to point like that, open the doors behind his seat to grab his chute from just inside the fuselage of the plane, then rotate the turret to one side. With the guns pointing left or right, he could backflip out the opening and drop from the other side."
"So if Ack-Ack did that, the guns should still be pointing sideways?"
"Yeah, not to the rear. The way they're pointing means the turret doors open into the plane."
"Could he escape that way?" asked Liz.
"Sure. But he didn't. Before I bailed, I glanced along the fuselage tunnel. I saw the mid-upper gunner descend from his turret. I didn't see the rear gunner crawl forward."
"He didn't get out?" said Wyatt.
"That's my fear."
Under a sodden gray sky threatening rain, these four who had met up in Germany circled the unearthed plane. The trek was slow, as Sweaty struggled with a gimpy l eg. "I hurt it when I landed after bailing out," he explained. "By the time you reach my age, your chickens come home to roost. I'm booked for a hip replacement once I return to the States. But I couldn't miss this. I owe these guys. And I've got to know why we went down that night."
Like Sweaty, their fourth member—about thirty, well dressed and obsessively groomed—was also from the States.
He'd told the others at the meet-and-greet this morning at the hotel that he was Lenny Jones, Trent Jones's grandson.
Trent Jones had been the mid-upper gunner.
"Liz Hannah," Liz had said, offering her hand. "Granddaughter of Fletch Hannah, the Ace of Clubs' pilot."
"Wyatt Rook."
"I've heard of you," Lenny said, shaking his hand. "The historian, right?"
Wyatt nodded.
"So," asked Lenny, "how do you fit in?"
"I hired him," Liz responded. "My family wants to know why my granddad disappeared."
"We have that in common."
"Yes," Liz said, agreeing. "Our grandfathers and Ack-Ack were the three crewmen who vanished that night."
+ + +
The four of them had driven here in Wyatt's rental car. A rural road ran parallel to the graded bed of the new autobahn. The routes split up at the mouth of the valley cradling the Ace.
The old road arced around to leave the hollow as it was, while the highway under construction plowed through the virgin meadow. Just as the plane had done when it crashed in 1944.
Luckily for Sweaty, given the state of his leg, dump trucks hauling earth away had rutted a makeshift path. Armed with an official pass to the site, Wyatt had bumped them along the track until the VW reached the pothole.
The manmade pit was more than a hundred feet across.
Big enough for the Ace.
Not to be thwarted by the inconvenience of salvaging the plane, road construction continued on up the valley. Once the Ace had been trundled off to a British museum—at the end of the war, the RAF had scrapped every Halifax not lost in combat—the road crew would fill in the pit and run the autobahn over top.
That, thought Wyatt, is why German trains run on time.
Halfway around the rim of the pit, Lenny pointed to the mid-upper turret and asked, "Why did my grandfather crew with you that night?"
"Our regular gunner—we called him De Count—was pulled from ops and branded LMF."
"What's LMF?"
"Lack of moral fiber," Sweaty explained.
"What does that mean?"
"He cracked under the strain. There were many ways a guy could get the chop. Get killed. Planes could crash on takeoff or in flight. Planes above could drop their bombs in error on our heads. Planes beside could wander into our space. Enemy fighters or flak could shoot us down or set us afire, and we'd be gone. Ditch in the sea, and we'd drown or freeze to death. If oxygen failed, hello anoxia. Frostbite and icing could weigh us down. Stripped to basics, the Ace was a flying bomb loaded with gas and ammunition. A bullet, a spark, a leak—any one could blow us sky-high long before we got to club the target."
"Heavy duty," Lenny said.
"Literally. The stress from each op accumulates. Operational twitch. Loss of nerve. Mental exhaustion. Shellshock.
"So if Ack-Ack did that, the guns should still be pointing sideways?"
"Yeah, not to the rear. The way they're pointing means the turret doors open into the plane."
"Could he escape that way?" asked Liz.
"Sure. But he didn't. Before I bailed, I glanced along the fuselage tunnel. I saw the mid-upper gunner descend from his turret. I didn't see the rear gunner crawl forward."
"He didn't get out?" said Wyatt.
"That's my fear."
Under a sodden gray sky threatening rain, these four who had met up in Germany circled the unearthed plane. The trek was slow, as Sweaty struggled with a gimpy l eg. "I hurt it when I landed after bailing out," he explained. "By the time you reach my age, your chickens come home to roost. I'm booked for a hip replacement once I return to the States. But I couldn't miss this. I owe these guys. And I've got to know why we went down that night."
Like Sweaty, their fourth member—about thirty, well dressed and obsessively groomed—was also from the States.
He'd told the others at the meet-and-greet this morning at the hotel that he was Lenny Jones, Trent Jones's grandson.
Trent Jones had been the mid-upper gunner.
"Liz Hannah," Liz had said, offering her hand. "Granddaughter of Fletch Hannah, the Ace of Clubs' pilot."
"Wyatt Rook."
"I've heard of you," Lenny said, shaking his hand. "The historian, right?"
Wyatt nodded.
"So," asked Lenny, "how do you fit in?"
"I hired him," Liz responded. "My family wants to know why my granddad disappeared."
"We have that in common."
"Yes," Liz said, agreeing. "Our grandfathers and Ack-Ack were the three crewmen who vanished that night."
+ + +
The four of them had driven here in Wyatt's rental car. A rural road ran parallel to the graded bed of the new autobahn. The routes split up at the mouth of the valley cradling the Ace.
The old road arced around to leave the hollow as it was, while the highway under construction plowed through the virgin meadow. Just as the plane had done when it crashed in 1944.
Luckily for Sweaty, given the state of his leg, dump trucks hauling earth away had rutted a makeshift path. Armed with an official pass to the site, Wyatt had bumped them along the track until the VW reached the pothole.
The manmade pit was more than a hundred feet across.
Big enough for the Ace.
Not to be thwarted by the inconvenience of salvaging the plane, road construction continued on up the valley. Once the Ace had been trundled off to a British museum—at the end of the war, the RAF had scrapped every Halifax not lost in combat—the road crew would fill in the pit and run the autobahn over top.
That, thought Wyatt, is why German trains run on time.
Halfway around the rim of the pit, Lenny pointed to the mid-upper turret and asked, "Why did my grandfather crew with you that night?"
"Our regular gunner—we called him De Count—was pulled from ops and branded LMF."
"What's LMF?"
"Lack of moral fiber," Sweaty explained.
"What does that mean?"
"He cracked under the strain. There were many ways a guy could get the chop. Get killed. Planes could crash on takeoff or in flight. Planes above could drop their bombs in error on our heads. Planes beside could wander into our space. Enemy fighters or flak could shoot us down or set us afire, and we'd be gone. Ditch in the sea, and we'd drown or freeze to death. If oxygen failed, hello anoxia. Frostbite and icing could weigh us down. Stripped to basics, the Ace was a flying bomb loaded with gas and ammunition. A bullet, a spark, a leak—any one could blow us sky-high long before we got to club the target."
"Heavy duty," Lenny said.
"Literally. The stress from each op accumulates. Operational twitch. Loss of nerve. Mental exhaustion. Shellshock.
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