by Anne Rogers Poliakoff
You didn’t have to be a math whiz to know how bad the odds were. It was a miracle if a man flew ten missions without something really bad going down. Buck had all he could do to keep a smile on his lips, mirroring the jollity of the crews, their ribald cracks, raw cackles, as they climbed into A-20s day after day. As the planes screamed off into the blue, Buck usually would walk back to the map room, shuffle the intel docs and the situation maps he’d composed for the men to rely on, to guide their A-20s over German lines through the flak guns and back again to the Melun Airdrome. Alone in the map room, he always took a couple of minutes to wipe away the dampness that had gathered in his eyes as he’d gazed upward at the beautiful steel bellies of the A-20s, steering all those good young men into the bloody jaws of death. It was too much.
Buck walked back outside to look up again into the empty blue French sky. Lovely, warm autumn day. Ragged jewelweed along the edge of the runway, a lone poplar on the road to town, its leaves shimmering yellow. He waved at Jim, seated at the edge of the water drum, sharing his breakfast spam with Petit Chien, the little dog that had wandered onto their airbase when the 416th group first arrived in September. He’d become their mascot, and the men had already conceived a plan for flying Petit Chien back to the U.S., once the war was over. It was a fine plan, and Buck had no doubt the men would enforce it impeccably. It was such a relief, planning how to rescue a little dog. Soothing to put your mind to something like that. Men would bring it up even yet at mess, even though every last detail was calculated, just for the pleasure of considering a rescue that a man could plan and execute in a world where this morning’s mission had odds no better than a crap shoot—50/50.
Buck continued his saunter down the runway. It was his habit after the men flew off for their morning mission to take this stroll. Some sense of solidarity with those in the planes. He should be with them. He would be if it weren’t for the damned U.S. Army Air Corps declaring his eyesight too lousy. Papa was so pleased! Damn. You didn’t have to see all that well to fly an A-20. His buddies teased him about staying behind, safe on the tarmac. He hated it.
When Buck spoke to his fiancée of his frustration, Diana always reminded him that sitting on a U.S. Army Air Corps airfield near Melun in the middle of France was about as dangerous as flying. The Luftwaffe sent their bloody Heinkels and Dorniers over American airfields and laid waste to them ALL the time. Less often the past few months. But Buck had seen too many planes that barely made it back, shot to bits. He shuddered and kicked at the stray stones along the runway, watching a little bright blue-striped skink skitter off, just like at home, near Papa’s old tool shed.
Truth to tell it was a relief to have a few hours alone like this on the base. Most everyone up in the planes, a handful left behind, and nothing to do for the men in flight, not one sweet Jesus in heaven thing to do but pray. And praying felt a little like a jinx. Better maybe to pretend it was just another sunny autumn day in France.
About an hour before they were due back it would hit him. His gut would churn. He’d start listening for the engines. Whatever he’d been up to, he’d be back out on the runway, pacing, gazing out at the northern horizon. Usually, he’d hear the engines before he could see anything, but today was so clear. “Un ciel clair,” the woman in the mess hall from the village would say. Often Doc Johnny would come out and pace with him. Doc had scarcely two years of med school behind him, but he’d say he’d learned more than he’d ever wanted to know about emergency medicine on this runway. He gripped his medical bag in his left hand, tourniquets, syrettes of morphine, god knows what. Usually Buck carried the heavy flashlight—it could be hard to see inside those ripped up A-20s—and a flask of Kentucky bourbon.
Buck caught a faint sound coming towards the airfield, and came to a standstill, riveted on the horizon. Inside the squadron’s steady drone came a faltering thrum, a chirr, at least one plane struggling. Doc Johnny grabbed Buck’s arm and the men ran off the runway onto the shoulder, their eyes never leaving the dim gray shapes coming into view.
“SHIT,” said Johnny, as they both saw the flickers of fire from a plane off to the right. “He’s gonna blow us all to hell.”
The ground crew had seen it too and were running straight at the danger, dragging the water hose. The pilot was aiming to land in the field, a quarter mile from the bunkers and the landing strip where the rest of the squadron were coming in. Buck realized he was hearing another faltering drone and peered back toward the mass of the squadron beginning to taxi down the runway. He saw the last A-20 trailing behind, most of its tail shredded, pieces hanging loose. It skittered to a stop. Guttural screaming. Buck glimpsed the plane’s nose art and he knew. His buddy Tom was the tail gunner for that plane. “Oh, Jesus, no!”
Johnny heard him, followed his eyes, and groaned as he sprinted for the wrecked tail. He had his fingers on the clasp of the medical bag as he ran.
When Buck dreamed this moment, over and over and over for the rest of his life, this is where he tried to wake himself. When he heard his voice shout, “Jesus no!” that was the moment that reminded him where the dream would go next. He struggled to wake up, to protect himself from seeing, again and again, what had happened to Tom. Some nights he got lucky and his shout roused Diana, who shook him, “Darling, darling, stop, it’s just a dream.”
Yet he would hesitate, for a moment, to wake up. What did he owe Tom, decades on? Pausing between the dread of seeing, and the rush towards it, year after year, just like the day it happened. The moment he’d seen the wrecked plane he knew that horror awaited him there, but he ran as fast as he could towards it because the horror had his friend in its grip, and Buck had to be sure that at least Tom was not alone. When he dreamed the day again, it still didn’t seem right to turn away. He must run, as fast as he could, toward his friend, toward the horror.
Buck and Johnny reached the rear of the plane together as Buck aimed his flashlight into the tail gunner’s cubby. The scream was Tom, drawn out, guttural, a closing agony. Buck heard Johnny retch beside him as he fumbled for the morphine. Tom’s gut was blown open, blood, intestines, god knew. Buck fixed his eyes on Tom’s face, blood-spattered, his eyes out of focus.
“Buck here.” He’d dropped to his knees and raised the flask of Maker’s Mark to the foam-flecked lips, “Have a taste, buddy.” Buck saw that Johnny was shooting the dying man up with morphine, 1, 2, 3 syrettes what the hell did it matter, he wasn’t coming back from this.
Somehow Tom sipped the bourbon, met Buck’s eyes, whispered, “More.”
Buck obeyed, locking his eyes onto Tom’s eyes, refusing all other data, the smell, the sounds, worst of all, the sight of the shattered body.
“Molly.” Tom was trying to focus his eyes on Buck.
“Of course, man.” Tears flooded out of his eyes, and he gripped Tom’s arm hard.
It didn’t take long. Johnny said later that Tom lived maybe four minutes.
Tom stopped groaning. His eyes turned away from Buck, and his breathing fluttered.
At least ten men were gathered around. Johnny was prying Buck’s hand off Tom’s arm.
“It’s over, Buck.”
Buck nodded and staggered to his feet, nearly falling flat but Johnny still had his hand. He went to wipe his streaming eyes but then saw Johnny’s face, wet with tears. Not a dry eye in the house, as he looked at the men standing around.
In the years after, when the dream came, he would wake in a cold sweat. No turning back to sleep. He’d leave the bed and maybe wander to the kitchen for corn flakes. Or a shot. He’d ask himself why, after all this time, he had to relive that day again.
“Four planes lost.” He heard himself say that out loud for the second time maybe five years after the war, sitting in the living room on Morris Street with a shot glass of bourbon in hand. Damnation. Two A-20s failed to come home that day, plus Peterson’s that landed on fire in the field, and Cohen’s with the flak-wrecked fuselage that killed Tom. How in hell did that Jew even land the thing?
“Four planes.” The first time he said it out loud was the day Tom died, later that evening, when the men gathered near the water tank, pretending to play craps, mostly just drinking. Buck continued, “Lousy maps today. I mapped you guys straight into hell.”
The men were quiet for a moment, then Cohen spoke: “Don’t go there, man. Past Metz, Luftwaffe’s installed a whole slew of 88s—10 new guns?” Heads nodded. “That we didn’t see two days ago. You got nothing from Intelligence about those guns, am I right?”
“Right. No new guns in Metz per HQ dispatch yesterday.”
“Without your map, I couldn’t have found my way back to the base through that flak.”
Another guy piped up, “But, c’mon, how the hell did you land that thing?” Chuckling all around. Cohen had brought home a plane that was mostly shreds hanging off a frame. Cohen rolled his eyes at them, took a swig, and pointed upwards toward the crisp night sky.
“Him. We got a deal. He keeps me alive, I keep dropping bombs on Nazis. Besides we had to get Tom back. I thought maybe he had a chance.”
It was still too much. All Buck knew about maps the Army taught him in six weeks. He knew other airfields had worse records of planes lost. He knew half the men who manned A-20s would never make it home. He knew the intelligence reports were days out of date at best. But still, those guys went up in those planes with his maps in their binders. It killed him to think the maps were less than perfect, however unrealistic his best intentions.
Tom kept returning in Buck’s dreams, for the rest of his life. And Buck ran toward Tom, as fast as he could, forever and ever.
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Anne Rogers Poliakoff is the proud daughter of a WWII veteran, Lilburn (Buck) Rogers of the 555th Bomb Squadron of the U.S. Army Air Corps. Anne is a poet and rescue dog foster. Her writing has appeared in West Branch and Graham House Review. She lives in Virginia and is currently at work on personal essays and poetry.
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