Of Windmills and War (28 page)

36

December
1944

Framlingham
,
England

It was so strange waking up and realizing once again I
wasn’t in
America
anymore—though I use
the term “waking up” rather loosely. I’m going to have to find a way to make
this so-called bed more comfortable. The cross-bar beneath my mattress hits me
right at the hip. No way to get comfortable. I finally got up and stuffed some
of my dirty clothes up over that bar. But that was nothing compared to the
cold. Once the fire went out in the stove, there was no way to get warm. I
think I finally just shivered myself to sleep around
3:00
this
morning.

After we cleaned up, we made the long, muddy walk over to
the Officers Mess
for breakfast. I couldn’t stomach
powdered eggs this morning so I took some black bread and “toasted” it on the
tent oven. I covered it with butter and jam and washed it down with several
mugs of coffee. It would have to do.

When we finished eating, we were given a tour of the base.
In daylight, we could finally see our surroundings. The base is set in a
patchwork of fields and densely wooded areas located about seventeen miles
northeast of
Ipswich
,
England
, and just
ten miles from the coast of the
North Sea
. We
were told the entire Eighth Air Force is based in a 40x80 mile strip that
stretches north/northeast of
London
. Like
most of the 42 bases of the Eighth Air Force, ours was built in the heart of
English farmland. Rumor has it the neighboring farmers had kept their distance
when the Americans first set up bases here, offering a cold shoulder to the
Yanks for waiting so long to engage in this long-suffering war. They were often
heard to say, “The trouble with Yanks is, they’re overpaid, oversexed, and over
here.” But as time passed, I understand they’ve become more friendly, most
likely because of the many overtures made to them—Christmas parties, concerts
by visiting celebrities, and the generous gifts offered by our guys at a time
of prolonged rationing here.

Like most bases over here, the living areas of each squadron
are spaced far apart to lower the risk of a complete wipeout should the enemy
send a bombing raid over here. I suppose I should feel comforted by that
thought? The three runways form a triangle around which the rest of the base
lies.

Each of the four squadrons here has its own site area which
is actually nothing more than a quarter-mile stretch of road lined with Nissen
huts. “Anderson’s Crew,” as we are now known, is situated in Site 3, about a
half mile from the Communal Site which houses the mess halls, the Officers’ Club,
and the Red Cross Aero Club for the enlisted men. On the perimeter of the base,
we saw the ammunition area, the bomb drop, sick quarters, sub depots, and a
huge area that houses the technical site. They also took us to the hut where
the parachutes are maintained. Watching guys pack those chutes gave me the
willies. When you fly, it’s inevitable, I suppose—needing one of those. But I
wouldn’t mind at all fulfilling my duty over here without ever needing one.

Each squadron’s site includes its Squadron Headquarters, an
Orderly Room, and the living quarters for officers and enlisted men, as well as
the latrine and the “cleansing” and “ablution” areas. (You’ve got to love the
Brits and the interesting words they come up with.) All in all, it’s pretty
rustic but for now, it’s home.

Over the next few weeks, Danny did his best to get used to
the living conditions at the base in Framlingham. The cold, miserable weather
didn’t help the flying conditions for their numerous practice runs. Compared to
previous training, they were acutely aware of the fact that this was serious
combat training. Now they were learning how to operate as part of a Squadron
and Group. The elaborate, highly choreographed formation flying had required
hours of grueling practice back in the states. Now, as they rehearsed in the
frigid skies above
England
, they flew in sync with other
Fortresses of the 390th. Returning to base, they would fly low over the fields
of Framlingham, veering left in sequence as each group landed one by one.

When they weren’t flying, Danny and the other officers participated
in constant briefings about the war effort and the 390th’s role in it. The
Allies continued to make progress in the Continent (
Europe
), but
the job was far from completion. With its incredible success of daylight
bombing raids, the Eighth Air Force had given the Allies a much-needed boost to
defeat the German Luftwaffe. But plenty of targets deep in Germany—Nazi
refineries, munitions and armament plants, marshaling yards, rail lines and
shipyards—continued to dominate the daily mission lists of the Eighth Air Force,
including the 390th.

One afternoon, following a particularly bothersome briefing,
Danny stepped outside of the Squadron Headquarters into the drizzle. As he
stopped under the awning to put on his cap, a fellow-officer joined him.

“Makes you wish for those warm summers back home, doesn’t
it?

“You can say that again. I used to moan and grown about all
those stiff winds off
Lake
Michigan
, but
I’ll never complain again after this.”

“From
Chicago
?”

“Yes, and you?”

“Born and raised in
St. Louis
. I
suppose you could say we were once neighbors.” He held out a gloved hand. “Name’s
Charles Janssen, but my friends call me Charlie.”

“Danny McClain,” he said, shaking his hand. “Nice to meet
you, Charlie.”

As they stepped out into the light rain, Janssen asked, “How
many missions, McClain?”

“None, yet. Just got here a little over two weeks ago, but
we’re hoping to get the call any day now.”

“Well, you’re not far behind us. My crew arrived here on
Thanksgiving Day. Flew our first mission on 11 December. Flew our second
mission the next day.”

“Yeah? What was that like?”

“Good to get under our belts, that’s for sure. I couldn’t
stop shaking for hours after we got back to base after that first one. I’ve
flown in all kinds of weather, in all kinds of planes, even flew through a monster
electrical storm one night back at
Las Vegas
. But
I’m here to tell you, that’s all kid stuff compared to this.”

“I keep hearing that. Hey, I’m heading over to the Officers’
Club. Can I buy you a cup of coffee?”

“Sure thing,” Janssen said as he turned toward the Club. “But
we all got home in one piece, so I’m thankful for that.”

They ordered coffee and found a couple of leather chairs by
the fireplace. “What was the worst part of it?” Danny asked. “What do I need to
know that they haven’t told us yet?”

Janssen took a sip of the hot brew. “Everything they tell
you about the flak is true—times ten.” He shook his head, looking into the glow
of the fire. “What a nightmare. I’ll take a fighter any day compared to that
stuff.”

“Did you encounter fighters as well?”

“Did we ever. Our target was
Koblenz
,
Germany
. In
fact,
Koblenz
was
our target both days. Picked up our first fighters just after we’d crossed the
North
Sea
.
Came out of nowhere. Thankfully we had some Little Friends along for the ride.
Don’t know what we’d do without those Thunderbolts running cover for us.
Watching them swarm all over those Jerries—what a relief.”

Danny leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees,
cradling his coffee mug in his hands. “Charlie, how’d you handle the shakes
while you were up there? I’m in the right seat and our pilot, Dick Anderson, is
the best there is. Still, in the middle of the night, I keep having these
dreams about losing it . . . I forget everything I’ve been
taught and I just sit there, unable to function. Drives me nuts, those dreams.”

“Well, the good news is, you’re not alone. We all fight the
fear, one way or another. And the thing is, I never really panicked or had the
shakes up there. Wasn’t til I got back to base. Funny how that happens,
y’know?”

“I guess,” Danny answered, not really convinced.

“The hardest part is all this waiting. It gives you too much
time to think about all that stuff. Once you get that first mission behind you,
it’ll make a world of difference. Like I said, we flew our second mission the
very next day, and I wasn’t near as rattled on that one.”

“Good to know.”

Janssen set his mug on the side table. “So tell me, which is
it, McClain—Cubs or White Sox?”

“What kind of choice is that?” Danny laughed. “The only team
in
Chicago
, of
course—the Cubs!”

“Yeah? We’re a two-team baseball town as well.” He paused,
scratching the back of his head. “Remind me again—who won the World Series this
year? Was it
St. Louis
? Or was it
St. Louis
?”

“Is this where I’m supposed to chuckle?” Danny teased.

Charlie threw his head back, laughing. “Yes, I believe it
is. McClain, I have a feeling you and I are gonna be good friends.”

37

22
December 1944

Framlingham
,
England

Charlie
Janssen was right. The waiting was about to get the best of Danny McClain. The abysmal
weather conditions had caused numerous missions to be aborted which set most
everyone on base on edge. At this rate, he wondered if they’d ever get off the
ground again.

On his
way back to his quarters after lunch, Danny dug his gloved hands deep into the
pockets of his leather flight jacket. He chewed his gum aggressively, wishing
he could shake the worrisome shadow hanging over him. He hadn’t been this edgy
since his last few days at Northwestern. He’d tried to shake it off, this
nagging feeling just beneath the surface, but it wouldn’t let him go.

Plus, something
was going on with his pilot. Dick Anderson had grown increasingly quiet, which
concerned Danny more than he cared to admit. They bunked in the same quarters,
they attended the same briefings, they often ate at the same table in the mess
hall. But no matter how hard he tried to make conversation, all he got was the
bare minimum when he responded. Sure, they were all cranky from being grounded
so long. But why weren’t they communicating? Danny told himself it was just Dick’s
way.
Funny, I used to hear Mom say the same thing about Dad’s moods.
Thankfully, Dick’s nothing like Dad. Then again, there’s nothing in the manual
about a pilot and co-pilot having to be friends . . .

“Hey,
Danny!” Charlie hollered, waking Danny from his thoughts. “We’re going into
town for a while. Come with us.”

He looked
up just as his friend and some of his fellow officers poured out of their
quarters. “Where you headed?”

“Who
knows? C’mon. You got something better to do?”

Danny
picked up his pace. “Well, there’s that letter I owe Rita Hayworth, but I
suppose it can wait.”

A
barrage of teasing and laughter filled the air as he joined them and continued
as they loaded a troop truck headed for Framlingham. They huddled as the wind
whipped through the back of the truck, its tarp cover doing little to buffet
the chilly air. They almost lost Charlie’s navigator when the truck hit a deep
hole in the mud-filled road, but no one seemed to mind the bumpy ride. A few
miles down the road they passed an enormous castle sitting high on a hill
overlooking the town. Danny remembered seeing it from the air on their many
practice runs—a massive circle of walls and chimneys, ringed around an empty,
vacant area.

“Framlingham
Castle, right?” someone asked.

“Right
so, right so,” answered a co-pilot named Banks in a pitiful attempt at an
English accent. “You see, the castle dates all the way back to the seventh
century when it was founded by some Saxon king. But early in the twelfth
century, Lord Hugh leBigod built a great and strong castle—”

“By god,
I think he built it!” someone quipped.

“As I
was saying,” Banks continued, “the strong castle which was later rebuilt by
Roger leBigod—”

“By god—
another
by god?”

“Yes,
mate, Roger leBigod, Earl of Norfolk. But the history of the castle doesn’t get
really interesting until the reign of Henry the Eighth when—”

“By god,
there’s now a Henry?” someone else teased.

“Banks,
pipe down, will you?” Charlie shouted. “You’re reminding me of my history
teacher back in
St. Louis
. Although I must say, you’re
much better looking than she was.”

“I was
only trying to give you chaps a lay of the land where we’ve made our temporary
home,” Banks pleaded, still feigning the accent. “We’ve basically butted our
way in, leveled their farmhouses and fields, then rumbled their walls and
shattered their fine china with the roar of our planes. The least we can do is
respect their long and colorful history.”

“Well
said! Well said!” they all mocked, shouting and clapping.

“Now
stuff a sock in it, Banks!”

As the
walls of the castle disappeared in the truck’s cloud of exhaust, the vehicle
pulled into the quaint village town of
Framlingham
. A
light snow had just begun to fall. In any other setting, it would be a
beautiful place to visit, Danny thought. The steep cobblestone roofs of the
shops and homes made for a picturesque setting, even in the wintry weather.
People rushed about, their coats wrapped tightly around them, their heads
covered against the blustery wind.

All of
a sudden the truck lurched to a stop, tossing them all forward.

“I
guess this is where we get out,” someone joked.

“Cherry-oh!”
Banks teased, hopping down to the soggy road.

“Right
this way, gentlemen,” Charlie added, pointing as he jumped down. “
Quincy
’s Pub
is just across the road there.”

Danny shook
his head. He’d had a feeling they’d end up in one of the many pubs he’d heard
about here. Drinking seemed to be the favorite past time both on and off base,
so he wasn’t surprised a trip into town would include a pint or two. Or three.

It
struck him as funny that things weren’t really so different back home at
Northwestern. Weekends on campus meant fraternity parties, dorm parties, and dance
parties. Come to think of it, just about any excuse was good enough for a
party. Between work and studies, he’d never been a part of those occasions.
Well, except for a couple of dances he and Beverly crashed.

That
would be Mrs. Ronnie Wentworth now.

“McClain!
Over here!” Charlie called, again snapping Danny out of his thoughts.

He followed
the guys through the crowded, smoke-filled room to a rustic table in the
corner. A young woman with a white apron tied around her waist approached their
table.

“What’ll
it be, Yanks?”

“Aye,
and aren’t you a lovely sight for sore eyes,” Banks said, this time in a messy
Irish brogue. A round of groans cut him off.

“Not
again, Banks,” the navigator named Whitlow said, redirecting his attention to
the waitress. “Hello, sweetheart. How about you bring us all a couple pints to
start.”

“I’d be
more than happy to, Yank. But let’s get one thing straight. I’m not your
sweetheart. I’m the owner’s daughter. See my Da over there? Yes, that’s him.
The one with the shotgun on the wall behind him? So stay as long as you like,
drink as much as you can, be don’t be calling me your sweetheart.”

As she
turned to go, they all stood and applauded, cheering madly as Whitlow shook his
head in defeat.

“Whitlow,
how is that you’ve already crashed and burned, and you haven’t flown a mission
yet?” a guy named Reid asked.

“You
haven’t flown a mission yet?” Danny asked.

“No,
we’ve been aborted three times because of this stupid weather,” the rascally
kid said. “I’m not on Janssen’s crew. I’m on Feeney’s Crew. We’ve been waiting
for weeks. Finally got our call Sunday, and three times they’ve scrubbed our
missions before we got off the ground. I’ve gotta tell ya, it’s making me a
little crazy.”

“Yeah?”
Charlie said. “Well, don’t be messin’ with the owner’s daughter, okay? We came
to have fun, not to get our heads blown off.”

The
waitress returned with a tray full of dark brews in thick glass steins. She set
them down on the table, sloshing foam here and there. “Anything else,
gentlemen?”

“Would
it be too much to ask your name?” Banks asked, without a trace of any accent.

“Not at
all. My name is Sophie.”

Danny opened
his mouth, then clamped it shut.

“Was
there something you wanted to say?” she asked.

He felt
his face heating. “It’s a lovely name. That’s all.”

“Well,
thank you. Have a nice time, Yanks. I’ll check back in a bit to check for
refills.”

“Thanks,
Sophie,” Charlie said with a wink. As she moved to another table, he turned to
Danny. “What was that all about?”

He
couldn’t help his grin. “Nothing. Just the name of , uh—well, just reminded
me of someone back home.”

Charlie’s
eyebrows arched. “Is that so? Someone special?”

Danny laughed.
“You could say that.”

Charlie
raised his glass. “To Sophie!”

They
all raised their glasses. “To Sophie!”

The
waitress looked over her shoulder, tossing them a smile as she shook her head.

As the
snow began to fill the corners of the pub’s windows, the guys spent the rest of
the afternoon talking, drinking, singing, and drinking a little more. Danny
sipped the dark ale slowly, careful not to overdo it. He’d never cared for the
taste of beer, but something about the surroundings here prodded him to overcome
all that. It seemed to defuse the stress of the last few weeks. After downing
his second pint, he excused himself to the restroom. He was a bit woozy when he
first stood up, but took his time, careful to walk as normally as possible.
When he returned, the pub owner waved him over to the bar.

“Yes,
sir?”

The
weathered face of the old man suddenly warmed with a smile. “I like that. A
Yank with manners. You must be from a good family, son.”

Danny sat
on a stool at the bar. “Yes, sir, I am. And any manners I may have, you can
thank my mother.”

“I
expect she’s a fine woman. Raised a boy to respect his elders. Yes, a fine
woman indeed.”

“You
had a question?” Danny asked, leaning his elbows on the worn oak bar.

“Question?
Oh—yes. I wanted to ask where you’re from. I like to know where our boys come
from, you see.”

“From
Chicago
,
Illinois
, sir.
That’s in the
United States
.”

He
laughed. “That much I got from the uniform. And how long have you been a guest
in Framlingham?”

“Arrived
three weeks ago. Haven’t flown a mission yet, but happy to be here, sir.”

The pub
owner wiped off a section of the bar. “We don’t thank you boys enough for what
you’re doing. A lot of folks around here—well, they have their reasons and I’ll
not fault them for it. But I want to thank you for your service. For leaving
your home and coming to this cold, wet country so far from home.”

“Thank
you, sir. I appreciate that.”

“My son
is with the RAF. We . . . well, my son and I don’t get along
much these days. Which is why he doesn’t often come to visit. But I’m proud of
my boy. I’m proud of all of you. You’re all so young.” His eyes glistened. “So
young. I see boys like you come in here and then some . . . well,
some I never see again.” He blinked several times then took a deep breath.
“Well now, you didn’t come in here to watch an old man cry. Go.” He waved his
hand. “Go back and join your friends.”

“There
you are. We wondered what happened to you.” Charlie slid onto the bar stool
next to his.

“I was
just having a nice chat here with—”

“
Quincy
. Patrick
Quincy.” He shook both their hands.

“With Patrick
Quincy,” Danny finished.

“Hit us
with a couple more, Mr. Quincy,” Charlie said. “You have a very lovely
daughter, sir.”

Quincy
’s face
tightened. “I do, but what is it to you?”

Charlie
raised his hands. “No! I meant no disrespect! I was merely paying you a
compliment, I assure you. She knows how to handle my buddies over there, and
she’s got a smart head on her shoulders. I meant only to compliment her—and you
for raising her, sir.”

Quincy
set
the two glasses on the bar. “Then I shall take the compliment and thank you.
She is her mother’s daughter. The spitting image of my Anna, God rest her soul.”

“Anna?”
Danny said after a rather large gulp of ale, the foam still on his lip.

“Yes, Anna.
Died three years ago Christmas day. Sweetest woman on the face of God’s green earth.”

A group
of enlisted men blew into the room, raising the noise level considerably.
Quincy
made
his way toward them, leaving Danny and Charlie at the bar.

“So
there’s a Sophie
and
an Anna? I noticed your face light up when the old
guy spoke of his late wife.”

Danny took
another long drink, stalling for time. He didn’t realize he’d been so
transparent.

“So?”

“No,
there’s no Anna.”

“My
mistake.”

“There
is, however, an
Anya
.”

“Now
we’re getting somewhere. Tell me about your Anya.”

“She’s
not
my
Anya. It’s not like that at all.”

And
yet, Danny couldn’t stop talking about the Dutch girl who used to write him.
The feisty preacher’s kid who couldn’t stay out of trouble. The heartbroken
young girl whose brother drowned while trying to save a child who’d fallen
through the ice. An angry young woman who hated what Hitler and his Nazis were
doing to the nearby countries in
Europe
. The troubled
friend he’d grown to care deeply about. The one whose letters he couldn’t wait
to read—until the letters stopped coming when
Holland
also
fell beneath the German jackboot.