Aces (61 page)

Anyway, a pilot had to have tender feelings toward an airplane that had safely seen him through four victorious dogfights.
If only there could have been a fifth, Greene thought longingly.

The flight came up low over a high dune, roaring past a line of seven Panzers strung out single-file, rolling westward across
the sand.

“Tally-ho, lads!” Greene told his flight as it split up. “Good hunting!”

Greene banked hard right, swinging out over the sea. The G-force braided his belly around his spine as he slid sideways into
a rolling turn that put him into position for an attack dive an the Panzer column. Greene began an approach that positioned
him to be third in line for a crack at the Huns.

The Panzers were kicking up clouds of dust, scuttling like mottled yellow and tan desert tortoises across the dunes as the
first Hurricane went at them. Greene watched as the pilot used his machine guns to zero in on a tank, and then cut loose with
his 40 millimeters. Orange fire spouted from the barrels of the cannons as the spent shell casings tumbled from ejection ports
cut into the pod housings. The rounds impacted around the tank, sending up high pillars of sand. Meanwhile, the tank’s turret
was coming around, and its cannon barrel rising, like an angry scorpion’s stinger. The first Hurricane peeled off as the second
airplane came in toward its different target. The first tank fired its cannon and cut loose with machine gun bursts as the
second Hurricane’s Brownings stitched twin lines toward its tank. As its machine-gun rounds closed on its target, the Hurricane’s
cannons began firing, scoring two direct hits. The Panzer’s turret lifted off in a geyser of flame. Thick black smoke began
pouring out from the busted tank’s innards, blowing across the desert, and obscuring the retreat of several other Panzers
fortunate enough to be in the right place at the right time.

Greene picked out a target and began his own power dive. He used his two machine guns to guide his aim, and when the time
was right he fired five rounds from each of his cannons. The guttural coughing of the heavy guns reverberated inside the Hurricane’s
cockpit. Greene could feel the vibrations numbing his fingers on the stick, and the cannons’ heavy recoil measurably slowing
the aircraft. His cannon spray was kicking up a cloud of dust around his target. One round struck the tank’s tread, sending
metal linkages flying. The Panzer was hamstrung, but still dangerous. As Greene flew by, its turret tracked him with cannon
and machine-gun fire.

He was swinging around for a second pass when he saw one of the Panzers fire its cannon at a banking Hurricane and score a
direct hit, swatting the plane out of the sky in a puff of fire and smoke. One of the other Hurricanes immediately attacked
that tank, raining cannon fire on it until it exploded.

Greene finished off the Panzer he’d crippled in a six-round burst, and then climbed, to look for another target—he still had
eight cannon rounds left. The rest of his flight was now scattered across the sky, Panzer hunting. It was understood that
everybody would make their own ways home.

A sound like distant thunder was filtering into Greene’s cockpit above the drone of his own engine. He looked to the west,
and saw that the Yanks had arrived at Buerat. Greene saw clouds of gray smoke rolling inland, carried by the sea breeze, as
the silvery B-17s scattered their bombs. Black carnations of anti-aircraft fire were spreading their petals within the stately
bomber formations. Orange tracer fire was licking upward toward the B-17s as all around them fighters swirled like angry hornets.

Greene’s attention was caught by a moving dust cloud beneath him. He banked and dived for a closer look: it was a Hun armored
car darting on its eight tires like a centipede across the sand. As he dived on the car, its rear-mounted machine gun stuck
out its orange tongue at him. Greene answered the insult with a burst from his own machine guns, and three rounds apiece from
his cannons. A 40-millimeter shell clipped the rear-left fender of the armored car, and it went veering out of control, roaring
up a dune and then flipping onto its side, spilling men as it rolled like a barrel into a bramble-choked ravine. It came to
rest sitting upright on its eight tires. Greene came around to give it his remaining cannon rounds, and this time he managed
to turn the damn thing into twisted, smoking metal.

As he climbed he saw several of the armored car’s crew running across the sand, but he let them go. He still had some ammo
left in his machine guns, but he wasn’t the bloody sort to go strafing helpless men.

With his cannons empty, there was no point in hanging around. Anyway, he was running low on petrol. Greene climbed, to put
himself out of range of small-arms ground fire, and headed back toward the sea, thinking that he would follow the coast road
back to his own lines, and home base. He was about over the Via Balbia, when he saw a solitary Yank B-17, in some distress,
flying low over the water, about a quarter mile offshore. He closed in slowly on the big four-engined bomber, giving its crew
plenty of time to notice his British markings, and then made a slow circle around the faltering craft. The Flying Fortress
had
Jazz-a-Bell
painted on her nose, just beneath the cockpit. The foot-high, light blue letters curved beneath a painting of a scantily
clad blonde riding a saxophone in the manner of witch on her broomstick. The painting was the only good-looking thing about
the bomber. Machine-gun fire had raised ugly pockmarks upon her skin. Her number-two starboard engine was half blown away,
its prop slowly windmilling in the slipstream. Her tail and belly gun-turrets had been shot up, and she had a gaping hole
in her starboard side, just forward the waist gunner’s position.

Suddenly Greene’s radio crackled to life. “—tle friend, this is Jazz-a-Bell. Come in, if you read me, over. Hello, little
friend, this is Jazz-a-Bell. Come in if you read me, over.”

Greene keyed his throat mike. “I didn’t know you chaps had our frequency, over.”

“We didn’t. I’ve had my radio man hunting up and down the dial ever since we spotted you. This is Lieutenant Feldman, of the
United States Army Air Force 301st Bombardment Group. Please identify yourself, over.”

“Captain Greene, RAF 33rd Fighter Squadron. Can you chaps make it back to Benghazi? Over.”

“That’s a damned good question, Captain.” Feldman dryly laughed. “We were doing fine blasting Jerry into little pieces, but
then the fighters came at us. There turned out to be more enemy fighters than we expected. Sure as hell more than our escort
could handle. Before we knew it, the bomber formation was all alone. We kept a tight box and managed to hold off the Italian
bandits all right—a B-17 can take a hell of a lot of machine-gun fire—but then we got chewed up by one shit-storm of Messerschmitts
armed with rapid-fire 20-millimeter cannons. The Huns took out my tail gun and my belly turret, hit my starboard engine, and
put a real nice hole in my starboard side. We began losing altitude, and had to drop out of formation. We were hoping to come
across some stray little friends once we reached the coast. We could use some fighter escort to cover our ass, which is feeling
mighty naked with our tail and belly guns out of commission. Glad we found you—”

I’m sure you are
, Greene thought.
But then, you don’t know that all I’ve got to cover your ass with is a measly pair of .30-caliber Browning popguns that are
just about out of ammo
.

“With your help, we should be able to make it home,” the bomber pilot was continuing. Leastways, we’re going to try, but the
plane is shaking so hard I can feel my teeth fillings about to fall out… Over.”

“Why don’t you get back over land, and parachute? Or better yet, ditch into the sea? There’s no threat of enemy ships around
here. Just radio in your position, and wait it out in life rafts until the flying boats come for you. Over.”

“‘Fraid I can’t do either, Captain. You see, I’ve got hurt men here. Matter of fact, of the ten of us, six are in no condition
to go parachuting or swimming.” Feldman hesitated. “And I got to say, I’m not all that sure I know how to splash her down
in one piece. Over.”

“Just how much experience have you had, Lieutenant? How many bomb raids have you participated in? Over.”

“Counting this one?” Feldman began. “One.”

“Oh Christ,” Greene muttered to himself. He’d
thought
the lieutenant had sounded young. It was one hell of a spot for a green pilot to be in. He keyed his throat mike. “Lieutenant,
I’m running low on fuel. I suggest you follow me to my base camp. It’s a hell of a lot closer than Benghazi.”

“Sounds good, Captain. Lead the way. We sure ‘preciate the hospitality. I guess our luck changed when we ran into you. Talk
about a knight in shining armor… Over.”

What a charming thing to say, Greene thought, smiling as he maneuvered his Hurricane into position just slightly ahead of
the crippled bomber, on its port side. “If I may say so, Lieutenant, your accent sounds familiar. Might you be from California?
Over.”

“Hey, yeah—” Greene could hear the pleasure in the young lieutenant’s voice. “I’m from Anaheim. How’d’cha know that, Captain?
I mean, no offense, but you being English, and all. Over.”

“I’ve spent some time in California. My wife’s from Los Angeles. Over.”

Feldman’s laughter bubbled in Greene’s earpieces. “California girls are somethin’, aren’t they? Bet your wife is blonde, right,
Captain? Over.”

“As a matter of fact, she is.” Greene laughed. “Tell me, are you married, Lieutenant? Over.”

Feldman sighed. “Sometimes I think I was born married, Captain. I got me a wife, all right, and two little kids waiting for
me back in California. Sure do wish I was home. Over.”

“So do I, Lieutenant. So do I.” Greene realized that when he thought of home he didn’t picture London, but that flat he’d
had in Santa Monica, and Suze, tanned and lovely in a bathing suit, frolicking on a California Beach. “I’ll be going back
to California, after the war. Over.”

“I’m relieved to think that
I
might make it back to California, and that my whole crew might live to see home, thanks to you. Over.”

“I’m glad to be of service to you. Say, have you ever eaten at Donde’s near Santa Monica Pier? Over.”

“I love Donde’s,” Feldman exclaimed. “You ever have the abalone sautéed in oil and garlic? Over.”

“That’s all my wife and I have ever ordered there.” Greene laughed. “Over.”

“God, just talking about it makes my mouth water—” Feldman began, but then stopped abruptly. “My copilot thinks he saw the
sun glinting off something coming up fast on the starboard side. He’s not sure, but—Shit, yes! There it is. Oh, shit—”

Greene turned to look, in time to see an Me-109 swing past, and then seem to abruptly waver in the air as its surprised pilot
evidently spotted the Hurricane.

“Captain, you’ve got to get that fucker!” Feldman cried out, panicked. “If he zeroes in on our tail with those 20-millimeter
cannons, we’re dead ducks! Over.”

“I’m going after him, Lieutenant,” Greene said calmly, banking to pursue the fighter.
Of course, I’m running on fumes as it is, about all I’ve got left to throw at him is spit
, Greene thought as he opened up the throttle to climb up onto the still dumbfounded Hun pilot’s tail. He centered the Messerschmitt
in his sights and fired. His rounds were striking home, but his two .30-caliber Brownings were just not enough to knock the
fighter down. His guns clicked empty as the Me-109 rolled away.

“You had him, and you let him go, Captain! What happened? Over.”

Greene watched ruefully as the Messerschmitt began circling around to take up an attack position on the bomber’s tail. “I’m
out of ammo. Over.”

“Then we’re out of luck,” Feldman said softly. “Fuck it, Captain. You tried, now save your ass, while you still got the gas
left to do it. Go on, get out of here. Over.”

“I’m not going to leave ten men to that goddamned German bastard,” Greene said angrily. “I’ll go after him again. Maybe I
can bluff him, or at the very least, decoy him away from you. Over.”

Greene came around to make a passing dive at the Hun pilot, who totally ignored him. Evidently the German had realized that
the Hurricane was out of ammo, and harmless. Nor was the German about to be decoyed into chasing after a skinny little fighter
when he had a big, juicy, Yank bomber to chew on.

The Me-109 was just opening fire on the bomber when Greene swooped past again. This time he gritted his teeth, and came in
so close that the Hun pilot had to break off his attack and take evasive maneuvers for fear of a collision. The German seemed
to lose his temper and began to chase after Greene, but then he seemed to regain control of himself. The Me-109 broke off
its pursuit, returning its attentions to the bomber.

Greene turned as well, locking onto the Messerschmitt’s tail, hoping to once again distract the German—

Not a chance. The Hun pilot had clearly caught on. Greene angrily thumbed his useless triggers as he watched the silvery Messerschmitt
insolently take its time rolling past his gun sights on its way back to the limping bomber. The bloody Hun! If only he had
some ammo! But he didn’t. All he had was his airplane…

He keyed his throat mike. “Listen to me, Lieutenant,” he began evenly. “Here’s the coordinates and radio frequency of my base.”
Greene quickly ran through the information. “Take it slow and easy and you’ll make it okay. Over.”

“What are you going to do?” the Yank pilot demanded. “Over.”

“Do what I get paid to do,” Greene said. “Knock down enemy fighters. Over.” He pulled back on his stick to climb high above
the Messerschmitt that was angling down onto the low-flying bomber’s tail.

“You haven’t got any ammo—”

“Tell you what, Lieutenant, when you get back to California, you go to Donde’s and have some abalone for me—”

“
Goddammit
, Captain—”

Greene had to smile. The poor lad sounded close to tears. “And give my love to the wife and kiddies. Right, lad?” He thought
about Suze. His heart began to pound and his mouth was suddenly bone dry. “All of your crew,” he stammered hoarsely. “Tell
all of them to give my love to their wives and kids…”