“That you are not under any circumstances to go along on this mission, ” Emmons said.
“Oh, that sonofabitch!” Canidy said.
“He meant it, too,” Emmons said. “I’m sorry.”
“He outfoxed you, Richard,” the WRAC sergeant said, obviously pleased to learn that. “He knew very well all along that you planned to go.” Canidy looked at the boyish B-26 pilot and shrugged his shoulders.
“You just tell us what you want, Major,” the young pilot said.
“And how you think is the best way to get it. We’ll give it the old school try.” Saint-Lazare was on the English side of the Brest Peninsula, 375 air miles from Horsham St. Faith. The B-26 stripped for aerial photography cruised at 325 knots. It would take a little over two hours in all for the trip. The boyish B-26 pilot broke ground at 0538, and the B-26 reappeared at Horsham St Faith a few minutes after eight. The return trip had taken longer than the way out. The port engine had been ripped off by flak.
A wounded aboard’ flare went up from the B-26 as it lined itself up with the runway.
When the wheels came down, even from where they stood watching, it was clear to both Emmons and Canidy that the starboard gear had been damaged and was not going to lock in place.
An attempt to radio the pilot to go around, pull up his gear, and belly it in failed. And in any event, there wasn’t time. It came in, in a crawl, and touched down, skidded off the runway, toward the bad gear, and spun around and around and around across the grass.
When Canidy and Emmons, in a jeep, reached the aircraft sixty seconds ahead of the crash truck and ambulances, the air was heavy with the smell of avgas. Thirty seconds after they pulled the limp body of the boy pilot through the canopy, the gas ignited.
But the photographers had tossed the film canisters out of the gun-and camera ports in the fuselage the moment the plane had stopped moving, and thus MA (for Mission Accomplished) could be written in the records after Mission 43-Special-124.
THREE.
Croydon Air Field London, England 1035 hours 6 January 1943 As the C-54 taxied to Base Operations, Ed saw two U. S. Army buses and a limousine waiting. There were three or four full colonels aboard the C-54, and one of them was apparently important enough to be met by a limousine.
Not without a little thrill, Ed saw in the limousine a couple of symbols that he was now in the war zone. Except for a narrow slit, its head lamps were painted black, and its fenders were outlined in white so the car would have more visibility in a blacked-out-against-the-enemy city.
He waited impatiently until there was room enough in the aisle for him to stand and put on his uniform cap and overcoat and collect his luggage.
Then he walked down the stairs, following the line of people toward the buses.
Then his name was called.
“Commander Edwin Bitter!” He looked around.
There were five people in uniform (no two uniforms alike) standing in a line by the limousine. Four of them were standing at attention, and the fifth was saluting. Three of them, including the one saluting, were female. It took him a moment to place her. He had never before seen his cousin Ann Chambers in her war correspondent’s uniform.
But he had immediately recognized the two broadly smiling American officers with her. The one in a green blouse and trousers was Dick Canidy.
The one in a rather startling all-pink (trousers, shirt, and cut-down blouse) and totally illegal variation of an Air Corps captain’s “pinks and greens” was Captain James M. B. Whittaker. He had no idea who the two Englishwomen, a captain and a sergeant, were.
The other debarking passengers were fascinated with the odd little greeting party. Most were amused, but two of the full colonels failed to see anything entertaining.
Bitter was more than a little embarrassed as he left the line headed for the buses and walked to them.
“The King was tied up,” Canidy said, “so he sent the Duchess to welcome you.”