When Heroes Flew - H. W. _Buzz_ Bernard Page 0,1

it came abeam of the bomber. The fighter bore an RAF roundel on its side.

“Hold your fire, everyone,” Al called. “It’s a Brit. Spitfire.”

Sorey leaned forward to see around Al and get a good look at the fighter. “Probably out of Gibraltar.”

Al nodded.

The Spitfire waggled its wings and accelerated away.

Once the B-24 reached the Straits of Gibraltar, Al relaxed. He pressed his throat mike to make an announcement. “We’ve reached Gibraltar, so it should be clear sailing from here on out. We’ll grab some gas in Casablanca, then press on running parallel to the North African coast to Benghazi. The stop in Casablanca will be brief, about forty-five minutes, so get out and stretch your legs. But don’t go wandering off looking for Bogart and Bergman or you’ll end up AWOL and sitting out the war in Leavenworth.”

In response came a chuckle or two, a series of “Yes, sirs,” and a few double clicks—an informal radio signal of acknowledgement.

Sorey turned toward Al and raised his voice to be heard over the bellow of the bomber’s four big engines. “Of all the gin joints, in all the towns . . .”

“Jesus. You memorized lines from the movie?”

“Seen it four times.”

Al rolled his eyes. “War is hell.”

“Nothin’ else to do but sleep, eat, and fight.”

The stop in Casablanca ate up an hour, but once airborne again, Al got them back on schedule. They flew eastward along the north coast of Morocco and, after that, Algeria, the deep blue Mediterranean Sea below them, a gray-smeared cloud deck of altostratus above. The air proved smooth, unlike the thermal-ridden summers that could send them bouncing up and down as if riding an invisible roller coaster.

“Sorey,” Al said, “take it for a while, would you? I just wanna close my eyes for a few minutes.”

“Yes, sir. I got the controls. Have a good snooze.”

Al shut his eyes and allowed his thoughts to drift off to Sarah, his wife, and their last night together in the States before he’d shipped out for England.

They had married just after he’d joined the Army in mid-1941, guessing it would not be long before the US entered the war. He also thought if he volunteered early he’d have a better chance of doing what he wanted, being an aviator. His thoughts turned out to be correct.

He and Sarah had been separated during much of his flight training—he spent time in locations such as Santa Ana, California, and Tucson, Arizona—but after he’d received his overseas orders in the late summer of ’42, she had taken the train—several, in fact—from Oregon to New York. First the SP&S—Spokane, Portland, and Seattle—from Portland to Seattle. Then the Empire Builder to Chicago, followed by the 20th Century Limited to Grand Central in New York City.

The five-day slog proved exhausting in railcars crammed with GIs, but well worth it for the chance to spend a day or two with Al before he deployed to Europe.

The night before his scheduled departure, they journeyed to the Glen Island Casino in New Rochelle for dinner and dancing. The venture had set him back a small fortune, over fifteen bucks, but for a chance to sway to the Glenn Miller Orchestra, it seemed a tiny expenditure. Besides, he figured, he wasn’t going to be spending much money once he entered combat. And as always, there lurked just beyond the horizon of their happiness the unspoken fear, the unacknowledged reality, they might never see one another again.

They sat at a table near the dance floor, sipping Manhattans after dinner and listening to the orchestra run through the new favorites of a nation at war: “V for Victory Hop,” “American Patrol,” and “Don’t Sit Under the Apple Tree.”

During a break in the music, he slid a crumpled photograph, something clipped from the Arizona Daily Star in Tucson where he’d completed his B-24 training, across the table to her.

“My baby,” he said.

She looked askance at him.

“Second-best baby,” he corrected.

She nodded her approval. “That’s what you fly?”

“It’s a B-24 bomber. It’s called a Liberator.”

“A Liberator? Like what we’re doing for Europe, trying to liberate it?”

“Yes. I guess that’s a good way to think of it.”

She studied the picture. A hint of a frown crept over her face.

“I know,” he said. “It’s not quite so sleek and glamorous as the B-17.”

“That’s the one they call the Flying Fortress?”

“Yeah. It’s the bomber that gets most of the press.”

“I can see why.”

He hung his head in mock shame. “Even the guys who fly the Lib say it looks