White Flag Down

CHAPTER 1 LATE SEPTEMBER 1942 Despite the chill of the brisk English morning, heat prickled Lieutenant Grant's neck and a trickle of sweat ran down his spine. He shrugged off the discomfort: in thirty minutes, flying photo recon over Nazioccupied France, he'd be grateful for the warmth of his Irvin flight jacket and trousers. He stepped from the mission briefing with his navigator, Sergeant "Racket" McNeil, who whistled in disbelief. "This one's a doozy, Lieut." "Easy enough," Grant said, heading across the airfield. "I dunnoany closer to Germany, we'd smell the sauerkraut." "They want recon, we'll give 'em recon." Racket was a rangy kid with an easy grin, but this smile looked forced. "And be back by dinner." At the dispersal pen, Grant pulled himself through the nose hatch into the cockpit of the Mosquito, settled into the pilot's seat, and saw the camera in Racket's hand. "Bringing your handheld?" "For souvenirs," Racket said. "Something to show my grandkids." "At the rate you're going, you already have some." "The English girls like me, what can I say?" They were stationed near an Oxfordshire villagehalftimber houses and a high street pub that sold warm bitter beerand Racket had wasted no time meeting the local fauna. "But if what I hear about Frenchwomen is true...brother, you can drop me over Paris." Grant laughed and completed his preflight checks, then twirled a finger at the RAF flight sergeant, who gave the thumbsup. Grant hit the starter button and the propeller revolved lazily before catching with a puff of smoke and a bark from the exhausts. As the port engine settled into the rough idle of a cold Merlin, he started the starboard motor, watching the temps rise to ground levels. He ran through his afterstart check, turned from the dispersal pen, and rolled to the eastern end of the runway. "Clear blue skies," Racket said. Grant examined the heavy gray clouds. "Should've requested a navigator with eyes." "Who needs eyes? You've got Pinpoint McNeil." "The met officer says it's clear over France." Grant swung the Mossie into line and trimmed the rudder. "Hope he's not as drunk as you." He flicked the magneto switches, advanced the throttles, and the Mossie rolled down the runway, heavy with fuel. The western hedge rushed toward them, and a light tug on the stick pulled the undercarriage from the ground and into the sky. Racket told Grant about his new girl and her mother, like some radio drama, then there was nothing but engine noise and clouds, and heat seeping into the cabin from the radiators. When Grant had arrived in England, sent by the Eighth U.S. Air Force to fly photoreconnaissance flights with the RAF, he'd laughed at the British. The photoreconnaissance unit flew PR.I and PR.IV versions of the Mosquitowooden aircraft, plywood and balsa and glue. Then he'd flown one, and stopped laughing: wood or not, Mossies could fly. Racket broke the silence. "You know why they sent us spitting distance from Germany, Lieut?" "For photo recon?" "On account of General Eaker's new intruder forceusing bad weather as a cloak for blindbombing operations. I figure we're prepping for them."Ross, Joel N. is the author of 'White Flag Down ', published 2007 under ISBN 9780385513890 and ISBN 0385513895.