Betrayed Valor Read online

  They leaned against the wall in comfortable silence, taking in the activity around them. They would both be going out on another mission in the early morning hours.

  Although the infamous Operation Tidal Wave was a failure, the Ploesti bombing raids continued. They learned their lessons and corrected what they could. Regardless, many of their fellow airmen were still shot down during those missions. But the missions continued, and will continue, until the last oil field was gone.

  Shorter than Petrovich, O’Donnell, at 5’10” and 150 lbs., barely came up to Petrovich’s shoulders. But what he lacked in height and weight, he made up in talent. He’d also gone out on that doomed Tidal Wave mission and made it back alive. O’Donnell also knew that the hands of God brought him and his crew back safely, but he kept that thought to himself. He didn’t want anyone to think that he ever questioned his own flying ability.

  It wasn’t as if he thought he couldn’t do it. In fact, the opposite was true. He knew he was good. Heck, so did everyone else. And in his humble opinion, why change that? He loved being recognized as one of the best. And he wanted to keep it that way.

  Where Petrovich joined the fight for patriotic reasons, O’Donnell joined for others. He also heard about the war, read the papers and discussed the wrath of the Germans with his friends. But he always considered it a European problem, one that seemed to repeat itself every so many years. It wasn’t as if he didn’t care about the plight of the countries being plundered by Hitler. But he cared more about America, Americans and what they had to deal with at home. He felt the war was a world away, and he had more important things to worry about. Like if the Cubs were ever going to win the World Series.

  However, he had been out with friends at the lake one evening. While they were there, he looked up and saw his best friend’s sister running towards him. As her tear-streaked face came closer, his heart began to beat faster. Immediately, he knew something was wrong. She was usually laughing and silly. He never saw her cry.

  “Billy! Billy!” she screamed. She ran right into him and threw her little arms around his waist, pushing her face into his stomach, sobbing. “Billy. It’s Jack. They ca . . . ca . . . came . . .” her words faded into another sob. O’Donnell’s heart had beat faster in his chest as pressure began to build deep within him. He gently pried her off and kneeled down to look her directly in the face. He took a moment to take a deep breath, scared that his fear would show when he spoke.

  “What’s up, Shorty? What’s wrong with Jack? Who came?” he asked softly, but deep down he already knew the answer.

  “Some men came to the door. I answered it and they asked for my mom.” She paused to catch her breath. Her tears started flowing again as she continued, “They told my mom that Jack was a very brave soldier and that we should be proud of him. That he died honorably defending freedom. He DIED, Billy! Jack’s dead!” she screamed. “I hate them! I hate them! Why did he have to go? Why?”

  He just sat there and comforted her, as her brother would have done if he were there. He tried to remain calm for her sake. But deep inside, his sorrow was deep. It was as if his entire world had been swallowed by a black hole. There was no escape from the blackness around him.

  Jack was the brother he never had. When the war started, Jack was obsessed with it. Where O’Donnell dismissed it as a European problem, Jack felt that America needed to step in and stop the madness. It was an argument they had often. When the opportunity arose for him to enlist, he did. O’Donnell thought he was crazy. Jack couldn’t wait to go. Now he was dead.

  That sorrow eventually turned into deep seeded anger. And that anger is what made him join the war. He wanted them to pay. He wanted them to suffer for what they did to Jack. So he enlisted with revenge on his heart. And it showed.

  He came in with a chip on his shoulder and didn’t care to make new friends. He was here on a mission: avenge his best friend. And that was Petrovich’s first impression of him: cold, arrogant and distant. But as time went by, and the missions completed successfully, O’Donnell’s personality began to warm. He changed his personal mission from that of revenge to that of doing what Jack would have wanted him to do. He was doing it for Jack and what Jack believed in. As he changed his perspective, so did his relationship with Petrovich. They became friends. Now there wasn’t anyone either of them trusted more.

  Red walked by with one of the British Special Operations Executives (SOE). The SOE was established by Winston Churchill to connect to resistance movements throughout Europe. The thought was to have them infiltrate and work with those movements to fight the Germans from within occupied territories. They worked closely with the American version, known as the OSS, Office of Strategic Services. When it came down to it, the OSS and SOE were spies. Their agents used espionage to fulfill their missions. Petrovich had his doubts about them. But he didn’t express them to anyone other than O’Donnell who hadn’t yet made up his mind about them.

  Red and the agent were having a heated discussion, at least from the looks of it. The OSS agent looked up and saw Petrovich and O’Donnell. He abruptly stopped his conversation with Red and waved. Red turned and looked over his shoulder at them and nodded.

  “Afternoon, Gentlemen. Taking some well deserved rest today before tomorrow’s mission?” O’Donnell‘s smile didn’t quite reflect in his eyes as he looked up.

  “Just thinking, Red. Just thinking . . .” O’Donnell didn’t really care too much for Red. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but there was something about him that made him want to look over his shoulder whenever they were near each other. Red was a good pilot. He’d made it back from several missions too. And each mission was successful. But he made O’Donnell’s skin crawl.

  “Americans are so thoughtful.” He said to the SOE agent as they continued walking away. They chuckled at the private joke, waiting to continue their original conversation until they were far enough away.

  “What is it about him that makes me feel like I need to take another shower?” Petrovich questioned as he pretended to wipe something off of his arms and legs. “I didn’t recognize the guy he was with.”

  “I think it’s one of those British spies” O’Donnell shook his head at the thought.

  “Who cares anyway? I’ve got more important things to think about. I have a bad feeling about tomorrow’s mission.” Petrovich put his hands in his pockets and rocked forward off of the wall. “Just can’t shake this feeling.”

  “It’ll all be good. It always is. We are two of the best pilots here. Remember that.” O’Donnell stretched his arms over his head and grinned at Petrovich. “We go out again in the morning, take care of business, and come back. Then, tomorrow over dinner, I’ll remind you that I am the better pilot.”

  Petrovich laughed at the old joke and shook O’Donnell’s hand. “Brother, sounds good to me. But we both know who’s the better pilot here, and it’s not you!” As he stepped forward, Petrovich still couldn’t shake his uneasy feeling. Walking away, he said a silent prayer and hoped that O’Donnell was right.

  CHAPTER 4

  THICK BLACK SMOKE filled the room. He lifted his hands and tried opening his eyes, but the smoke was too thick, he couldn’t see his hand in front of his face. Where was the door? He thought he remembered it was to his left, so he lay down on the floor and started crawling that way. Taking a deep breath, he choked. The smoke burned his airways as he coughed it back out. He had to be smart, stay as low to the ground and take small shallow breaths. Where is that door? He had to get to it soon or he’d die. Sweat was dripping over his forehead and down his cheeks. He finally reached the wall. No door. Was it the other way? Panic overcame him so he stood, eyes still closed, blindly running in the other direction. No door. He started pounding on the wall with both fists. Wasn’t there a window? How could there be no door?

  He kept pounding on the wall. He tried to scream for help, but no sounds came as the smoke filled his lungs. He gasped as the burning in his chest became too much to take. “I do
n’t want to die like this,” was his last thought as he collapsed to the ground, screaming silence.

  Petrovich’s body jerked forward out of bed, his hands clutching his throat as he gasped for air. His undershirt was drenched. His eyes darted around the room. Dawn had yet to break through, but the light from the full moon provided enough for him to see the door and the window on the other side of the room. As his eyes adjusted to the dim moonlight, he realized that it was only a dream.

  The tangled mess of blankets wrapped around his legs, trapping him in bed. He untangled himself and hurried outside. As soon as he was outside he took a deep breath of fresh air to try and calm his heart, which was pounding so hard he would have sworn it was going to beat right out of his chest. He closed his eyes and forced his breath to slow.

  The dream was worse tonight than it had ever been. The other nights he’d been able to wake up before he realized there wasn’t a door or window from which to escape. Tonight he caught a glimpse of his death. Not a great way to start the day, especially during wartime, right before a mission.

  “I’ve got to get a grip. It’s just a dream.” Petrovich muttered to himself. Out of the corner of his eye, he saw something move. He took a better look, trying to let his eyes adjust, and didn’t see anything. As he turned back towards the bunkhouse, he saw it again. “What the heck?” he whispered. It couldn’t have been past 2 a.m. Who would be out at this hour?

  He walked down the narrow corridor between the buildings. The lights were all off, but with the full moon he could still see clearly. Nothing. The dream spooked him enough to see things in the shadows. He turned around and walked back towards his bunkhouse when something shiny caught his eye. He bent down to pick up the red and gold star-shaped pendant. He wondered how he hadn’t seen it earlier. It was vaguely familiar, but he couldn’t place it. It seemed so out of place here. It wasn’t a medal of honor any of the Allies used. In the morning, he’d ask around and see if anyone knew what it was or who it belonged to.

  He returned to his bunk and lay down. He needed to try to get in at least another couple of hours of sleep before heading out to start the day’s Ploesti raid. Staring at the star, he turned it over and around in his fingers. As he slowly drifted back to sleep, the star slipped from his fingers to the floor. And he dreamt of red stars, black smoke and a skull and cross bones.

  * * *

  At dawn, O’Donnell was up and ready to go. He was surprised at how good he slept, just like a baby. That’s a good omen, he thought. He hadn’t slept that good in so long; it must mean that this bombing run will be another safe one. He kept reminding himself that he survived Op Tidal Wave. If he survived that, he could survive anything. He still knew that each time they went out, it was a risk. But he had a good crew and they worked well together.

  Being the pilot meant more than just flying the plane. The job came with a lot of responsibility. The men were in his hands. His crew was important to him. They were tight knit each placing his life in the hands of the others. He not only wanted to make sure that he made it back to base in one piece, but that his men did too. That weighed on his conscience. The responsibility for their lives was what kept him focused. He didn’t want to be the reason his men didn’t make it back alive.

  Dressed and ready to go, he walked towards the B-24 bomber. The sun was just starting to rise behind the huge plane. It wasn’t designed to be hidden from the enemy, that’s for sure. In fact, the opposite was true. Its enormous size made it an easy target for the Germans. But it had to be big to carry as many bombs and crew members as it did. Each flight carried the pilot and co-pilot, who would take over if the pilot was injured or killed. Then there were the bombardier, navigator, engineer, radioman, nose gunner, ball gunner, waist gunner and tail gunner. Each job was as important as the rest.

  O’Donnell saw Petrovich and walked over to him. “Hey, ready to do this?” he asked.

  “As always.”

  “I slept like a baby last night. I feel real good about this one. How about you? You don’t look so good.”

  “I slept like crap. Woke up in the middle of the night, nearly screaming like a girl. Stupid dream again. This war’s getting to me.” Petrovich rubbed his hands over his face and shook his head.

  “No worries, man. You and your crew are some of the best. “He paused and looked over at the planes. “This war is getting to all of us. Some more than others. It will end-eventually. And each time we go out, we get that much closer to going home. You can’t go out there worried about this dream. You’ll lose your focus.”

  “I know. I know. Too bad for those Germans that even on only a few hours of sleep, I’m still better than most of what they’ve got!”

  “That’s what I’m talking about! Come one, let’s get this thing done. Then when we get back, I’ll tell you all about my dream about this gorgeous little Italian girl I met.” He winked “Now, that’s the kind of dream you wish you had!” He smacked Petrovich on the back and headed towards his plane.

  Everyone was in his place except for Johnson, the ball gunner. He had to wait until after take off to climb out of the fuselage into his tiny Plexiglas sphere beneath the bomber. As everyone got into place, O’Donnell focused on his instruments, climbing higher in altitude. To his right the co-pilot, Richardson, sat unusually quiet.

  “Why so quiet this morning?”

  “Just thinking about what Axis Sally said last night, did you listen to her?” he asked, not waiting for a reply. “In that sexy voice of hers, she was going on and on about how we are the aggressors and that we should be ashamed for what we are doing. I don’t get it. How can she be so blind?”

  Axis Sally was an American woman who had fallen in love with a German man and moved to Germany. She broadcasted German propaganda from a Berlin radio station. In between songs, she would send messages to the Allied men trying to demoralize them

  “Who knows? Whatever her reasons are, she’s a traitor. But even as a traitor, she plays some real good music.”

  “That she does. We all know what she says is crap. But we all listen anyway. It’s got to be the music, well that and just hearing that sexy American voice. God, I miss hearing that.”

  The planes were in formation and flying towards Ploesti. At this altitude it got to be very cold in the plane. O’Donnell felt bad for Johnson. He really had the worst spot. It was so cramped in that sphere he could barely move. He had to wait until takeoff to get in and he had to get out before they landed. The ball gunners sometimes got frostbite on their ears from the extremely low temperatures. Johnson shifted in his electric suit. It was plugged into a 21-volt system to keep warm. But that didn’t help the ears. Poor guy.

  As they neared their target, the mood in the plane sobered. Everyone remembered that the Germans had heavy defenses around the refineries. At any given moment, there would be German fighter planes tearing through their formation. They just had to drop their bombs on target and head back.

  O’Donnell looked out into the sky and thought how odd it was that it looked so peaceful when they were in the air, even as the sounds of the engines roared through the plane. It whispered peace, like the eye of the storm. It was a false feeling, he knew. But he enjoyed this short time they had in the air.

  He was high on adrenaline. The closer they got to Ploesti, the faster his heart beat. This was it. This is when his skills would make it either life or death. Anytime now, the Germans would . . .

  An antiaircraft bomb exploded in front of them, shaking the plane back and forth. Shells exploded all around them. Smoke and flak filled the air, as the plane jerked violently left and right. O’Donnell steadied the plane and continued heading towards the target, all the while trying to avoid the antiaircraft fire. The refineries were now in sight and grew as they quickly approached them.

  “Bombs away!” yelled out the bombardier. Bulls-eye! Shockwaves rippled through the air as flames shot up from the explosion. The plane slammed hard to the left. Still trying to avoid German rockets, O’Donne
ll steadied their plane then tilted the wing down and turned the plane to head back to base.

  A burst of bright orange and red flames exploded to their right. “Thompson’s hit!” shouted Richardson. The plane shuddered violently from the force of the explosion and O’Donnell struggled to keep control. He would mourn those men later, but for now he had to get his crew out of this mess. Shells continued to explode all around them. He could barely see through the flak.

  Once they made it past the danger zone, the crew began to relax. They’d made it through the worst part. O’Donnell knew they weren’t safe yet. Shrapnel had done some damage to the plane, but not enough to take it down.

  “We took some good hits this time.” O’Donnell took at look at his controls then said, “We’re losing altitude.”

  Still losing altitude, the plane fell out of formation. They could make it back like this, as long as they didn’t get any surprise visits from the Germans. Without the protection of the formation they were like a sitting duck.

  “We got lucky, you know. That was Thomson’s plane and crew that went down. He’s one of our best.” Richardson didn’t have to say it. O’Donnell was already thinking it. It could have been any of them. That was the risk they all took. They fell silent as they thought about the loss of lives and how thankful they were that it hadn’t been them.

  Suddenly, the plane shook violently. Antiaircraft fire exploded around them. O’Donnell struggled to regain control.

  “What the . . . ? Where did that come from?” O’Donnell shouted as he caught a glimpse of enemy aircraft approaching them. Struggling to maintain control, the plane shook again.

  “Fighters at six o’clock! And four o’clock!” shouted the tail gunner. They prepared for the attack, the gunners ready to defend. The Germans fired again; knocking the plane so hard it dropped ten feet.

  “Johnson’s been hit! He’s been hit!” Johnson was slouched in his cramped space, shrapnel in his neck, his sphere filling with dark red blood. Panic erupted in the plane as the reality of attack began to sink in. O’Donnell and Richardson fought to avoid the continual explosions around them.