July 4, 1942 over Hamburg
As soon as his bird ceased dancing the hula, Colonel Robert E. Hogan, code named Goldilocks, adjusted the franistan supraorbital valve, which was a new instrument he didn't fully understand. It was notoriously sensitive to jiggling, juking and jinking. In his B-25B Mitchell, such erratic flight movements outside of battle meant today's weather report neglected to add "higher than normal stratospheric winds dipping down to the troposphere" to its July 4, 1942, prediction of "clear skies at 10,000 feet, wear your summer regs, chaps."
Hogan did not appreciate humor on a mission. Humor belonged back at base, relaxing with pilots, joshing the mechanics, laughing at Fibber McGee and Molly on the radio because what would the world be without friends, right? He adjusted the headphones more snugly over his ears since the tips of the props spun a mere foot outside the pilot's canopy. Hand signals to his co-pilot to take over produced a nod; O'Donoghue could guide their airship back home to England's fair green fields after this successful extended mission with all eggs dropped to targets. In mid-summer, preparing for harvest played its usual role in securing food for the sceptered isle, only these years many doughty Land Girls worked the fields. At least in July, these ladies could rest up for August and September's intense labors. He looked ahead and down at Hamburg's immense urbanity, far from country calm.
Harvest in the States probably meant a similar deployment of female resources, Hogan mused as he slid deeper into his seat. Dance partners drenched with Mystikum perfume might prove scarce at his favorite ballroom, so maybe he'd get the chance to sit on the bandstand to pound a kettledrum or two. He jolted back to the present. Eggs dropped, no bogeys in sight on this clear summer day; he let himself plan as innocently as Goldilocks entering a bear's home filled with goodies. He was smart and he knew it; at 10,000 feet, he hadn't run into anyone smarter and he doubted if someone smarter than he existed at ground level, either. He was smart with people, if not the intricacies of a franistan supraorbital valve.
The B-25B Mitchell's range topped at 1200 miles. Today's mission to bomb the hell out of Kassel's Henschel Factories, swing north to Hamburg for a final fillip of firepower flaming a U-Boat pen, and then scoot homeward totaled 1342 miles. Hogan swelled his chest and bet the wings upon it that the experimental franistan supraorbital valve could make up the 100-odd mile difference. He double checked his panel. The interlocking granistan joint held steady as it regulated the valve.
Goldilocks could rest easy on his fluffy bed.
The valve indicator remained steady. The high winds departed.
April's Doolittle raid on Tokyo in B-25Bs hadn't the valve or joint; he did on this endurance test flight with the RAF. The inspiration value to American pilots would prove invaluable when they arrived in force soon and he'd be part of that. After losses in the Pacific and the Aleutians just last month, the Allies needed men of his caliber to plan strategies, offer tactics and support new ideas.
Hogan pulled his cap low after double checking their fighter escort a football field away and side eyeing O'Donoghue, who flashed him a thumbs up. Some downtime couldn't hurt. Sunshine filled the cockpit and his soul as he let go the yoke and crossed his arms to think. A deluge of colors flashed red yellow blue while the engines of intellect whirrrred.
After a timeless time, the real and metaphorical sunshine grew monotonous. It was the curse of a creative mind. It was on a day like this that he'd conceived the idea of forwarding annoying paperwork to John Smith.
Summer sunshine couldn't last forever. He'd heard pilots swear that bombing and even finding Kassel in winter played havoc because of the fog. RAF mechanics swore it was like the great fogs of London their grandparents told stories about, a thick yellow-gray peasouper that defied piercing. Well, he had an answer for that because nobody less than Hercules was on the Allies' side.
He couldn't wait to debrief this mission. He'd wow his superiors about the Wilhelmshöhe Bergpark above Kassel, its copper demigod statue cast in seventeen-hundred-whatever gazing protectively down upon the large city. He calculated, approximated and awaited HQ's precise measurements to aid the grand battle plan of the winter of 1942 through 1943: using the Krauts' own grandiose Hercules statue against them. About 1100 feet above the town, right? Unmistakable outline poking up through the fog, right? Facing the town, right? Only the top of the head and outstretched arm could be spotted from above, and he'd spotted it. He patted his inside pocket, where precise coordinates rested in his notebook. Through fog, rain or dark of night, the coordinates spelled destruction for Kassel's armaments factories.
He'd leave the final calculation to the cartographers. "Save one for Kassel" would be his new motto in his future flights, for every pilot's flight in B-25B, B-17 or the warbird coming attraction, the Douglas A-26 Invader.
Hogan twitched to full alertness and looked around. Where did their fighter support get to? A fine sweat beaded O'Donoghue's brow. It wasn't like him to be this quiet. Shadows drowned the clear sunshine in Hogan's soul.
Hogan adjusted the mic to his lips even though O'Donoghue's seat was only 24 inches away. He toggled the switch to address the three crew members behind him through the roar of the props as well. "Where are the P-51s?"
"Skipper, they've - "
"Bogey at nine o'clock!"
Uh oh.
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The End.
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