aircraft had survived, it would be coming back.
“Going back for them, Boss?”
Quayle shook his head, then keyed the microphone. “Don’t think so. They’ll be dispersing down there. Anyway, I’ve had a thought. I was wondering why they were grouped around a rail junction.”
Phelan thought for a second. “They were waiting for something. Supplies.”
“That’s my guess. They must have moved pretty fast to get here and I bet they’re down on gas. Ammo too, probably. So, they’re waiting for a resupply. Now, since they’re waiting for a resupply by a railway line, doesn’t that mean the supplies are coming…”
“…by train.” Morton finished the sentence off.
“Right. If we work back along the rail lines, we should find that train. A whole trainload of supplies. Jimmie, plot me a course to follow the railway line west. Don, back to your turret. The guns are yours. That kraut may have had a friend.”
“Any friendlies down there?”
“We’re far behind enemy lines, Boss. Must be as supply train. Krauts must be desperate to run a train this big. Either that or they’re really short of engines.” That was part of the briefing the night intruder pilots got. The Germans were desperately short of locomotives. They’d started the war short. They’d looted the countries they’d conquered to make up the numbers. That had left them with a mixed fleet it was impossible to maintain. They’d never built, or captured, the heavy cranes and wreckers that were needed to salvage damaged or derailed locomotives. The path of the German armies was marked by a trail of rusting locomotives abandoned by the tracks they had left. Then the partisans had displayed incredible imagination in sabotaging what was left and the Americans made busting trains a specialty. All in all, the German railways were in a sad state
“Check the book anyway, Jimmie.”
Morton got his briefing notes out. It only took a second to check. “Nothing friendly round here boss. There’s a Navy train getting out but its far to the west of us; other side of the river and heading north by now. This one’s a kraut, no doubt about it.”
Quayle banked the Black Widow around and headed north before turning down to hit the train side on. Recommended method of hitting trains was to strafe along their length; there was a good bet this train was loaded with ammunition and flying along it was a sure way to get hit by debris. He thought for a second, then selected the twelve five-inch rockets hanging under the outer wing panels. Selector set to two. They would fire of in pairs; each pair a split second after the one before.
Once again it was the shadows that were his first indication of the target. To his surprise there were three separate trains and he’d blundered; he’d lined up on the last of the train convoy. It was too late to do anything about it. He gunned his R-2800s and made his pass, pouring the rockets at the engine and cars behind it.
“Gee, look at that secondary!” In the back, Phelan was watching the eruption and fire as the rockets tore into the target. It had been a beautiful pass.
“There’s a plane up there.” Perdue was searching the sky but he could see nothing.
It was sheer luck that he saw the twin-boom Black Widow. It streaked across his trains, pouring rockets at the poor little shunter at the end of the line. The orange streaks of rocket fire gave him just enough light to make a tentative guess. The roaring fire as the rockets exploded in the supply of diesel fuel and propellent bags stored in one of the shunter cars confirmed it. A Black Widow night intruder had spotted the trains and decided they just had to be German. Perdue swore to himself,
“What’s the colors? For God’s sake hurry!”
“Green to white.” The voice was unidentified, unidentifiable in the roaring noise of the inferno that had engulfed the shunter and its consist.
Perdue grabbed the flare gun and rammed the correct flare into it. Time was short. The Black Widow would already be turning for another pass at the trains underneath. The flare went skywards; burning green, then turning to white. Even before it had completed its burn, Perdue fired a second, then a third. It must have been enough because the Black Widow thundered a few feet overhead without firing.
Quayle was lining up on the remaining parts of the train group when the flare exploded almost in front of him. At first he’d thought it was a spiral but it had burned green, turning to white. Two more had followed it.
“Don’t shoot Boss! It’s one of ours.”
Morton’s scream of warning stopped Quayle just in time. As
“Sure was, Boss.”
“Well, it isn’t far to the west of here. We just shot the holy living shit out of it. We’d better warn control, we’ll radio it in.”
The shunter and its consist were a write-off. Eighteen Americans and six Russians had died with it. Perdue was already having their graves dug beside the tracks. It was hard to tell which corpse was which, the combination of diesel fuel and propellant had charred them beyond recognition. Perdue knew he was probably burying Americans in a Russian grave and vice versa, but he guessed it didn’t matter too much. They’d fought together, died together, did it really matter which was which?
The bang and roar shook Captain Christian Lokken out of his uneasy sleep. For one hideous moment, he thought he was back on his shattered
“Noisy aren’t they Captain?” The voice was professional-cheerful, the one doctors used to critically ill patients whose chance of survival was still in doubt. “Aircraft taking off. We’re launching strikes, hitting targets around Londonderry. Especially the SS barracks and training center there.”
“A carrier? How?”
“You were transferred over from the
Lokken slumped back into his cot. “My crew, how many survivors? Do you know?”
“We think a total of fifty three. There may be more in the Faroe Islands; three of your ships made it there. Two destroyers and a cruiser. We think there may be between 2,000 and 2,500 survivors on board them.”
“And you will be bombing them again.” It was a flat statement. After the nightmare of the day-long assault, Lokken couldn’t believe the Americans would leave those ships afloat. A thought that was emphasized by another bang and roar over his head.
“I don’t think so. We sent a photo-Corsair to have a look. The cruiser’s on the rocks, finished. The destroyers are Free British prizes. Anyway, Captain, you’ve got pneumonia, frostbite and Lord knows what else. Rest for a while; later I’ll give you some exercises to get the fluid out of your lungs. If you want to survive, it’s critical you follow the instructions I give you. Another thing, don’t even try to leave the sickbay. The change in temperature will kill you. Going for a walk is literally more than your life is worth.”
The doctor left the sickbay, nodding to the two Marines on guard outside. His words to Captain Lokken had
