ANZAC Day

©2008 by: Natalie

Part 2

MARCH, 1944

The four hour flight from Waddington was relatively uneventful. Just a routine night run, protected for the most part by heavy cloud cover which trailed off into wispy puffs as they closed in on their target: Frankfurt, Germany. As squadron neared, more and more searchlights circled the skies looking for the incoming raiders. The Lancaster known as S-for-Sheila flew in tight formation with the other Lancasters, headed by G-for-George. Sheila’s pilot, F/O Lachlan Curry, was struck once again by the awesome, terrible beauty of the night sky as they headed toward their target.

The bright searchlights, the bombers silhouetted by colorful bursting flares, the cascading incendiaries as they rained down on the target, the bright blasts as the incendiaries exploded into full-blown fires. One by one, each bomber made its run to the target, weaving slightly at first to avoid the increasing flak, then straight and steady, releasing their “cookie” and several incendiaries, then moving away so the next could take its turn. In the end, the entire mission was accomplished within fifteen minutes and the squadron turned for home, chased by enemy fighters until they lost themselves, hidden in the heavy, high cloud cover.

~*~

Safely landed and ready to take a relaxed breath again, Lachlan and his crew celebrated the successful mission in the nearby pub. On well-earned leave, beers in hand and comfortable friendship all around, the men huddled together to talk and laugh. Flight Engineer, Jim ‘Sporty’ Walker took on a serious expression and leaned in even tighter.

“I tell ya, mates, somethin’s up,” Sporty asserted quietly and all ears trained on him. “There’s somethin’ big comin’ down. We’ve had more and more runs scheduled and more of them in France than Germany.”

“Just a change of focus, that’s all,” answered Bomb-Aimer George Allen in his ‘upper crust Pom’ accent. “Besides, there’s something far more important to discuss. Namely, have you seen the new barmaid and who will have a crack at her first?”

“Yeah, I have,” Lachlan teased, “and what chance you sorry lot think you’ve got, I don’t know.”

“Oh, now,” Sporty challenged, “what makes you think you’ve got a chance, mate, with your ugly mug?”

Lachlan laughed. “Better than you, mate.”

They each gave it their best shot from the table; winking, teasing, flirting, but Sporty was the first to take a run at the target. The men sat, silent as field mice and watched. At first it looked like the mission would be accomplished quickly. Sporty was leaning close to her ear and she was nodding. But then she leaned in and whispered in his ear. Whatever she said had Sporty back at the table and empty handed, a scowl on his face. “Next,” he grunted at their laughter.

George straightened his collar, rubbed a finger across his pearly white teeth and grinned. “Leave the serious work to the Brit, boys. They don’t call me the Bomb-Aimer for nothing. Sit back, watch and learn.”

That didn’t take long at all. Before they could all quiet and focus on his activity at the bar, the pretty barmaid had swung and slammed her palm against George’s face causing him to rock back on his heels. All observers were shocked, some grunting a gasp of surprise, others covering their own faces.

“Whoa,” Lachlan squinted his eyes, curled his brow and leaned his chair way back.

George rubbed his reddening cheek, bowed pompously and returned to the table. “Can’t be had, that one, mates.” He pressed his beer glass against his wounded pride.

All eyes turned to Lachlan. “Bloody hell,” he groaned and stood then shrugged and walked to the bar.

Her blue eyes flashed and his step slowed. “Uh, beer please,” Lachlan said carefully.

“S’at all you want?”

“Yeah, beer please. S’all I want.”

“Too bad,” she slid the beer across the bar and he reached for it. As his fingers wrapped around the glass, hers lightly wrapped around his. “’Cause I’ve been waiting for you to come talk to me, handsome.”

And so, it was Lachlan who spent the night in the arms of the lovely blond barmaid who reminded him of Betsy back in Manitoba.

It was a time when there was a wistful joy to touching and holding another human being, to feeling her life heat his own and marking his memory with her soft voice in the darkness. Simple, animal-like moments when a man was a man and there was no war. There was only the curve of a woman’s breast, the softness of her sighs and the cry of her need. Lachlan, that spring night in March, was lucky, lucky, lucky.

His memories trailed back to lovely Lil, who he hadn’t thought of in a year or more. He was surprised at that. At one time, she was the most important person in his life and never far from his mind, but so much had happened to change all that. He tried to call up the emotion he felt for her back in Canada, but it was gone, replaced by warm memories and wishing her well. He was one of the lucky few who had survived, at least this far, and he was near the end of his second tour of duty. One more flight, then he was to be reassigned, possibly back in Canada, an instructor as Zeke was.

The barmaid’s name was Darla. She was sweet and soft and filled every need he had that night. She’d even shared her bed with him until the morning when he kissed her a fond farewell and left with a whistling grin. When he got back after the next assignment, he’d be sure to see her before he was sent away. He’d be bloody damn sure.

~*~

Two days later and back on base after leave, they prepared for their next assignment. This time France, taking out strategic targets in the north. Lachlan knew that Sporty was correct in the pub. Something huge was coming up and they were part of the preparations for it. The entire crew felt it, that chill of fear and adrenaline right before a mission. There was no banter during pre-flight check, no chuckles or teasing. Nothing that would indicate that these were young men. They were all war torn souls heading for one last battle together.

It was a daytime mission with no cloud cover. It was by far the most dangerous situation Lachlan had flown his crew into. The atmosphere was tense through the entire flight, nothing more than an occasional grunt or sigh over his headphones. And when it started, it stared bad.

The squadron encountered heavy anti-aircraft fire. Plagued by the flak and fighters, they barely made it to their target. Two planes, lost over France. Lachlan could feel the fear rising in his gut, he could smell it in the cockpit but he tamped it down. He had to; he was responsible not only for completing their mission, but for the safety of the crew.

“Allen,” he shouted to the Bomb-Aimer over thunderous explosions just beyond his window. “Can you see the target?”

“Sure can, and you can continue weaving for a bit.”

Lachlan rocked the plane left then right then left again, but it was difficult to avoid the heavy flak. As they honed in on the target, they released their load and Lachlan breathed a brief sigh of relief. Successful drop. Now…to make it home.

He swung a perfect turn, swayed into the tailwind and tightened his grip on the controls. His belly clenched, his heart raced and he glanced to the side. Lachlan was not lucky this time. Fighters followed them, gaining to meet his level and speed and firing all the way.

First, he lost his tail gunner, a young man barely out of his teens named Sam. Lachlan didn’t have time to mourn him. He was busy trying to save the plane and the crew. Next to vanish was the number two engine, bursting into flames when hit by flak, then the number four engine sputtered and blew.

When the third engine threatened to die fast and hard, he ordered the crew to prepare to parachute. One by one, they made their jumps and when he saw the last parachute unfolding like a flower, he set the controls and jumped himself.

The drop was terrifying and beautiful, the French countryside dangerous and magnificent. He forced himself to breath deep, relax, prepare for the run once his feet touched the ground. His fingertips tingled at the parachute pull and his skin crawled as Lachlan watched his Sheila sputter and nosedive, hurtling down to earth and bursting into flame in a resounding crash. His face turned away against the sadness of it all. S-for-Sheila had been a good plane. A reliable girl and the best lady of his life. She’d be missed, but he had an entire crew to be more concerned about.

He was nearing the ground swiftly. His eyes scanned the surrounding area, seeking the deflating parachutes of his scattered crew or enemy field activity. He’d waited as long as he could before opening his chute. He could hear the bullets whizzing by him as he floated to the ground.

Landing on an incline, he made a violent roll as he touched down. His left ankle bent awkwardly, sustaining a bad sprain. But the worst by far was his shoulder, dislocated when he rolled, slamming heavily against a log and he bit hard on his lip to hold back the bellow of pain. The sudden shock of stillness rippled through his body along with his searing agony. Struggling with one good arm to untangle himself from the lines of the chute, he grunted, licked blood from his sliced lip and strained to reach cover.

There were shots at the far side of the field but he knew better than to stop to look. His gut wrenched with concern but he fought the pain in his body and slowly dragged himself, pushing with his good right leg and rolling to protect his left shoulder. The cover of forest was within reach if he could just move quickly. He struggled to pull at the parachute. With luck he’d be able to roll and hide it before he was discovered. It snagged on a fallen tree branch and yanked his shoulder hard. Pain blinded him and for a moment blackness and silence threatened to take him. He drew in a deep breath. “Fuck!” he hissed and gave one monumental pull. The parachute was freed but caught on the evening breeze. It bloomed, melted and re-tangled. “Fuck!”

The parachute would have to stay, but Lachlan would have to move and move quickly if he was to survive. More rifle fire drifted to him from far to his left and he crawled; sweat dripping into his eyes until he was deeper into the trees where he dropped with a rumbling groan. His heart strayed to his crew and the shots he’d heard. He prayed they were safe but knew he’d most likely lost them…but he might survive. He just might. If he could get up, walk, look around, skirt the field and see who was doing the shooting over there…

Suddenly he started when he heard a familiar, perilous clack. Turning over, he stared up the barrel of a cocked semi-automatic rifle.

Chapter Three