and new pilots were watched closely to see how they tamed that particular tendency.

Zack gave a noncommittal grunt and turned final. “Lots of runway,” he said. He eased the throttles back and touched
down at 120 on the main gear and then dropped the tail wheel for a smooth and perfectly controlled landing.

“That wasn’t what I had in mind,” Ruffy grumbled. Neither did their new squadron commander and he dispatched a car to pick them up at the dispersal where they parked their Mosquito. They barely had time to retrieve their bags from the bomb bay before they were hustled into the car.

“Bad day to show up,” the driver told them. “Squadron Leader Bonder is right brassed with some wallahs up from London. He can’t do anything about them but say, ‘Yes sir, yes sir.’ Now you, on the other hand, he can do something about.”

“We probably flew too close to Sandringham,” Zack told him.

“We never get a complaint from Sandringham,” the driver replied. “Occasionally, they’ll ring up with a ‘Good show.’ It’ll be the landing, I expect.” Ruffy gave Zack an I-told-you-so look.

Squadron Leader Bonder came right to the point when they reported in. “RAF flying techniques are very specific and not subject to debate, at least not while you are under my command.” His voice was strained and high-pitched. “Three-point landings are required and you will follow standard procedures.”

“Sir,” Zack protested, “I always make a three-point landing on short runways, but you’ve got lots of runway here and—”

“Mr. Pontowski,” Bonder interrupted, “I’m fully aware that a rumble landing with touch-down on the main gear is one way to handle the Mossie’s wretched tendency to swing. But I thought I made myself quite clear that the rules are not open to question.”

“Sir, are those rules man-made or God-made?” Zack asked.

“In your case,” Bonder replied, “they are quite celestial.” He was about to say more when the telephone rang, its insistent ring cutting him short. He snatched it out of the cradle. “Bonder here,” he said. It was not the call he had been expecting and for the next few moments he listened. “Why, yes, thank you very much,” he said before hanging up. He relaxed into his chair and gave them a long look. “That was Colonel Denham, one of the king’s equerries, a decent chap. The king saw you maneuver to avoid Sandringham and said it was a
‘good show.’ He paused, deep in thought. “Now what am I going to do with you? Look”—his tone had changed and was much more relaxed—“I’m having trouble with some types from London. We’re flying an op for them that must be done their way…not the way I’d have gone about it.”

Zack understood immediately; their squadron commander was sweating out the return of his men and aircraft from a mission he did not want to fly. “Right then,” Bonder said. “From now on its a three-pointer during the day and save landing on the mains for at night—when nobody can see you.” After a slight pause he added, “That’s the way most of the lads do it.”

The telephone rang again and he grabbed it. This time it was the call he was expecting. He slammed the phone down and rushed out the door. They followed him to the tower where a large group of men were waiting for the returning Mosquitoes. Zack wanted to climb the steps to the tower but saw that the outside catwalk was already jammed. He counted five aircraft enter the circuit and circle to land. “We launched nine,” an armorer told him.

“My God,” Ruffy whispered. The mission had been a bloodbath for 487 Squadron.

What went wrong? Zack thought. He looked up at the catwalk, trying to find Bonder. How would I handle the responsibility he’s burdened with? he wondered. Then he saw Bonder working his way through the crowd to the stairs. Following him was an RAF wing commander and a tall Navy lieutenant commander—Roger Bertram. He sucked in his breath when he saw Wilhelmina Crafton. “I think I know what went wrong,” he muttered. He edged toward the steps.

“We need to discuss this,” Bertram was saying.

“There’s bloody nothing to talk about,” Bonder snapped as he walked away from them, his back a rigid spike. Willi saw Zack and jerked her head away.

“What the hell were they going after?” Ruffy asked from behind him.

“Rumor had it some E-boat pens,” a voice told him.

“At Dunkirk?” Zack asked.

“That was the word going about,” the same voice confirmed.

The officers mess that night at Sculthorpe was unusually quiet and after dinner Zack had gone to his room to unpack. When he was finished, he lay on his narrow bed and read. Ruffy came in and started to undress for bed. “She’s in the bar getting absolutely smashed,” he said.

“Crafton?”

“Of course. Someone needs to look after her.”

“She’s got her own friends here.”

“They seem to have disappeared along with Squadron Leader Bonder.”

Zack sat up and pulled his shoes on. “Why me?” he muttered under his breath.

He found Willi sitting at a table in the bar. At first, she looked normal, but the moment she lifted her glass, he could tell from her rigid movements that she was stoned. “Another, please,” she said to the barman.

The barman looked at Zack who shook his head. He sat down across from her. “You’ve had enough. It doesn’t solve anything.”

“What would you know about it?” she demanded. Her words were carefully enunciated and drawn out. “Yes,” she decided, “what could you possibly know about it?”

“There’s no way I can,” he admitted. “But I’ve lost friends before.”

“Your friends? This isn’t your squadron.”

“It is, as of today,” he told her.

“Then how can they be
your
friends?”

Zack had tried to reason with drunks before and knew it was a hopeless cause. “You need to get to bed and sleep this off.”

“Your bed, Mr. Pontowski? I imagine you are quite good in bed.”

“I wouldn’t know.”

“Ah, but Mrs. Brouchard would know, wouldn’t she?” Her mouth bent into a smile when she saw Zack flinch.

He ignored her and went looking for the barman. “Does Miss Crafton have a room here?”

The barman shook his head, said that he would arrange something, and disappeared. A few moments later he was back. “We have four empty rooms tonight,” he said. “As long
as she doesn’t mind sleeping in a room with a dead man’s belongings.”

“I think she’s too blotto to notice.” Zack returned to the table and scooped her up. She protested weakly. “Lead the way, MacDuff,” he said.

“The name’s Higgins,” the barman said, showing him the way to the empty room.

“Thank you, Higgins,” he said when they had deposited her in bed. He removed her shoes and spread a blanket over her.

“Yes,” she said, tears streaming down her face, “what could you possibly know about it?” Her words were almost inaudible. “We had to do it that way. Intelligence, you know…that’s what I do…”

He sat down beside her and touched her lips with a single finger. “Don’t say anymore. I know what you do. And like those men who died today, you have to do your job the best you can. That’s all anyone can ask of you.” He withdrew his hand—she had passed out. He stood up and quietly closed the door. “Well, Higgins, she’ll have one hell of a headache tomorrow.”

“We’ll take care of her, sir.” He watched Zack walk down the hall. “You’re the lucky one,” he said to the closed door. “A few of the blokes here would have had it off with you, drunk, passed out and all.”

The message was waiting for him in squadron operations the next morning after he had landed from a short flight with Squadron Leader Bonder. The commander had been impressed when he reviewed Zack’s record and was even more satisfied with the way he handled the Mosquito. The American was a welcome addition to his squadron.

Zack read the note on the short walk to his room in the officers mess. “May we talk after you land?” was all it said. It was signed with a distinctive “W.” He gave a mental shrug and asked Higgins if she was in the mess. He pointed to the reading lounge and said that she had asked after him.

“She thanked me quite nicely,” he told Zack. “Normally, they don’t bother.”

When Willi saw him, she folded her newspaper and stood up. “Would you mind walking?” she asked. She looked tired
and drawn from the monumental hangover that was still marching around in her head. Outside, the weather had started to clear and patches of blue were breaking through the heavy clouds. “I think it’s going to turn into a nice day,” she said, making small talk. She glanced at him. “I want to thank you for last night, I don’t normally drink—at least not that way.”

“It was obvious,” Zack said. “But sometimes it’s the only way to hang on to your sanity.”

“Sanity,” she said, wanting to talk, “I think we’ve all lost it. It was those damn E-boats and Hofmann. Two weeks ago, he attacked an amphibious training exercise on the coast of Devon. Sailed in bold as brass, torpedoed two ships, machine-gunned six landing craft, killed I don’t know how many people, all Americans.”

They walked in silence. There was more that she wanted to say but could not. SOE had become deeply involved in the operation because the Gestapo had moved numerous French prisoners to serve as human shields into the buildings built on top of the pens where the E-boats docked. Unknown to the Gestapo, some of the prisoners were part of the Mistral network that had been inadvertently picked up. “We had information,” she continued, “that dictated the attack be extremely precise.” Part of the attack called for the Mosquitoes to hit the building where the Mistral agents were being held to kill them before the Germans discovered what they had. But by the same token, they had wanted to spare as many Frenchmen as possible.