then the two of them, the pilot and the copilot, walked slowly around the plane, shining flashlights up into the wheel housings and looking for oil leaks under the
engines. When they finished, they came back, saluted the generals and shook their hands; then they ordered the rest of us up into the bomber. From here on out, the responsibility for delivering the device was all ours, nobody else’s.
The solemnity of the moment left us all subdued. That plus the unusual circumstances of two generals and a chaplain coming all the way out to the end of the field for our departure. There was none of the usual wiseass chatter as we climbed into our seats, hooked up our oxygen and buckled our harnesses. We went through our checklists without the usual banter. Even Hope kept his mouth shut for a change. Finally, Colonel Peck started the engines and they clattered explosively to life. They sputtered and smoked and then abruptly caught with a bang. The bird began to vibrate like a 1932 Ford on a rutted road. Colonel Reagan fussed with the fuel mixture to compensate for all the water vapor in the air.
We rolled out onto the end of the runway and turned into the wind. Colonel Peck closed his eyes for a moment—a silent prayer?—then picked up his microphone and asked the tower for permission to take off. The tower’s reply was crisp. “Go with God.” It would be our last communication. From here on out, strict radio silence would be observed.
Colonel Peck ran the engines up, louder and louder until the plane was howling like a banshee. He turned in his seat to look at the left wing; Reagan turned to look at the right. Satisfied, they both turned back. Colonel Peck put his hands firmly on the wheel, bit his lip and let the plane leap forward. I glanced out the front windshield, but all I saw was a gray wall of haze. He had to be steering by the line of flares along the sides of the runway. I glanced out the side window and tried to gauge our speed by the passing red pinpoints. Faster and faster—they leapt out of the gloom ahead of us and vanished into the gloom behind. Colonel Reagan began calling out airspeed numbers.
At first I didn’t think we were going to make it into the air. The bird was heavy and the air was thick and wet. The engines weren’t happy. The bird was bouncing and buffeting. Colonel Peck must have been having a hell of a time keeping us on the concrete. And the end of the runway had to be getting awfully close ... but at the last moment, the colonel gunned it, grabbed hold of the sky and pulled us up over the trees—so close, I could feel the branches scraping our belly.
We bounced up through the damn fog, shaking and buffeting and cursing all the way. But the bird held together, and at last we climbed up into the clear blue sky above the gray blanket. Suddenly, the warm June sun poured down on us like a welcome smile, filling the plane with lemon-yellow light. The air smoothed out and the bird stopped complaining. Colonel Peck glanced back to me with a smile. I gave him a big thumbs-up.
We were on our way to Germany. And Berlin. And history.
Crossing the channel, we saw some fishing boats. Even in the midst of war, men still cast their nets into the sea to feed their families. I wondered if they looked up and wondered about us in turn. Did they ever think about the planes that crossed back and forth across the channel, and if so, did they wish us well—or did they just resent the burden of the war.
I scribbled notes in the log. Time, position, heading. At the opposite end of the plane, Van Johnson was probably writing another love letter to his fiancée, June. He wrote one every mission and mailed it as soon as we landed. She wrote back every time she got a letter from him. We teased him about it, but we envied him the letters and the connection to someone back home.
“Okay, Jimmy,” Colonel Peck turned around to me. “What’s it going to be? Paris or Amsterdam?”
I pulled out my lucky silver
engines. When they finished, they came back, saluted the generals and shook their hands; then they ordered the rest of us up into the bomber. From here on out, the responsibility for delivering the device was all ours, nobody else’s.
The solemnity of the moment left us all subdued. That plus the unusual circumstances of two generals and a chaplain coming all the way out to the end of the field for our departure. There was none of the usual wiseass chatter as we climbed into our seats, hooked up our oxygen and buckled our harnesses. We went through our checklists without the usual banter. Even Hope kept his mouth shut for a change. Finally, Colonel Peck started the engines and they clattered explosively to life. They sputtered and smoked and then abruptly caught with a bang. The bird began to vibrate like a 1932 Ford on a rutted road. Colonel Reagan fussed with the fuel mixture to compensate for all the water vapor in the air.
We rolled out onto the end of the runway and turned into the wind. Colonel Peck closed his eyes for a moment—a silent prayer?—then picked up his microphone and asked the tower for permission to take off. The tower’s reply was crisp. “Go with God.” It would be our last communication. From here on out, strict radio silence would be observed.
Colonel Peck ran the engines up, louder and louder until the plane was howling like a banshee. He turned in his seat to look at the left wing; Reagan turned to look at the right. Satisfied, they both turned back. Colonel Peck put his hands firmly on the wheel, bit his lip and let the plane leap forward. I glanced out the front windshield, but all I saw was a gray wall of haze. He had to be steering by the line of flares along the sides of the runway. I glanced out the side window and tried to gauge our speed by the passing red pinpoints. Faster and faster—they leapt out of the gloom ahead of us and vanished into the gloom behind. Colonel Reagan began calling out airspeed numbers.
At first I didn’t think we were going to make it into the air. The bird was heavy and the air was thick and wet. The engines weren’t happy. The bird was bouncing and buffeting. Colonel Peck must have been having a hell of a time keeping us on the concrete. And the end of the runway had to be getting awfully close ... but at the last moment, the colonel gunned it, grabbed hold of the sky and pulled us up over the trees—so close, I could feel the branches scraping our belly.
We bounced up through the damn fog, shaking and buffeting and cursing all the way. But the bird held together, and at last we climbed up into the clear blue sky above the gray blanket. Suddenly, the warm June sun poured down on us like a welcome smile, filling the plane with lemon-yellow light. The air smoothed out and the bird stopped complaining. Colonel Peck glanced back to me with a smile. I gave him a big thumbs-up.
We were on our way to Germany. And Berlin. And history.
Crossing the channel, we saw some fishing boats. Even in the midst of war, men still cast their nets into the sea to feed their families. I wondered if they looked up and wondered about us in turn. Did they ever think about the planes that crossed back and forth across the channel, and if so, did they wish us well—or did they just resent the burden of the war.
I scribbled notes in the log. Time, position, heading. At the opposite end of the plane, Van Johnson was probably writing another love letter to his fiancée, June. He wrote one every mission and mailed it as soon as we landed. She wrote back every time she got a letter from him. We teased him about it, but we envied him the letters and the connection to someone back home.
“Okay, Jimmy,” Colonel Peck turned around to me. “What’s it going to be? Paris or Amsterdam?”
I pulled out my lucky silver
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