The Dogs of War:

The Dogs of War

The Eighth Air Force Series,

Book 6

Written By:

Cheryl Pula

REVIEWS

It was my great good fortune to read and review Cheryl Pula's first book in the Eighth AF Series. That's when I got hooked. Now that I have read them all, I feel that I have traveled right through WWII with the best crewmates a guy could serve with. It's all there, from basic airmanship to heroism. There are few reasons to not want to see a war end. One would be an end to Cheryl's B-17 stories. Bob Hynes, Yankee Air Museum Director, Retired Broadcaster, WXYZ-TV, WJR Radio.

Great book. I could not put it down once I started reading it. Cheryl once again has done a great job with portraying the facts of what happened during WWI, then bringing it back to life through the characters in the book. Joe Shay, Sherrill, NY.

Cheryl never stops surprising me with her characters. These characters have become almost like family and you worry about them from page to page and book to book. Steve Rowlands, Oneida NY, Served USAF 1973 – 1977.

The Dogs of War

Cheryl Pula

Copyright Cheryl Pula 2015

Published by Whitehall Publishing at Smashwords

http://www.8thmilitary.com

For More Information Contact:

Whitehall Publishing

P.O. Box 548

Yellville, Arkansas 72687

http://www.whitehallpubilshing.com

mailto:info@whitehallpublishing.com

Cheryl Pula

http://www.8thmilitary.com

mailto:info@8thmilitary.com

Cover Design:

Ascender Graphix

http://www.ascendergraphix.com

mailto:angie@ascendergraphix.com

Table of Contents

Dedication

Introduction

Tuesday, 13 June 1944

London, England

Thursday, 15 June 1944

United States Army Air Force Station # 91

Friday, 16 June 1944

0800 Hours (8:00 AM)

Thursday, 22 June 1944

Denver Municipal Airport

Wednesday, 28 June 1944

2:00 A.M.

Friday, 7 July 1944

U.S. Army Supply Depot

Sunday, 9 July 1944

1000 Hours (10:00 AM)

Saturday, 15 July 1944

The Mess Hall

Thursday, 20 July 1944

Denver Municipal Airport

Friday, 11 August 1944

Bassingbourn

Friday, 18 August 1944

Tuesday, 5 September 1944

Wednesday, 1 November 1944

The Mess Hall

Thursday, 2 November 1944

0800 Hours (8:00 AM)

Author’s Note

Cheryl Pula

Other Books by Cheryl Pula

Dedication

To Phyllis and Dale:

The nicest Buckeyes this Wolverine ever met

"Cry Havoc! And let slip the dogs of war."

William Shakespeare

Introduction

The Dogs of War is the sixth book in

The Eighth Air Force series.

All events in this series are based on actual occurrences

experienced by people I personally interviewed

while conducting my research.

It was my privilege to spend time with these

Veterans and my honor to share their stories in this fictional work.

On June 13, 1944, Germany began utilizing a fearful new weapon against the Allied forces. The Vergeltungswaffen or Vengeance Weapon, the V-1, was quickly nicknamed the Buzz Bomb because of the distinctive sound of its engine. Pointed at England, the missile flew until its fuel ran out, then plummeted to earth, destroying anything below with almost a ton of explosives.

The first such attack targeted London. That same day, a medical conference was just ending in England’s populous and beleaguered capital city, attended by personnel from the United States Army and the United States Navy, including medical staff from several Eighth Air Force bases, all of whom were engaged in the recent cross channel invasion of Europe known as Operation Overlord, or D-Day. The amphibious operation occurred only a week before.

In attendance at the conference were two members of the medical staff of the 91st Bombardment Group (Heavy), United States Army Eighth Air Force. They were Major Henry Fletcher, the base’s senior Flight Surgeon, and one of his nurses, Second Lieutenant Ellen Cooper. Also attending was a member of the medical staff of the 92nd Bombardment Group (Heavy), their head nurse, Captain Marcia Harrington.

Marcia had been touring an American military hospital, and was going to meet Fletcher and Ellen for lunch, as at one time she was head nurse for the 91st before transferring to the 92nd. Accompanying her was First Lieutenant Lauren Henderson, a nurse from the hospital, who was invited along for the lunch outing. As Marcia and Lauren walked to their rendezvous with Fletcher and Ellen at the restaurant, the first V-1 appeared in the sky. The two nurses had never seen one before, nor had anyone else, so they weren’t quite certain what it was. Along with scores of civilians on the street, they watched curiously until it plunged to earth and exploded several blocks away. Then they knew the enemy was utilizing some sort of new, terrible weapon. The first V-1 impacted in the vicinity of the medical conference and the restaurant where they were supposed to meet Fletcher and Ellen for lunch. Knowing there would be casualties, Marcia and Lauren instinctively began running to the scene, intent upon helping the injured, risking their own safety in the process as more V-1’s began to rain ruin and death from the sky. Even as they ran toward the horrible scene of destruction, both of them knew it might be the last thing they ever did.

Tuesday, 13 June 1944

London, England

1200 Hours (12:00 Noon)

The odd buzzing sound passed overhead, but was loud, too loud, indicating the lethal weapon was close by. As she ran, Marcia didn’t want to look up, but did so automatically, a purely instinctual reaction. The weapon looked like a greenish/gray cigar with wings. Attached to the top was a cylindrical pod, its engine. Marcia didn’t know the technical name for it, but she’d already seen its destructive capabilities. A few moments before, two of the things landed in a densely packed section of London, causing massive destruction and scores of casualties. The weapon was more powerful than anything she ever experienced. Marcia had been through air raids before, but the power of the bombs at those times wasn’t anything like what she was witnessing now.

The buzzing sound stopped abruptly. Already, after only a few moments of the attack, Marcia knew what that meant. She immediately hit the deck, lying flat on her stomach and putting her hands over the back of her head for protection. If the bomb hit anywhere near her, doing that would not help one bit, but trying to do something, anything, to protect herself was better than doing nothing.

Several yards behind her, Lauren did the same. She and Marcia were on their way to lunch when the attack began. Unlike Marcia, who was wearing her Class-A uniform, Lauren was wearing her hospital whites, as she’d been on duty at an American military hospital located in the city. Her decision to go to lunch with Marcia was a spur of the moment thing, so she couldn’t change from her work clothes. Her whites were now covered with dirt and recently dried blood. The blood wasn’t hers, but from several wounded civilians she attempted to help once the attack began, especially a man who was missing an arm. She gave up her belt as a tourniquet to prevent him from bleeding to death.

As soon as its engine cut out, the buzz bomb nosed down and headed for the ground. It impacted just a few seconds later. The explosion was deafening, and Marcia could feel her ears crackle with the sound. Debris began to fall on and around her: pulverized cement and brick; broken glass; sharp shards of wood; torn papers and, horribly, what could only be bloody bits and pieces of human bodies.

Marcia was about to get up when she heard more ominous buzzing, but this was intense, a lot louder. Without looking up, she knew by the volume of the sound that it indicated the arrival of not just another of the infernal winged bombs, but several. She squirmed around on the ground slightly so she could look behind her, and saw Lauren hugging the sidewalk.

Lauren, stay down! she yelled as loudly as she could.

I hear them, Lauren called back, and remained where she was. Like Marcia, she knew full well that if any of the bombs fell anywhere near them, they would be killed. As it was, Lauren couldn’t begin to calculate how many people already lost their lives, and once the next several weapons landed, there would be many, many more innocent casualties.

The engines on the V-1’s began to cut out, and they plunged to earth. The explosions came one right after the other, destroying whatever was in the area. Buildings disappeared into deep craters. Fires erupted from broken gas mains, and water gushed from severed pipes. The earth shook with each impact, and even people several blocks away were knocked from their feet. The concussion blew out the windows of buildings halfway across the city.

The terrible sound of the explosions was interspersed with screams of terror and pain as people attempted to find cover anywhere they could, while others were cut down by flying debris. Lethal, sharp pieces of glass flew everywhere, sliced into bodies like daggers, cutting and tearing flesh and amputating limbs. Bricks crushed skulls and broke bones. Walls fell on hapless civilians running for Underground stations to find a safe haven from the death raining from the clear late spring sky.

Marcia lay on the sidewalk, listening to the chaos. She was more scared than she’d ever been in her life. She didn’t want to die. She wanted to live, to see her husband. She and Major Jack Harrington, the Air Exec of the 91st Bombardment Group (Heavy), had only been married two months, or it would be two months on June 15th. She hadn’t seen him since their wedding day on April 15th. When she married Jack, their greatest fear was that he would die on a bombing run, but they never considered that she could be killed by a bomb on her way to lunch. As she lay with her hands over her head, she silently prayed.

Dear God, please…please make it stop.

That entreaty had only been silently voiced a few seconds when the explosions ceased. Marcia remained where she was, waiting for her hearing to clear. Slowly, she could hear again. She listened intently. She expected more of the weird buzzing from the weapon’s engines, but she didn’t detect any. There were no more explosions, either.

Lauren lay a few feet away, expecting to hear yet more of the engine sounds, but all she could hear was the aftermath of the attack. Fires crackled all around, and she could hear crying, sobbing and painful screams. Lauren stayed where she was for a few more seconds, listening for the arrival of more deadly bombs, but she didn’t hear any. She got up and headed toward Marcia.

Are you all right? she asked quickly as she reached the other nurse.

Marcia picked herself up from the debris strewn ground, her uniform covered with dirt and grime. Yes, are you?

Lauren nodded. She looked around at the destruction. She had been stationed in London since January 1943, and she’d been through numerous air raids. While they were terrifying and destructive, none were like this. Until today, they had warning of the impending attack. British radar stations and ground spotters in the south near the English Channel would see the incoming German aircraft and phone ahead, allowing the air raid sirens to sound. The enemy always attacked at night, not in broad daylight. Today they had no warning, no air raid sirens, and it was the middle of the day. No one had time to get to safety.

Without even a word to each other, Marcia and Lauren continued to rush toward the area of greatest destruction, where the most casualties would be. About a block away was the debris pile that used to be the restaurant where they were supposed to meet Dr. Fletcher and Ellen Cooper. Ellen and Marcia were great friends, having been stationed together until Marcia was transferred to the 92nd Bomb Group at Podington.

Marcia wanted to get to the smoldering remains of the restaurant to see if Fletcher and Ellen had been there. Even as she thought that, she knew if they had reached the restaurant, they were dead. No one who was there could have survived as the building was totally destroyed. As much as she wanted to run to the area, she stopped at the first injured person she came across, her nurse’s training overriding her personal concerns.

A woman was lying on her back nearby, staring up at the sky. She was alive, her breathing labored. Her head was bloody from a gash across the forehead, and the front of her blouse was soaked with red from a massive abdominal wound. Marcia knelt next to her, assessing the injuries. Though the head wound was serious, it was the abdominal wound that was the worst. It was obvious she was hit with a piece of shrapnel, probably from the bomb itself. With nothing else to use to staunch the flow of blood, Marcia took off her uniform service jacket, turned it inside out so the cleaner lining was showing, folded it over a couple times so it was thick, and pressed it against the woman’s abdomen. As she did, the woman groaned, obviously in horrendous pain.

Marcia bent down. Her voice soothing, she said, I’m a nurse. Help is already on the way. You’re going to be all right.

The woman looked up at her with pain ravaged eyes. She tried to say something, to thank Marcia for her help, but she couldn’t.

Don’t say anything. Save your strength. Everything will be okay, Marcia said and gave her a reassuring smile.

She held the improvised bandage in place, and looked around quickly to ascertain if there were any rescue or Red Cross workers yet in the immediate vicinity. A few yards away, Marcia saw Lauren kneeling in the street, checking a man who was lying near the curb. As Marcia watched, she looked up, the expression on her face relating the man was beyond help.

Lauren quickly came over and knelt next to her, seeing Marcia using her uniform for a bandage pack. Can I help?

Hold this. I’ll keep going and see if there’s anyone else down there, Marcia said, and gestured toward the ruined buildings.

Lauren took her place. I saw some rescue people a block or so away. I’ll try and flag them down, then I’ll come and help you.

All right, Marcia nodded and headed at a run toward what was left of a once thriving city block full of businesses, shops and restaurants.

As she went, Marcia already knew it would be a miracle if she found anyone still alive. The closer she went to the impact area, the more it became evident that whoever was in the vicinity when the bombs hit would already be dead. Mixed with the building debris were parts of bodies. Severed torsos.

Legs. Arms. Hands. None of the bodies she saw were intact, and the closer she went to what used to be the restaurant, the smaller the pieces became, driving home to her very vividly the awesome power of whatever it was that struck London just moments before.

Another thing she could not help but notice. Many of the bodies, or what was left of them, were dressed in uniforms or the remnants of uniforms. The restaurant was popular with servicemen and women from all the Allied countries, and it was not unusual to find many dining there or just relaxing on any given day. With the medical conference just winding up, Marcia knew there would be even more military personnel present.

She reached the vicinity of the restaurant and could go no further. In the middle of the road was a yawning crater that marked the site of impact. Rubble was everywhere, and fires burned nearby. There was literally nothing remaining of the block. To the right, Marcia saw a mangled body in a U.S. Navy uniform lying only a few feet from one in a Canadian Army uniform. With others, it was impossible to determine which country they were from. Mixed with them were many in civilian clothes, and others clad in waiter and waitress attire, employees of the destroyed restaurant. She did not bother to check any of them, because she knew they could not be helped. Blood was everywhere, along with shattered pieces of bone and chunks of human tissue.

Marcia slowed her pace as she saw several remains with U.S. Army uniforms. Holding her breath, she knelt next to the first, which wasn’t much more than the upper half of a body. Everything from the waist down was gone.

She gently turned it over. It was a male, wearing Air Force insignia. She didn’t recognize him, so it wasn’t anyone from the 92nd, her home base. Trying to keep her emotions in check, she went to the next body. Like the first, there wasn’t much left, only pieces. It was just about impossible to tell the gender of the body, but Marcia determined it was probably a woman. The lapel of the uniform had a Signal Corps insignia on it.

She looked around and saw another body, or bits and pieces of what was once a body. As with the last one, there wasn’t enough left to determine the sex, only that it was American, judging by the small scraps of the uniform that remained, including part of a sleeve with an Air Force patch on it. Marcia knelt down, and began to turn the small piece of what remained of the torso over. As she did, the remnants of the shredded and blood soaked uniform came off in her hands. She automatically looked down at it, and froze in shock.

Oh no… she breathed. "Oh my God…No…please, no…."

Marcia put her head in her hands and began to sob deeply and uncontrollably.

In the English Channel

1230 Hours (12:30 PM)

The destroyer was one of two on alert, performing escort duty, guarding several cargo ships returning to England for supplies needed to support the landings on the beaches of France the week before. There was also a hospital ship carrying an incredibly precious cargo back across the channel: wounded Allied soldiers, veterans of the Normandy beaches. While guarding the convoy, the small destroyer also had to dodge German mines in the Channel, and be on the watch for enemy aircraft overhead. As the Allies had air superiority over northern France, it was more likely that the ship would hit a mine than be attacked from the air.

The sea was choppy, causing the destroyer to bob up and down like a float attached to a fishing line. Standing at the rail, twenty-three year-old Captain Matt Moore was doing pretty well. He thought he might get seasick, never having been on a naval vessel at sea before. He wasn’t Navy, but the inter service bitter rival Army, specifically the Army Air Force. His natural habitat was in the pilot’s seat of a B-17 Flying Fortress bomber at 25,000 feet, not a destroyer in the middle of the English Channel. Matt was shot down on a mission on June 7th, the day after D-Day, the Allied invasion of France. He and a wounded crewman, Lieutenant Andy McConnell, spent four days hiking through the woods toward Allied lines, to be located by a patrol from the 101st Airborne. Being Air Force, he was entirely out of his element, or as his Navy hosts might say, like the proverbial fish out of water.

It was obvious to the crew of the destroyer that their passenger wasn’t one of them. It would have been apparent to an Army Air Force bomber crew too, as Matt wasn’t wearing his normal flight gear. What he wore when he was shot down was ruined after four days of being exposed to the elements in northern France. Once located by the 101st, Matt and McConnell were taken to a field hospital near Omaha Beach. Needing new clothes, the 101st gave Matt an infantry battle jacket, trousers, a shirt, jump boots and a metal G.I. helmet. Now he looked like a full-fledged member of the 101st Screaming Eagles, not a bomber pilot, the commander of the 324th Squadron, the 91st Bombardment Group (Heavy) at Bassingbourn, England.

Needing transportation back to England and his base, the Navy agreed to give him a lift, and that was how he came to be aboard the bobbing destroyer in the middle of the Channel.

Standing next to him was the ship’s commander, Lieutenant Commander Ramsey Stone. Like Matt, he was gazing skyward. Just a few moments before, he and the grounded pilot were chatting, while also keeping an eye on the convoy, when their attention was snagged by an odd buzzing sound, and they looked skyward to see a strange, olive drab colored airborne something. It was cigar shaped, with a smaller appendage on top, and was headed at over three hundred miles an hour toward England. Stone had no idea what it was, but Matt knew. It was a new German weapon, a V-1 rocket. They observed several go overhead on a course for London.

Jesus, Stone said in awe. God help whoever is on the receiving end of that…

Matt nodded seriously as the V-1’s quickly disappeared over the horizon. What Stone said was true. He wouldn’t want to be the one on the receiving end of that, either.

What the hell was that? a voice asked.

Matt glanced to his left to see Lieutenant Mike Cummings, the destroyer’s XO, or Executive Officer. When Matt came aboard the night before, Cummings gave up his bunk so he would have somewhere to sleep. Cummings spent the night sharing quarters with Ensign Frank Hall.

Captain Moore says it’s some new German weapon, Stone informed him, still looking toward the horizon where the weapon disappeared only a short time before.

Vergeltungswaffen, Matt said.

A what? Cummings asked.

Vengeance weapon, the V-1, Matt translated. Our Group Bombardier briefed us on them in April. It carries almost a ton of explosives.

Holy sh…When did they start using that? Cummings asked, his eyes wide.

As far as I know…today, Matt answered honestly. He said they would be operational in mid-June. He was right.

When he attended the April briefing conducted by First Lieutenant Jesse Nowakowski, Matt knew if the bombardier said the V-1 would be operational by mid-June, it would be. Since becoming the 91st’s Group Bombardier the previous fall, Jesse conducted many briefings for the squadron leaders, and he had yet to be proven wrong or in error.

Though the V-1’s were long gone, they still watched the horizon. After a few seconds, Matt looked at the ship closest to them, an empty cargo transport.

On the decks, several of the crew were staring off toward the English coast, obviously having heard and seen the V-1’s, also.

Stone pulled his attention from the sky. I have to get back to the bridge. I just wanted to make sure you’re doing okay.

Yes sir, I’m fine, Matt said.

I’ll see you when we reach Portsmouth, then.

Yes sir, thank you.

I came to get you for lunch. It’s nothing fancy, but should hold you over until you can get back to your base, Cummings said. He grinned slightly.

Will you be able to eat in this chop without tossing it?

I guess we’ll find out, Matt said. He ate breakfast aboard ship in the morning. The vessel hadn’t been in the middle of the English Channel, but closer to the Normandy coast, so the seas weren’t quite as rough as they were now.

Let’s go, Cummings said and led the way.

Matt followed him into a hatchway, then down into the bowels of the destroyer to the officer’s ward room. In the short time he’d been aboard, really just overnight, he noted he was the tallest guy on the ship at six-feet-six. He didn’t think much of it, until he went to Cumming’s cabin where he spent the night, and then to the ward room for breakfast. Matt often thought that the cockpit of his B-17 was cramped, but the destroyer was also what he would call frugally compact. The interior obviously wasn’t designed with crew comfort in mind, but then again, neither was his B-17, or any military vehicle or vessel for that matter.

They arrived at the ward room, and went in to sit at the small table. The first time he was in the room that morning, he noted the slightly raised molding around the edges of the table. At first he wondered why it was there, then realized it was to keep plates and cups from sliding off the table when the ship was in heavy seas, like it was now.

They were hardly in their seats when Fred Williams, the black mess steward appeared with lunch.

Good afternoon, sir, he said to Matt. It’s nice seeing you again.

It’s good to see you again, too, Matt commented. By the way, breakfast this morning was great.

Thank you, sir, Williams said as he placed a bowl of beef stew and some bread on the table, along with a cup of coffee. It isn’t fancy, but it’s good.

It looks good to me. Thank you, Matt said.

You’re welcome, sir. He put the same in front of Cummings. If either of you need anything, just call me.

Thanks Fred, Cummings said.

Yes sir, Williams said, and went back to his galley.

The mess steward only met the Air Force pilot that morning, but he liked him. He was polite and took the time to ask his name, where he was from, if he had a family. They only chatted for a few moments, but it was long enough for Williams to note both of the flier's hands were wrapped in thick gauze bandages. It was obvious he’d been wounded or injured in some way, undoubtedly from being shot down several days before. Williams wanted to ask what happened, but didn’t, afraid he might get in trouble, though he instinctively knew if he did inquire, the pilot would have told him how it happened. He also noted the Captain looked tired. But then, Williams wondered, how would someone look who spent several days trudging through the French woods?

Matt could smell the stew, and it was very enticing. Even with his heavily bandaged hands, he could hold a spoon. He took a taste. It was good, very good.

So, tell me about that…whatever it was we just saw, Cummings said as he stirred a spoonful of sugar into his coffee. Though he was a Lieutenant and Matt was a Captain, he didn’t have to say sir, because a senior grade naval lieutenant was the equivalent of an Army captain, so they were actually the same rank.

We were briefed on it, and told not to say anything, but I guess it isn’t a secret any more, Matt said logically. It’s packed with almost a ton of explosives. According to Intel, it flies until its fuel is expended, then it just falls to the ground, blowing up whatever it lands on.

Oh great. But can’t you guys intercept it or anything? What about your fighters? Cummings asked, chewing on a piece of beef.

No, it’s too fast. Matt didn’t elaborate, though he knew there was worse to come in the future.

At the same briefing in April, Jesse also said the Germans were working on a V-2, capable of delivering two tons of explosives at a speed of over 4,000 miles per hour. It was supposed to be operational in September, only three months away.

Suddenly, a shrill, raucous alarm sounded, over and over.

Matt didn’t have a chance to ask what it was as only a second later, a voice boomed over the ship’s speaker system.

General quarters. General quarters. Bandits off the starboard side. The voice was urgent, yet not panicky, and Matt could tell whoever it was had seen plenty of combat before.

Cummings was up before the voice quit speaking, and headed for the passageway beyond the door. Stay here. It’s safest place to be right now.

Matt was up also, putting on the GI helmet the 101st gave him the day before. I’m going…

No, you’re not. You’re staying here!

I want to help. What can I do? Matt asked quickly.

Cummings hesitated, and saw the pilot was going to come along, no matter what he said. Come with me, he instructed as he took off toward the ladder leading up to the deck.

Cummings reached the deck level hatch, and without breaking stride, headed toward the aft end of the ship with Matt alongside. The general quarters alarm was still sounding shrilly and loudly in their ears. Matt could hear the same type of alarm blasting from the other ships in the convoy.

As he ran, Cummings called, Ever man a 20 millimeter?

No, Matt said shortly, but honestly.

You’re about to learn how, Cummings said.

As he ran, Matt glanced toward the starboard side of the ship, looking for the attacking planes. A couple hours before when they began their escort duty across the Channel, Matt asked some of the crew what chances were that the Luftwaffe, the German Air Force, would attack the convoy. He was assured since the Allies pretty much ruled the airspace over Normandy, being attacked was highly unlikely. Evidently no one told the Germans, Matt thought. There were five ME-109 fighters, headed straight for them. Being that they were on the starboard side of the convoy, and the Germans were attacking from the side, the destroyer was their main target, at least at the beginning of the attack.

As they ran past one of the gun emplacements amidships, Cummings grabbed a life jacket on the fly and tossed to it Matt. Put this on.

Matt donned it as they arrived at one of two 20mm gun positions on the aft deck, the very rear of the ship. The life jacket was vastly different than the ones he wore on bombing missions. The Army ones were called Mae Wests, and were bright yellow. They didn’t contain any stuffing, nor were they inflated. They had a tube a crewman blew into in order to inflate the jacket. They could not be worn already inflated because they went over a man’s flight gear, but underneath a parachute harness. If inflated, it wouldn’t fit. The Navy issue life jacket was blue and stuffed with kapok, a buoyant material. Since destroyer crewmen didn’t wear flight gear or a parachute, they could use a life jacket that didn’t need to be inflated.

The gun crew was already at their station, wearing life jackets and helmets, manning the gun, the barrels pointed toward the oncoming German fighters.

Hurriedly gesturing to a Gunner’s Mate Third Class, Cummings said, This is Brad Warren. He’s in charge of this gun. You can help him.

Okay, Matt acknowledged.

Sorry, but I have to get to my battle station, Cummings said hurriedly, and headed forward at a run.

Warren’s mouth almost fell open when he heard Cummings and saw who he left behind. The entire crew knew about the Army Air Force Captain who was now their passenger, and that he’d spent several days on the ground after being shot down. They also knew about his actions in saving his badly wounded crewman, and even though he was Army, the destroyer crew considered him a hero and treated him with respect for the short time he’d been with them. Now it appeared he was being assigned to help man the 20mm during an air raid.

Warren began to ask, Sir…What do you want us….

Matt shook his head quickly. "You’re in command, I’m just one of your crew. You tell me what to do."

Warren hesitated for a second. He was just a Gunner’s Mate, and now had to give orders to a Captain. And what could the pilot do with injured hands covered with bandages? He gestured shortly to another gunner. Uh…Help Louie with the ammo belts.

You got it, Matt said and moved over slightly.

Louie Patterson, the other gunner, was just as surprised as Warren was to see an officer among them, not in charge, but acting as a member of the gun crew, and an Army officer at that.

What do I do? Matt asked.

Patterson indicated the deck nearby where there were several reserve ammo boxes. Sir, just keep feeding us those ammo belts if we need them.

Okay, Matt said, knelt down, opened the first box, and took hold of the first one, ready to hand it off, when the first German fighter came in.

The gun crew began firing, their heavy bullets ripping out toward the approaching plane. The gunners on all the ships in the convoy were firing as rapidly as they could, trying to protect not just themselves, but the other vessels too, especially the hospital ship carrying the wounded. Between the destroyer’s guns and the attacking German fighters, the sound was deafening. Gun captains were yelling out orders, spotters telling the crews where to aim their guns. The smell of cordite quickly tinged the air with an acrid odor.

The German plane raked the destroyer. Matt heard the sound many times before. Though the slugs were hitting the steel deck of a ship and not the aluminum fuselage of a B-17, the sound was very similar. The bullets just missed the gun crew, bracketing them on both sides, though close enough that one of them barely nicked the front of one gunner’s life jacket. It tore the jacket, but didn’t hit the gunner, and he remained resolutely at his station.

In spite of the situation, Matt was surprised at how fast the ammo was feeding through the 20mm. He knew he shouldn’t be surprised. The .50 Browning machine guns on a B-17 used ammunition at a rate of five hundred rounds per minute, and the 20mm seemed to be using it almost as fast.

A second fighter didn’t give the crew any respite as it followed immediately on the heels of the first, spraying the destroyer with bullets. These weren’t directed at Matt’s position, but toward one of the positions amidships, a few yards forward of them. Both crews were continually firing at the plane, which was coming in at not much more than a few yards off the water.

With a roar of engines, the plane passed by overhead. Though it was past them now, it was still firing, heading for the other ships in the convoy to port. The crews on those ships were firing also.

Matt caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye and immediately looked in that direction. Hoping the crew could hear him over the loud report of their gun, he pointed and yelled, One o’clock! One o’clock!

Matt didn’t have to translate for them. He was used to spotting for the gunners on his bomber, and the terminology he used to indicate where the enemy was located was the same as it was in the Navy. One o’clock was the same in all the branches of the service.

Responding to his yell without the slightest hesitation, the crew automatically adjusted their gun to that altitude and direction and began firing. Their bullets flanked the small, swift moving airplane. They readjusted slightly to the left, and the bullets tore into the 109, stitching the fuselage, the starboard wing. The fighter quickly nosed down and headed for the water, but was still coming straight at them. They kept firing, hoping their heavy caliber bullets would somehow cause the rapidly approaching plane to deviate from its course.

Matt held his breath, praying that the 109 would hit the water before it hit them. If it did, he and the gun crew would be wiped out.

After what seemed like an eternity, the 109 lost enough momentum that it splashed down in the Channel only a few yards from the side of the destroyer. The impact sent up a geyser of cold water which showered the rear of the destroyer, drenching Matt and the gun crew, but did no physical damage to the men. Along with the water were several sizable pieces of debris from the plane, torn pieces of aluminum, glass canopy fragments. Some of it landed on the destroyer’s deck. Luckily, it didn’t hit anyone. Their respite was short lived.

Warren wore headphones under his helmet to allow him to communicate with the bridge and the ship’s commander. He heard a sudden burst of unexpected static over his headphones. Number three to bridge. Number three to bridge, do you hear me? There was no response. It was obvious his communication was out, probably cut by debris from the downed German plane. He turned to one of the other crewmen. Run up and have Jake call the bridge and tell them my headphones are out!

The other gunner took off, running toward the closest gun position a few feet away, which hopefully was still in communication with the bridge.

Captain, look out! one gunner called and pointed in the same direction.

Matt saw two fighters bearing down on them, one behind the other. There weren’t too many places to hide, as the gun stations were pretty well