Maximum Effort:

Maximum Effort

The Eighth Air Force Series,

Book 5

Written By:

Cheryl Pula

REVIEWS

This installment grabs you from the opening pages and doesn't let you go. SSG (Ret) Adrien M. Synnott, ARNG

"Cheryl Pula has once again delivered a masterfully crafted story and you are guaranteed to lose yourself in the newest 8th Air Force Series book. Every page is dripping with historical accuracy, as well as a wonderfully developed story line. You are left not only with a better understanding of this aspect of the war, but also with a greater respect for our brave servicemen and women than when you began.

Ms. Pula's newest addition to the series is fast paced and it is hard to remind yourself that her wonderful characters are not actually real. This continues to be one of the best series I have ever read, and am left of the edge of my seat longing for the next one!" Alexander C. Nagel, Publishing Executive.

Maximum Effort

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

Saturday, 29 January 1944

London, England

Sunday, 30 January 1944

London, England

Monday, 20 March 1944

1500 Hours (3:00 PM)

Wednesday, 22 March 1944

Headquarters 8th Air Force

Saturday, 1 April 1944United States Army Air Force Station #109/R.A.F. Podington

Sunday, 2 April 1944

Palm Sunday Bassingbourn

Monday, 3 April 1944

Tuesday, 4 April 1944

The Law Office of Robert Quinn

Wednesday, 5 April 1944

Conway Residence

Sunday, 9 April 1944

Easter Sunday

Saturday, 15 April 1944

Bassingbourn

Wednesday, 7 June 1944

Over France

Thursday, 8 June 1944

Mess Hall/Bassingbourn

Friday, 9 June 1944

Normandy, France

Saturday, 10 June 1944

Normandy, France

Sunday, 11 June 1944

Normandy, France

Monday, 12 June 1944

Field Hospital Behind Omaha Beach

Tuesday, 13 June 1944

The English Channel

Author’s Note

Cheryl Pula

Author

Other Books by Cheryl Pula

Dedication

To Steve, Barb, Adam, Dan and Tim,

my oldest friends;

and Steve’s sister Denise,

life-long friend and Matt’s biggest fan

"There are no extraordinary men…

just extraordinary circumstances that ordinary men

are forced to deal with."

——Admiral William Halsey

Introduction

Maximum Effort is the fifth 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.

First Lieutenant Jesse Nowakowski, a bombardier with the 91st Bombardment Group (Heavy) of the United States Eighth Air Force and Medal of Honor recipient, just recently completed his required quota of thirty bombing missions. Normally, he would have been sent back to the United States for a thirty day leave after completing his tour, but he was only granted a ten-day leave, which was not long enough to go home. Consequently he was spending some of his ten days in London, England, ostensibly to unwind and have some well-deserved Rest & Relaxation before beginning a second tour of another thirty missions. The R&R was prescribed by his Flight Surgeon, Dr. Henry Fletcher, and his commanding officer, Major Jack Harrington, the 91st’s Air Exec and captain of a B-17 Flying Fortress named Full House. Jesse and Captain Dale Kennedy, his navigator, were returning to their hotel after an enjoyable day of sightseeing around the city. Part way to their destination, the plaintive wail of an air raid siren sounded, and following the example of the native Londoners, they went to the nearest Underground station, which also served as a perfect shelter from German bombs. Only a moment after arriving, an hysterical woman was forced into the station, tears streaming down her face. When Jesse asked what was wrong, she informed him that her small daughter, Jennie, was alone at their row house down the street amid the bombs, and the air raid wardens would not allow her to get her daughter and bring her to safety. Leaving the woman with Dale, Jesse left the security of the Underground station and ventured into the night and the deadly rain of enemy bombs, thinking not of his own personal safety, but hoping to find the little girl and bring her out of harm’s way. Locating the correct row house, but finding the door locked, he broke in and located Jennie cowering in fear in the corner of a bedroom. Picking her up, Jesse’s plan was to carry her to the underground station before the house was blown to oblivion and them along with it.

Saturday, 29 January 1944

London, England

2015 Hours (8:15 PM)

The sky was black except for the white beams of the searchlights that crisscrossed the sky as the British anti-aircraft crews attempted to locate the German bombers. The boom boom of the exploding flak shells echoed through the night, accompanied by the low drone of enemy airplanes.

The bombers could easily be heard, as the Germans did not bomb from 20,000 or 30,000 feet like the Americans did. Also unlike the Yanks, they bombed at night rather than during the daylight hours. Since the Americans had the Norden bombsight, they bombed from a higher altitude. The Germans didn’t have the Norden, though they did have the plans for the American bombsight, and had since the beginning of the war, even though the Norden was top secret. The Germans built copies of the Norden, but there was a big difference between their clone and the American bombsight. The Americans knew how to use it and make it work. The Germans didn’t. So they bombed at night to keep their bomber crews safer from fighter interception and antiaircraft fire.

The Germans also practiced what was called saturation bombing, since they did not have as accurate a bombsight. Their bombardiers just dropped their ordnance in the general vicinity of their target, blanketed the area, and relied upon the fact that some of the bombs were bound to hit the target. Those that didn’t might be lucky enough to hit something else of value, but often the collateral damage was houses and their civilian occupants. The Americans practiced precision bombing, based on the use of the Norden, and their bombardiers usually managed to hit closer to the target and some, such as First Lieutenant Jesse Nowakowski and First Lieutenant Kelly Davenport, both of the 91st Bombardment Group (Heavy) at Bassingbourn, had the art practically down to a science, and consistently hit their targets with an accuracy that few others could match.

In row house number 72, Jesse Nowakowski could hear the sounds of the anti-aircraft fire, the German planes and the bombs as they exploded, coming closer and closer. He’d reached the house a few moments before, searching for a little girl named Jennie, who was home alone when the raid began. He located her quickly, scooped her up in his arms and headed for the door. His goal was simple; find her and take her to her waiting mother in the safety of the Underground subway station a long city block away.

Jennie was crying and trembling in abject fear, but wrapped her arms tightly around Jesse’s neck as he headed down a hallway toward the front door, three rooms away. As he carried her, he was silently grateful that her mother hadn’t warned her not to go anywhere with strangers. But this was the middle

of an air raid, the child was clearly terrified and would undoubtedly go with anyone, anywhere to find safety. Jesse went quickly down the hallway, and as they passed what looked like a living room or a sitting room, something seemed to grab his attention. It wasn’t a sound, it wasn’t a physical sensation.

It was a sixth sense, an unconscious red flag of danger that happened automatically, a psychic warning signal born of months of flying combat missions. Something told him to take cover.

Without consciously thinking and out of pure instinct, Jesse turned into a room to the right, the dining room. In the center was a large, substantial oak table surrounded by several heavy chairs. He ran to the table, yanked one of the chairs away from the side, bent down and shoved Jennie beneath the table. That was all he had time to do before it happened.

Jesse barely heard the tremendous explosion before the building began to collapse on top of him. He couldn’t even get beneath the table when the ceiling above caved in. Debris dropped down on the table, on him, the furniture, everything. Jesse felt a shooting stab of pain as he was bombarded with chunks of plaster, splintered remnants of blasted furniture, bricks, shards of glass from shattered windows, lethal pieces of sharp crockery, then everything went black. He was slammed flat against the floor, face down next to the table as a huge length of ceiling beam fell on him, pinning him. Then it stopped. What followed was an eerie, cold, dark silence. Smoke and plaster dust hung thick and heavy in the air. In what was left of the ruined room, nothing moved.

In the Underground station, Dale Kennedy sat with the woman who was still weeping, her head in her hands. He didn’t know what to do. He could navigate a heavy bomber to targets in Europe and back; he could shoot down enemy fighters with a .50 Browning machine gun and make it through thick

anti-aircraft fire and fighter attacks. But he was totally at a loss as to what to do with a woman bordering on hysteria. To Dale, her distress was totally understandable. He was the father of an infant daughter, Jamie, who would be celebrating her first birthday in only a couple weeks back home in Wiscasset, Maine. He knew how he’d feel if she was in mortal danger.

He leaned over, trying to comfort the distraught woman, to offer her something to hold onto, even a small shred of hope. Your daughter will be all right. Jesse will find her, and he’ll bring her back. She’ll be all right.

She…she must be so scared, the woman said, swiping at some tears on her cheeks. How could I….have left her alone?...It was only for…a few minutes. She looked up at him with teary, fearful eyes. She’s going to die, isn’t she?

Dale shook his head. No, he’ll find her, and she’ll be fine.

Do you…do you have any children?

A daughter, just like you.

How…how old is she?

She’ll be a year next month. What about Jennie?

She…she’s five…She’ll be six in April.

He’ll find her, Dale reiterated with what he hoped was conviction.

The woman nodded, silently praying he was right about her endangered daughter.

In row house 72, the thick plaster dust began to dissipate slightly when Jesse moaned, regaining consciousness. He gasped, trying to breathe, the dust laden air caking his throat. His senses were stunned as he tried to get his wits back into working order, to obtain his bearings. His left hand hurt. Slowly, he moved his head slightly so he could see it. Dark blood was running from a deep gash on the back and another on the right side of his wrist, below the base of his thumb. There was wetness on his right cheek, so he knew he must have a cut on his face, but he didn’t know how big it was. He did know it hurt. He was aware of the weight of the beam holding him to the floor. Hardly able to move, he looked around as best he could with his body pinned beneath the debris of the collapsed ceiling.

The room was in shambles. One wall was completely missing, as was the ceiling. Rubble was all over the place. Bricks. Ceiling beams. Broken furniture. A pile of rubble was on top of the table, and the tabletop was sagging ominously.

Jennie? he called tentatively. His voice cracked from the dust in his throat. He attempted to clear it, then tried again. Jennie?!

I’m scared, came back the plaintive and clearly frightened reply.

Are you hurt?

"No, I’m scared," the reply was accompanied by a sob.

I know. We’ll be out in a minute, Jesse called reassuringly, but a little groggily. He did not have the faintest idea of how he would even begin to extricate himself from beneath the heavy beam. He was pinned underneath some other rubble, too, but he knew it was the beam that was holding him firmly, pinning him to the floor. He tried to move his legs and grimaced. The beam was heavy, both ends embedded in piles of debris. It held him tightly.

What do I do now? he wondered.

Jesse listened. It sounded as though the bombs were falling further away. He knew they would be. The planes would only be in the area a few seconds before they flew past. He also knew the house had not sustained a direct hit. If it had, he and Jennie would be long gone, blown to pieces as soon as the bomb exploded. It must have fallen several houses away, and they were hit by the concussion.

Jesse knew he lost consciousness, but it could not have been for very long if he could still hear the bombs exploding in the distance. That meant he had only been out for a few seconds at most. That was encouraging. Hopefully, it meant he wasn’t hurt too badly and didn’t have a concussion.

Summoning up his strength, he attempted to move, even just a little. He quickly realized he did not have one beam on him, but two. The larger was on a slight diagonal from just below his knees on his right, across the back of both knees, and his upper left leg. The smaller one was across his back, just below his shoulders, also pinning his right arm. The smaller beam was heavy, but he noticed it moved when he did. The problem was the large one. It was very heavy and did not move at all. Added to the beams were assorted chunks and pieces of wood, plaster, broken crockery, sharp shards of window glass. In short, he was nearly buried head to foot with debris of all kinds.

As he lay there face down, he realized his breathing was heavy, panting. The weight of the debris on top of him, especially the heavy beams, was pressing his chest against the floor, making it difficult to inhale, and the weight seemed to get heavier as he lay there. The plaster dust in the air wasn’t helping any, either.

In an effort to at least breathe easier, he moved his left arm, trying to reach back, push the smaller beam and move it enough that he might be able to free his right arm. If he could get both arms loose, he might be able to free himself, or at least get the weight off his back and chest. It would take the rubble a while to settle, and if he could not get some of it off before it settled for good, he could end up with a crushed chest and that would be the end of him.

He could feel the beam with the back of his left elbow, so he raised his arm as far as he could, and pushed with all his strength against the smaller beam. It moved a little, but not enough to free his other arm. Jesse stopped, panting, the right side of his face against the floor. His breath caused small puffs of dust to jump into the air, to settle down quickly. Jesse coughed. He took a second to summon his strength, then tried again. He pushed at the smaller beam with his left elbow, and it moved a few more inches, then a few more, until he could just manage to get his right arm free. He put his right hand on the back side of the beam, thinking that to get it off his shoulders, he would have to push it forward, over his head. He did nothing for a moment, using the time to regroup and summon up his strength for a try. It would be a very risky thing to do. Jesse would much rather push it down, away from his head and over his legs, but then he would run into the larger beam, and he would still have both of them on top of him instead of just one.

Okay. Don’t mess this up, he breathed out loud.

Gathering himself, he got the fingers of his right hand around the bottom of the beam and gripped it as best he could, literally reaching behind him, over his right shoulder, in a completely unnatural and awkward position. He knew if he dropped the heavy wood, it could fall on his neck or head, which would be a disaster. He silently tensed, counting to himself. One…Two…THREE.

He heaved as hard as he could in his awkward position, hoping against hope that he could get enough leverage with only one hand to heave the beam over his head. Even as he did it, Jesse realized he was in trouble. His fingers slipped just as he heaved. The beam went forward brushing the hairs on his head without connecting, as it fell heavily to the floor. It hit the leg of the table, causing it to sag even more. The table groaned under the weight of the debris on top of it, threatening to collapse all together.

Jennie screamed.

Jennie, are you all right?! he asked quickly, thinking, Shit…I could have killed her…

She was crying. "I’m scared…I’m scared…"

I’m sorry, he apologized sincerely. Don’t be scared. I’ll get you out…I promise… Even as he said it, he was still hopelessly trapped. But at least now he had both hands free, which was better than a few moments before. More importantly, he could breathe. The weight of the beam was no longer pressing on his chest.

Jesse lay there, trying to think things through, pondering the alternatives. He could simply sit…or lie…and wait. Once the all-clear sounded, people would be returning to their homes, air raid wardens and rescue parties would be looking for casualties and people who were caught in the raid. Eventually, someone would locate them and they would be all right, provided what was left of the house did not collapse on top of them. Or, he could attempt to get out and back to the Underground station. He did not know if the one wave of German bombers was the entire extent of the raid, or if the enemy planes were coming in several successive waves. If that was the case, they would only have a couple minutes respite before the next group of bombers arrived.

As he was sorting out the options in his mind, he heard something, an ominous crackling sound. He knew what it was before he looked. Even so, he had to verify it. Twisting around as best he could while still lying on his face, he looked toward the wrecked hallway. His worse suspicion was confirmed. The place was on fire.

Oh Jesus...please…not THAT…

Jesse was pyrophobic. If there was one thing on earth that terrified him above anything and everything else, it was fire. He had a mortal fear of it. His fireman father was burned to death before Jesse was born. In his opinion, the worst thing that could happen to anyone was to be burned.

Jesse tried not to panic. It took all of his considerable willpower to keep from doing so. How could he get out? If he was pinned under the beam face up, he could at least sit up and try to push the beam off using his hands, but he was face down, a terribly awkward position at best, and the beam was resting across both his knees and legs. He looked around in the darkness. The only light was the reddish-orange glow of the fire. Other than the table, there was nothing he could hold on to. If he had something to hold, he could try and pull himself out. There was nothing, at least nothing strong enough for such a purpose. He could smell smoke drifting to him on the dust filled air.

Jesse attempted to move his legs. They were stuck tight, but he could move his feet, he could feel them. That was a wonderful sign. It could also help him to get out. He did not have a lot of time left. If the German bombers did not return, the fire would certainly overtake them. He debated telling the little girl to leave, to go to the Underground station, but that could be as dangerous as remaining in the house. If there was a second wave of bombers, she would be caught in the middle of it. On the other hand, if she stayed with him, she would be burned to death. He decided not to tell her to leave unless it was the last resort. If the fire came too close and he could not free himself, he would have to order her out.

Taking a deep breath, Jesse tried to move. He pushed with his feet and elbows as best he could. Nothing happened. He tried again, and grimaced as his right knee pained horribly. He pushed as hard as he could, using his elbows, digging them into the floor. If anything, he could only move a fraction of an inch. At that rate, it would take hours to get free. He pushed again, using all his strength. Nothing.

Jesse lay face down, the perspiration running down his grimy face in spite of the late January evening cold. He could not help but reflect on the supreme irony of it all. He survived thirty missions, being shot at, strafed, wounded by flak. Now he was going to buy the farm pinned under a wooden beam, burned to death in a bombed out house. He would know how the victims of his own bombs felt when it happened to them. What was it they called it in his English Lit courses at Cornell?

Poetic justice.

Jesse summoned up his strength for another try. Getting his elbows underneath him, he grimaced. In that position, his back was arched painfully, bending in a direction and in such a way not intended by Mother Nature. But he had no choice. Up on his elbows, he pushed with all his might. He moved another fraction of an inch, but that was all.

A few feet away, Jennie cried pitifully, Mommy…I want Mommy…

Jesse took another glance toward the door, over his shoulder. The fire was closer now, not much, but definitely closer, and creeping closer by the second. He could feel the panic beginning to intensify. He tried to force it down, he could not lose control. He had to keep his wits, he had to stay calm.

From the back of the house came a resounding crash as another section of the unstable wall fell.

Jennie screamed in fright.

It’s all right, Jesse called to her, trying to keep her calm, also trying to do the same for himself.

He could feel the warmth of the fire now. It was coming inexorably closer. He had only a few moments left. He would have to tell her to leave, but he knew she probably would not go. Being with him would be less scary to a frightened little girl than being outside, at night, alone in the midst of a ruined and burning neighborhood.

Now he could hear it. Another ominous rumbling that signaled the approach of a second wave of bombers. He could hear the muffled explosions, far off yet, but they would be moving closer, just like the fire. He reached out, intending to push the smaller beam a little further away so he could get more leverage with his elbows. Jesse took a deep breath. He only had a few more chances at freeing himself before it would be too late. He gathered up his strength and got ready.

Help me…Please God, help me…

Jesse pushed with his feet, his elbows, all his strength behind it. Slowly, he could feel his body move forward a couple inches. The pain in his right knee protested badly and he could feel the splintered wood of the beam cutting deeply into the back of his leg. He kept going, attempting desperately to free himself.

The crackling fire was closer now. It licked at the end of the fallen beam which was wedged tightly under some other debris, chunks of the fallen ceiling. It was only fifteen feet from Jesse as he lay beneath the rubble. He had no difficulty seeing it with his head turned to the right. He could feel it’s hot, hellish breath on his injured face, its reddish-orange glow dancing on the remnants of the walls. Jesse could feel himself losing his composure. Nothing was as terrifying to him as that fire. The adrenalin began to pump full blast through his body, and his breathing was coming faster. Sheer, blind panic was setting in and beginning to take over.

Without even thinking about it, Jesse began to squirm, to do anything to extricate himself from beneath the beam. Desperately, all rational thought driven from his mind by the encroaching flames, he pushed with all his strength, summoning up reserves he never knew he had. His body moved a few more inches. Fueled by the adrenalin pumping through his system, he clawed, scratched, pushed and did everything he could. Slowly, he moved another few inches, then another few.

He lay on the floor, gasping, his mind racing. The fire was only a few feet away. In another moment, it would reach him. The sounds of the bomb explosions were closer, much closer. They could not be more than a mile or so away. Jesse tried again, pushing as hard as he could, a last monumental effort at self-preservation, the thought of burning to death or being blown to oblivion his only other alternatives.

He strained, digging with his elbows, not daring to let up. Suddenly, he could feel himself moving. He kept going, pushing with his feet. The jagged wood of the beam dug into his leg. He did not care. The only thought he had was to get away from that fire. Then…he was free. It was like a cork popping out of a champagne bottle. One moment his legs were trapped, then he was free.

Jesse did not even take the time to get his breath. He pushed himself to his feet. His right leg hurt badly, the knee protesting, hardly able to hold his weight. He could feel the warmth of his blood as it ran down his leg from the gash. He hobbled to the table and bent down.

Come on, Jennie, we’re getting out of here. He reached for her.

Jennie crawled out from under the sagging and groaning table and into his arms.

Jesse picked her up. His back pained in protest. He ignored it and limped across the debris covered floor, through the remainder of the room. With the walls missing, he did not have to go through the fire, which was now engulfing most of the hallway and dining room. He stepped over the dining room wall and onto the small front lawn.

He looked around. The road was deserted. Fires illuminated a scene from Dante’s Inferno. Several shattered buildings smoldered and burned along the street. A car was over on its side, smoking. Bricks, beams, glass, mounds of rubble clogged the narrow street. Glancing to the right, he could see the bomb landed four houses down. All of the houses between them and the smoldering crater were either severely damaged or leveled outright.

Jesse pushed out through the front gate, turned left and headed toward the Underground station a long block and a half away. He took only a few steps when there was a tremendous explosion behind them. The concussion blew him off his feet, and he landed on the sidewalk, Jennie beneath him. The noise seemed to pound at them, and the bricks rained down on them. Jesse felt his head begin to swim as he lay on the ground, hoping another building did not collapse on them. The ground heaved, and he did not move. He closed his eyes, trying to will away the dizziness. He knew what happened, because he could smell the gas in the air. The house three doors down, number 85, blew to bits from fires reaching a ruptured gas line.

Jesse opened his eyes and looked up slightly. He focused on the Underground station entrance. It was only a block away, but with debris, piles of rubble strewn all over the street, and the danger of additional gas explosions, it might as well be a hundred miles distant. Jesse was well aware the Germans sometimes used delayed action fuses on their bombs. They would explode later, several minutes or sometimes hours later, killing and maiming rescue workers as they dug people out of the debris. There could even be a few duds lying around that might still explode. Jesse debated with himself. Should he wait or make a run for it?

The drone of the second wave of bombers was almost overhead. Bombs were exploding only a few blocks away. The ground beneath him heaved savagely with each impact. Jesse had never been in an earthquake, but that was what his mind equated the feeling with, a sizeable earthquake. The ground was jumping so badly, he would not be able to stand let alone run to the station entrance.

The explosions were going off all around them. Jesse could do nothing. There was no way he could stay on his feet. He covered Jennie with his body and hugged the ground as best he would without hurting her. There was nowhere to go, nothing he could do except pray fervently that one of those bombs did not fall on them.

In the Underground station, Dale kept looking anxiously at the packed stairway. Most of the people there were sitting down, not even bothering to talk to each other. They were listening to the sound of the bombs. Slowly, he realized the impacts seemed to be traveling further away, no longer directly overhead. It was a second wave. He hoped there would be no more.

My poor baby, the woman said softly. She wiped her eyes with Dale’s handkerchief.

Damned Huns, a woman said from nearby. Our boys should wipe ‘em all out. Kill every one of ‘em. If they’d done it in the first war, we wouldn’t have this one. Get rid of ‘em, I say. Get rid of every one. Then we’ll never ‘ave to worry about ‘em anymore.

Dale looked toward the stairs yet again. Still no sign of Jesse. He was getting more and more nervous and apprehensive by the moment.

Your first air raid? a British R.A.F. Lieutenant asked from nearby.

No, I’ve been through one before.

Well, it should be over soon.

I hope so, Dale said fervently.

Suddenly the woman looked up. She sprang from the bench. Jennie! My baby!

Dale whirled around. Picking his way down the stairs was Jesse, a blonde haired child in his arms. His coat and hat were gone, his uniform was dirty, his face smudged with soot and blood from a cut just below his right eye. His left hand was gashed and bleeding, and he was limping badly. But most importantly, he was alive.

The woman ran to him. Jennie! Oh, is she all right?

Mommy! the little girl cried happily, reaching out for her.

As the woman reached them, Jesse passed Jennie to her. The mother hugged the child for all she was worth, her tears wetting the girl’s dirty, dusty hair. She sobbed with joy, and Jennie hugged her, her arms around her mother’s neck.

Dale looked him over. I never thought I’d see you again.

You can’t get rid of me that easily, Jesse said, trying to make light of what happened.

Are you all right? Dale asked, standing back. You’re bleeding.

It’s nothing…

Dale looked down and saw blood on his leg. That isn’t ‘nothing.’

It’s all right. It’s just a cut, Jesse said, trying to brush off Dale’s obvious concern.

The mother looked at him through teary eyes. Thank you, oh, thank you so much! God bless you, Yank. God bless you. Still holding her daughter, she leaned over and kissed Jesse on his grimy cheek.

You’re welcome, Ma’am, Jesse said politely, then watched as she carried Jennie to a quiet corner. Other women were congratulating her and wishing her well as she headed for the corner to be with her daughter.

That’s a good thing you did, Yank. A little daft, but good, the R.A.F. Lieutenant commented. He shook Jesse’s hand, at the same time eying the insignia on his uniform. Bomb-aimer, eh?

Yes. Bomb-aimer was the British equivalent of bombardier.

The pilot grinned slightly. Must have been interesting, being on the opposite end of the bombs this time.

Jesse nodded. I don’t think I would want to go through it again, though.

The pilot laughed. He cocked an ear, listening. Well, there’s the all clear. I guess we can go now. He looked back to Jesse. Yes, it was a good thing you did. Good night.

Dale motioned him to the side. Let me look at that leg. Over here, on the bench.

Jesse limped over to the bench and carefully sat.

Dale knelt down, pulled up the pants leg, and peered at the back of Jesse’s lower right leg. The gash was about six inches long and bleeding freely, but it did not appear to be too awfully deep.

That must hurt, he commented.

It was worse when it happened, Jesse admitted.

I imagine.

My knee hurts more than that.

Your knee? The right one?

Jesse nodded.

Dale rolled up the pants leg further. The minute he saw it, he knew something was wrong. It was already visibly swollen, with a large bruise developing over the kneecap. You’re right. It could be just a bruise, or it might be sprained. I don’t think it’s broken. If it was, you wouldn’t be able to walk on it. Try and straighten your leg.

Jesse tried but stopped. He hissed at the pain.

Hurts, huh? the navigator asked.

He nodded. Yes.

Dale felt in a couple places. We should find a doctor to look at this. If I remember correctly, there’s a civilian hospital a couple blocks away. Hopefully, it’s still intact. Do you think you’ll be able to make it up those stairs and walk that far?

I guess I’ll have to, Jesse said logically.

All right, let’s go then. Dale helped him up, and began to walk slowly toward the stairs. By this time, most of the people who sheltered there had departed. He helped Jesse slowly climb the stairs, letting him take his time. After a few moments, they reached the top. As they went into the street, Dale looked around.

Debris was everywhere. Smoking bricks, overturned cars, broken glass, chunks of burned wood, twisted wrought iron from fences, the remains of blasted homes. The air was heavy with smoke and sirens sounded close by. Rescue workers were already beginning to dig through the rubble all along the street.

Jesse looked around also. This was entirely different than looking at a strike through the eyepiece of his Norden bombsight. At 25,000 feet, all one saw were the explosions, some smoke and that was it. Normally, he didn’t even see that, except in the after mission strike photos. He did not see the results of the strike, nor did he even know if his strike was successful unless S/Sergeant Joe Angelino, his tail gunner, or someone else told him. What he was seeing now brought home to him, very vividly, what happened every time he dropped a load of ordnance.

The hospital should be down that way, Dale gestured to the right. Are you sure you can make it?

Jesse nodded. I’m okay. It looks worse than it is.

You’re the medic. I’ll take your word for it. But let’s take it slow, just in case, Dale advised.

They walked down the street, picking their way around various hunks of debris. Around them, helmeted air raid wardens were joining rescue workers, digging through the rubble. Civilians, many of whom had been in the Underground station, were searching their homes, trying to salvage whatever they could, helping neighbors dig out. The multitude of fires cast reddish light everywhere, giving the scene a surreal, otherworldly appearance. The black shadows of the workers danced on the damaged walls of the brick homes lining the street. The heavy smell of burning wood was thick in the cold night air.

We should help them, Jesse ventured as he looked around.

We need to get you medical attention, Dale countered.

But…

"Jesse, you’re my responsibility. I want to help them, too, but I have strict orders from Jack and Doc Fletcher. Right now, I need to take care of you. We’re going to the hospital, and that’s final. It’s also an order."

I really think… the bombardier began to protest.

"Oh shit!" Dale blurted suddenly as he looked past Jesse’s shoulder. Only a split second later, he shoved the bombardier as hard as he could.

Jesse tried to keep his balance, but his injured leg gave way. He hit the ground, and almost simultaneously felt the explosion a fraction of a second before he heard it. It was deafening, so close that it pained his ears. Jesse found himself laying on his back, looking up at the black sky, his eyes out of focus. There was a ringing in his ears, and everything sounded muffled.

I can’t believe this. Twice in one day…This has to be a dream…No, it’s a nightmare.

After a few seconds, his hearing began to clear, as did the rest of his senses. Jesse took stock. He could feel his arms and legs, the pain in his knee was sharp, so he knew he was okay. His head hurt, but it hurt before. He came to the conclusion that no additional harm was done. He slowly pushed himself to a sitting position as his back protested. He looked to the left and instantly knew what happened.

Several rescue workers lay unmoving in the street on the lip of a large crater, over a block away. They were covered in blood, a couple with arms and legs missing. They were all dead. It was obvious they were digging someone out and uncovered an unexploded bomb, or one with a delayed fuse which went off, killing them and anyone else in the immediate vicinity. Luckily, he and Dale were far enough away that they weren’t among the dead, but were hit with the shock wave.

Dale, he thought, realizing now that the navigator saw what was happening over his shoulder. Jesse had his back to the house, and Dale must have seen them uncover the ordnance and pushed him. He looked around.

Dale was blown off his feet from the concussion, but he was sitting up. His ears were ringing from the intensity of the explosion, and he had a cut on his left forehead, above the eyebrow. He felt a little woozy, and he shook his head slightly to clear it. He tried to take inventory, to make sure he wasn’t wounded, and just didn’t feel it. Dale looked down at the front of his coat, and saw nothing except a great deal of dirt and dust.

Jesse crawled over to him, ignoring the pain from his injured knee and sore back. He couldn’t see anything to lead him to believe the navigator was wounded, but he asked, Are you all right?

I…think so, Dale said, and shook his head slightly again, then reached up and wiped some dirt from his eyes.

Are you sure? Jesse asked intently.

Yeah, Dale said, dusting himself off.

Still sitting on the ground, Jesse turned around and looked back down the street again. Already people were rushing to the scene to see if they could help the injured workers. Just seeing the damage, he knew there was no help they could render. Jesse tore his gaze away, and looked to Dale.

That bomb had to have been buried in the debris. How did you see it this far away in the dark? Jesse asked.

Dale didn’t answer for a moment. I didn’t see it.

Then how..?

I saw the rescue workers. They were digging, then they started taking off in all directions. They wouldn’t stop trying to reach someone, not unless there was real danger there.

Jesse could only stare at him. If nothing else, the navigator just proved why he was the crew’s official observer. In addition to being the B-17’s navigator, some of Dale’s additional duties aboard Full House were to watch and keep track of the number of planes, both American and German, that he saw shot down; the number of parachutes of crewmen who might have bailed out; weather conditions over the target; flak density and lots of other things. At a post-mission debriefing he was usually the one who was asked the most questions. It was evident he didn’t miss much, and what just occurred reinforced that fact in a very emphatic way.

Dale looked back at Jesse. "Are you okay?"

The bombardier nodded. Yes, thanks to you.

Dale stood up and dusted himself off. He reached down, giving Jesse a hand. Come on. The hospital is just around the corner. We’d better get there. With the raid, it might be busy.

Jesse stood up and limped after Dale. They turned the corner, and he could see the hospital. As the navigator said, it was only about a half block away. It appeared as though it hadn’t suffered any damage in the air raid, though a couple other buildings at the end of the block had been hit. He was surprised that there didn’t seem to be too many people going into the hospital. That was a good sign, Jesse thought. It might mean there hadn’t been too many casualties, which was always something to be thankful for.

Dale held the door open, and they entered. There were several people sitting inside the entrance, some with superficial cuts, but none appeared to be serious. There were a couple nurses nearby, and one approached them, seeing Jesse’s bloodied face and leg.

Could we get someone to take a look at him? Dale asked. I know you must be busy…

I’ll get a doctor. She gestured to Jesse’s leg. That looks like it needs to be examined right away. Wait here, please, she instructed, then went quickly down a nearby hallway. She was gone only a few seconds when she returned. Follow me. I have one of our doctors waiting.

Can I go with him? Dale asked.

Of course. This way, she said, and motioned down the hallway.

They followed to a small examination room. A doctor looked up and saw the rank insignia on Jesse’s uniform.

Leftenant. My name is Dr. Farrell.

Sir, Jesse said politely.

The doctor turned to Dale. Captain. Looks like you were out in the air raid, the doctor observed, eying Jesse.

I was, for a while, the bombardier admitted a little self-consciously.

Would you remove your uniform, please? The nurse has a gown for you to use. I want to make sure you don’t have any more injuries than those I can see, and I think I’ll send you for some x-rays.

Yes sir, Jesse said, and began to shed his dirty uniform.

The nurse held a clipboard. I need some basic information. Your last name, please.

Nowakowski.

She hesitated, then grinned. Could you spell that?

N-o-w-a-k-o-w-s-k-i.

That’s Polish? she asked.

Yes ma’am.

I always have problems with Polish names.

It’s spelled exactly the way it sounds, Jesse said with a grin.

A few feet away, the Doctor smiled as he prepared his instruments to do the examination.

If you say so, she answered in amusement.

You wouldn’t want to have to spell my great grandfather’s name, Jesse said knowingly.

What is it? she asked curiously.

Well, let’s say it’s pronounced as though it’s spelled Chih-ziki, with the accent on the ‘zik’.

Okay, but how is it spelled? she asked.

You asked for it, Jesse said. C-z-y-z-y-c-k-i.

Good Lord, she said with her eyes wide.

Are you kidding? Dale asked. That only has one vowel!

Believe it or not, I’ve even seen worse than that, Jesse remarked.

Nowakowski doesn’t seem so bad now, Dale said thoughtfully.

What’s your first name? the nurse asked, still marveling over the spelling of Polish surnames.

Jesse. J-e-s-s-e.

Your age?

Twenty-one.

She filled in some more information, then handed the clipboard to the doctor. I’ll see to the x-ray room.

Thank you, Patty. Farrell waited until she left. "So,