Target: Rabaul (Part One)

Lieutenant Anthony Vega had been on the tropical island of New Guinea for just over a week. He had come to accept the jungle airfield outside of Port Moresby as his new home, but it had plenty of shortcomings. Despite the fact that the port city was located in a rain shadow, sudden intense downpours were still fairly common. The heat was stifling and flies and mosquitoes plagued the men like buzzards over a dying cow. Snakes, lizards, spiders, and other creeping vermin made life in the dusty tent city even more challenging. Tropical diseases, such as malaria and dengue fever, created as many casualties as Japanese bullets did and the closest modern civilization lay over 400 miles south in Australia. How Vega now longed for the August heat of his native Houston streets.

Vega had been hastily thrown into the meat grinder, and after flying his first two missions, his crew was on their way to becoming just another seasoned crew. So far, it had been nothing like he’d expected. But, then again, he really had no idea of what war would be like at all.

His crew had been notified that they were being tasked for a mission early yesterday morning. All the rumors indicated that it would be Rabaul, the main Japanese naval fortress in the South Pacific on the nearby island of New Britain. Vega’s stomach dropped into a freefall at the very mention of the name. A cold sweat had broken out all over his body, which he hoped was just malaria, but he knew better. He was scared out of his wits.

A lieutenantt on another crew, a navigator named Baker, leaked the details concerning the forthcoming trip over a bland meal of fried Spam, dehydrated vegetables, and day-old bread. The crew member from the B-24 Liberator named San Jacinto seemed to have his finger on the pulse of the squadron and could always be depended upon for the latest scoop. The primary objective would be to bomb troop ships and merchant vessels in Rabaul's Simpson Harbor. Their secondary targets included warships, docks and wharves, warehouses, barracks, headquarters, motor pools, and airfields. It sounded like the mission would be a maximum effort production.

His friend from Texas, Captain Weber, didn’t seem fazed. Weber had been in New Guinea for four months and had seemingly adjusted to the rigors of war and maybe he could offer some consolation to Vega. “Dan, what do you make about us going after troop ships and cargo vessels? They seem to place a lot of importance in sinking them.”

“I dunno,” the fellow Texan replied as he munched on an apple. “Maybe the Japs are about to send a bunch of rice-fed ground pounders over to replace the malnourished ones we’ve been bombin’. If that’s the case, it’s best to stop ‘em over on New Britain before they get over here to cause trouble for MacArthur’s boys.”

“How does Baker know all the intel?”

“I don’t ask him. I suppose he knows somebody in the intel shop.”

“Well, how do they know what the Japs are up to?”

“Maybe they’re guessin’, or maybe we got spies readin’ Tojo’s mail. Somehow, we know what they’re thinkin’. That’s all that’s really important, I guess.”

“Kinda makes you think though. If we know what they’re up to, they might know what we’re doing. And they’ll know we’re going to Rabaul tomorrow.”

“I try not to think about it too much. Besides, we can out-produce the Japs in everythin’ from new recruits to new airplanes and bombs, so I can’t see how the Japs will last much longer. I hope that we’ll be back home this time next year.”

He watched Weber finish his apple and toss the core behind a tent. How can he be so nonchalant about everything? Maybe after awhile you get jaded about the war and things don’t bother you so much anymore.



Early the next morning, Weber wasn’t quite as cavalier. The solitary Liberator named San Jacinto blindly flew through the predawn darkness, which seemed to be without any sense of time, space, speed or direction. Weber continuously scanned his flight instruments, a well-needed collection of attitude and directional indicators, airspeed and altitude meters, a vertical velocity gauge, and engine performance readouts. His eyes darted from one instrument to the next, never lingering for more than a few seconds, lest he drop out a vital piece of information from his cross check. He kept the plane’s heading on the one that his navigator had calculated, a heading that would guide their bomber to its target: Rabaul, the dreaded fortress from which the Japanese directed their war effort in New Guinea and the Solomon Islands.

The weather experts predicted that they would have clear and smooth flying all the way to Rabaul and back, but forecasting was imprecise at best. Weather reports depended on analyzing actual weather phenomena and making an educated guess as to where it would interfere with air operations. During the monsoon season, the winds blew from the northwest, which meant most storms came from Japanese territory and waters. That was why Weber’s Liberator, call sign Rifle One, was now sandwiched between layers of clouds blotting out the moon, stars, and sea. The Japanese weather guessers never bothered to tell the Allies that a storm system was moving toward the southeast, toward where most of the Allied weather stations gleaned their meteorological data.

Despite the lack of visual cues, his navigator Lt Baker earned his paycheck by guiding San Jacinto using dead reckoning headings and timing that would place them within several miles of the target. At night, he would normally use the celestial bodies to determine their true position, much like the early seagoing navigators had done for centuries. Amazingly, not much had changed since the days when Columbus, Drake, Cook, and others had put out into an unforgiving sea to explore the ends of the earth. Technology made the task easier, but the same basic techniques remained.

The airmen felt they were safe from enemy fighters at this ungodly hour, so they napped relatively peacefully at their positions. They were still over an hour from the target, a target that they had to find and highlight for the strike force that followed thirty minutes in trail. Somewhere in the darkness was another pathfinder aircraft, the tip of the spear for the 43rd Bomb Group, leading a similar strike force of Flying Fortresses. The first raiders, a formation of low-flying B-25 Mitchells and A-20 Havocs, were due to strike the numerous airfields and triple-A sites just before sunrise, about the time Weber’s crew would arrive. It was going to be an eventful day, to say the least.

Weber's radio operator passed an encrypted weather and position report to Connell’s Special, the mission lead aircraft, whose call sign was Saturn one. The colonel would make the ultimate call if the raid would proceed, but it was premature to call the raid off this early. Weber did not envy the rest of the nearly forty-five bombers behind them, as they would be flying in close formation through the worst of the inclement weather. He just hoped that they would break out of the stranglehold of clouds impeding their mission.



The radio operator of Connell’s Special received the report from Rifle one and immediately informed the mission commander. The colonel stared into the darkness as he listened to the gloomy report, but he wasn’t too concerned. Once the sun rose, things might look better. He was eager not only to hit the Japanese where it really hurt, but he could finally test his new nose turret. His first sergeant manned the new contraption; he was a man who he completely trusted with his life. They had flown together for years, long before the war. In the co-pilot’s seat sat the group’s chief pilot, a highly experienced command pilot in his own right. The rest of the crew was senior as well; not one man was below the rank of technical sergeant. When the big boys went flying, they usually did it in packs.

Since the deputy group commander was leading the high profile mission, mandated by the 5th Air Force commander, General Kenney, the individual squadron commanders saw fit to lead their own squadrons into battle under the colonel’s overall command. If the Japanese knew how top heavy the group’s effort was today, they’d send up everything they had. It really didn’t make good sense to send so many high-ranking men on the same mission, but the men appreciated the fact that their leaders were willing to face the same risks as they were.



Further back in the massive formation, the crew of Divine Vengeance was on their third mission. They flew the number four position in Viking flight, led by a particularly fierce looking Liberator named Moby Dick, its forward fuselage adorned with the jagged toothy grin of its literary namesake. Inside Viking four, the men shivered, despite their heavy flying gear, and talked about the upcoming target. Two of the veteran gunners attempted to soothe the rookie gunners’ concerns.

“Don’t you worry about a thing,” Peterson cajoled. “We’re going to hit them so damned early, we’ll be back at Moresby drinking beer before the Nips make it airborne. Besides, I hear that they’re going to hit the Jap airfields before we go over. Those .50 cals they installed on the A-20 will cut a plane to shreds in a heartbeat. I almost feel sorry for the dumb bastards.”

“I don’t know,” Fassino, the rookie flight engineer, answered. “Just last week you said that Rabaul was about the worst place we go. It sounds like we’re going to be in a world of hurt.”

“Well, it’ll be tough, for sure. I won’t lie to you. But, they aren’t invincible. It won’t be any worse than the Madang run last week. But, we’ll probably see some fighters today. That is, if the weather lifts. I got my kill the last time I was here. Hell, Knapp might even get a Nip today! You never know.”

“I will get a fighter today. I know it,” the waist gunner chimed in.

“Yeah, that’s what you always say,” Peterson laughed.

“What’ll happen if we get over the target and the weather is still lousy?” Reilly, the radio operator, asked. “Will we come all this way and just go back home?”

“No, that’s what alternates are for. You don’t remember the briefing? Whaddaya do, sleep through it? That won’t get you very far out here. It’ll get you killed.”

“Just tell me...”

“The alternate is Gasmata Airfield, on the south coast of New Britain. You gotta remember these things.”

In the co-pilot’s seat, Vega stared into the darkness past the dim outline of Viking three. There was barely enough light to see their wingman, much less the flight leader in the number one position. He didn’t envy the task that his pilot, Capt Harris, had to perform. There was little room for error when flying formation at night.

“Pilot to navigator,” Harris transmitted. “How much further until the target?”

“Oh, about an hour and a half,” the navigator answered. “That is, if we can find it in this mess. For all I know, we could be coming up on Tokyo.”



Just over an hour later, the men aboard Rifle One were wide-awake, staring into the milky clouds as they approached the target. Or at least where they thought the target would be. The sun would make its first appearance shortly if not for the solid deck of clouds beneath them and the broken deck of clouds above them. Weber checked his luminescent watch; it was exactly 0535. They would be over the target in less than ten minutes and it was still impossible to see any semblance of anything outside of the aircraft. If they were going to make this raid happen, they would have to descend into the dark swirling clouds beneath them to look for a hole.

“Pilot to nav,” Weber drawled. “What’s our time on target again?”

“Seven minutes, stay on heading 035.”

“We’ll never see anything in this mess,” the co-pilot said. “We should descend and see if we can get below it.”

“We’re pretty close to our minimum safe altitude,” Weber answered. “Hey, nav, what’s a safe altitude down there?”

“There’s high terrain, including an active volcano and several dormant ones, up to 7,600 feet. I wouldn’t go any lower than 8,500 feet.”

“Hell, we won’t be able to find that Jap trap unless we go lower than that! If only that volcano would blow its top an’ finish them bastards off for us. OK, we’re going down to 8,500 feet. Reilly, tell the fleet we’re going down to take a peek.”



Saturn one received Reilly’s message and the colonel was advised. He frowned at the news. He’d hoped for a break in the monsoon, but they might not be so lucky. Hitting the airfields at Gasmata wouldn’t be as satisfying as hitting Rabaul. He didn’t know why 5th Bomber Command wanted such a large strike against Rabaul. They had hit the stronghold a few weeks ago and it had cost them dearly. Something big was happening and Rabaul had to be taken out. However, the colonel wasn’t always privy to top secret intelligence reports, which was fine with him. If he were ever shot down and taken prisoner, he’d have nothing to tell his captors.



Commander Isoji Ito picked up the dedicated phone line that was connected to the Imperial Navy Headquarters deep beneath Rabaul. The Japanese had constructed a maze of underground tunnels in response to recent Allied air attacks, and the officers and men who lived in the catacombs felt relatively safe from the marauding bombers that had all but leveled much of the occupied city. The subterranean headquarters was the nerve center of the Japanese war effort, and it was well protected by layers of volcanic rock. The voice he heard on the other end of the line was Rabaul’s commander of air defense, Rear Admiral Jinichi Kusaka, who rarely ventured forth from his underground lair.

“Ito, radar indicates a solo target to our west. That puts it in your sector.”

What the hell does he want me to do about it, Ito wondered. Can’t he tell that there’s a thunderstorm overhead? Then again, he can’t, since he’s buried forty feet beneath the city.

“Admiral Kusaka-san,” he politely began. “The monsoon rains have returned. Would you have me launch my men to pursue one aircraft in a torrential downpour?”

“They are probably the vanguard of a large strike force!” the mole-like admiral yelled. The tone in his voice just reached the tone required to make Ito’s phone ring for a brief second. “I don’t want my fighters caught on the ground when they arrive. Now, get a patrol up and find out how many there are and the direction they’re coming from!”

If radar can pick up one aircraft, it can certainly pick up a large force, Ito thought. Then they’d know the direction of the bombers. Why subject his men to a dangerous launch in inclement weather to find a strike force that most likely can’t find Rabaul anyway.

“This is a direct order, Ito. Get your men up there!” Kusaka abruptly hung up.

With a sigh, Ito replaced the phone into its cradle. He hated to send his men up on a morning like today. But orders were orders. He nodded to his executive officer.

“Launch the men. The Americans are coming.”




Driving rain pelted the windscreen of Rifle one as they cruised at 8,500 feet over New Britain. One of the inherent problems of navigating without the means of celestial navigation or visual landmarks meant that you could get lost. Which is what happened to Rifle one, although they didn’t know it yet. The navigator had given Weber his best estimate on their heading and he had even tried to correct for the strong northwesterly winds, but he went wide of the mark. They were droning along the coast forty miles northwest of Rabaul, heading out to sea.

Tha navigator knew something was wrong when his timing didn’t work. They didn’t break out as desired, but he wasn’t quite sure that they were where he wanted them to be. But he had a solution. He knew that the Japanese sometimes broadcast a radio program from Rabaul, on which Tokyo Rose berated the GIs slugging it out with the Japanese, imploring the meddling Yanks to give up their useless struggle against the Japanese Empire and go home. At least she played good music.

“Nav to radio operator,” he began. See if you can pick up any radio transmissions out of Rabaul. Let me know if you tune something in.”

“What’s up, nav?” Weber inquired. “Are we lost?”

“Not really, Chief. I think that we’re starting to go too far north though. Just call it a hunch. I think I can home in on a signal if they’re broadcasting.”

“Hey, I got something,” the radio operator announced a few minutes later. “Here it comes.” The big band sounds of Chattanooga Choo Choo filled their headphones.
Several men sang along as Baker attempted to track down the signal.

“How do you know it’s the Japs?” the bombardier asked the navigator. “Could it be one of our transmissions?”

“No way, cowpoke. We’re not that dumb.”

“Actually, it could be,” the radioman piped in.

“Shuddup, Lindy!” the navigatoe rebuked. “Pilot, fly a heading of 110. That’ll put us over the top of the station located at 100 Tojo Street. This broadcast is coming from our little yellow friends at WBAL, Rabaul’s all hit radio, playing your favorite songs all the time, with your DJ, Tokyo Rose! Let’s drop by and revoke their broadcast license!”

“Excellent work, Baker,” Weber laughed. “Tonight the beers on me!”

Despite the rainstorms over New Britain, the Japanese radio signal carried the English speaking voice of the woman known as Tokyo Rose. In the recording studio in Japan, where she provided her voice for the propagandists, she could have never known that her voice would lead the Americans toward one of Japan’s strongest fortresses scattered across their vast empire. The programs were beamed into Allied camps scattered across the Solomons and New Guinea, telling homesick GIs what their wives and girlfriends were doing at home.

“You may say you are fighting for freedom, but do you know what your wives are doing in cities across America? With you out of the way, they now have the freedom to date any man they want. Do you really think they are chastely waiting for you to return from the war? No. They are dancing the night away with fat cat industrialists and rich businessmen, who are making huge profits at your expense. They sell your decadent government arms to wage a hopeless war against a nation whose only goal is to liberate Asia from the outdated, colonial powers which have greedily drained the resources of Asian nations for their own good. Your women are laughing and enjoying their freedom, while you seek to stand in the way of a new and prosperous Asia. Go home, GI, and take your women back from the war profiteers and let Asia determine its own future!”

“Do you think anyone buys that crap?” the bombardier asked to nobody in particular. “You’d have to be pretty stupid to believe her bullshit.”

“I just like the music she plays,” Baker replied.

The Japanese finally realized their error and the voice of Tokyo Rose was silenced. The needle on Baker’s automatic direction finding gauge lost its signal and began spinning in its case, ever in search of a new frequency. It was almost as if they had pulled the plug to the station. Moments later, a high-pitched squealing filled his headset.

“Damn! They’re on to us, Chief!”

“Pilot to radio operator. How’s our tactical frequency?”

“They got it too, pilot. I’ll check the secondary freq.”

“Don’t worry, Chief,” Baker chimed in. “I estimate that we’re overhead now.”

“Lotta good that does us,” Weber answered. “We’re at our min safe altitude and we’re still in the clouds. And with the Japs jamming our tac freqs, we’re not doin’ anybody any good up here.”

“Chief, we can go down to 7,700 feet,” Baker advised, looking at his terrain charts. “That’ll take us 800 feet lower and give us 100 feet over the highest terrain.”

“A hundred feet isn’t much in weather like this. I’ll drop down another 500 feet, but if we don’t break out, I don’t wanna go any lower. Today’s just not a good day to bomb the Japs, I guess.”



Lieutenant Sekido was not a happy man. Roused from his warm bunk by Commander Ito’s executive officer, he and his wingmen were ordered to takeoff into the dark ominous heart of a thunderstorm to locate and destroy an American aircraft, which had foolishly stumbled into a violent storm that would have undoubtedly destroyed the intruder anyway. His Zero was no better equipped to handle such weather, but he reluctantly followed his commanding officer’s wish, even though he knew that he had little chance of finding the American, much less coming home safely himself. He didn’t believe in taking unnecessary risks, yet he was flying when he knew it was unsafe. His leather helmet was able to soften the blows to his head as occasional downdrafts and turbulence slammed it into the canopy as his plane was tossed around like a kite.

He peered into the clouds for any break in the weather as the trio of fighters climbed into the stormy heights, now passing 8,000 feet. There was sufficient visibility to remain as a formation, although a thin screen of mist reduced the other two Zeros to indistinct ghosts racing next to him in the dusky heavens. It was especially important to remain together, since ground stations were now jamming the radio frequencies. He and his men would have to rely on visual signals to communicate with each other. He hoped that his wingmen would not fly too close, lest they inadvertently collide in a severe downdraft. That would be a horrible way to die, Sekido thought. As he purposely wagged his wings to push them out a few more feet, he never considered that he was about to die almost exactly that way.

In a heartbeat, he saw a charging monster roar from the windswept clouds, four large engines spewing death through the heavens. Sekido barely had time to scream, much less change course, before his fighter slammed into the right wing and nose of the large American aircraft. Fortunately, death came quickly and painlessly as his shattered Zero perished in a fireball, its flaming debris falling toward the invisible earth. The bomber’s right wing, cleaved in two by the impact, fell earthward as the massive, burning aircraft rolled over for its own death spiral.

Sekido’s last command to his wingmen managed to save their lives, as one Zero cleared the bomber’s right wingtip by mere feet, while the other fighter flew under the left wing, though not quite clearing the blur of metal flying overhead. The bomber’s wing sheared off the Zero’s vertical stabilizer and half of the left horizontal stabilizer. The panic stricken pilot tried to retain control of his doomed airplane, but with the fierce winds pummeling his now descending craft, he made the crucial decision to bailout, throwing his lot in with the storm. He would not enjoy the turbulent parachute ride, but he would live. His wounded Zero impacted the steep, jagged, igneous slopes of Tuvurvur volcano seconds later.



The colonel had an important decision to make, whether to turn his force toward the secondary target or to continue toward Rabaul, where a large flotilla of Japanese vessels lay at anchor. The directive to destroy the vessels had come from the very highest levels, probably from MacArthur himself. If he turned his bombers from the primary objective, he would be called on the carpet for his decision. But, the generals weren’t up here with the colonel and his men. The brass wouldn’t see the storm that the Liberators were flying into. And now, he did not even have contact with his pathfinder, due to enemy jamming on the radio frequencies.

He listened to the tortuous wail as his radio operator tried to contact Rifle one. His voice had a hollow, metallic ring to it as he transmitted, sounding like he was a character on the Buck Rogers radio program. Despite his best efforts, he was unable to penetrate the electronic shield the Japanese had thrown up.

The Liberators would be unable to remain together in the storm. Already, they had lost sight of part of the formation, as visibility was rapidly dropping. Tendrils of rain-swollen clouds seemed to reach out at the bombers as they raced north. Waist gunners felt the stinging mist against their masked faces as moisture funneled into the open windows. Ice began forming on the slick metal floors, as well as on propellers and wings. When enough ice had accumulated, it would change the lift capabilities of the bombers, making continued flight nearly impossible.

“Hell, if they want my wings, they can have ‘em. No way in hell am I going to take my boys further into this mess. Flying into this pea soup is going to get someone killed. And it won’t be the Japs, if you know what I mean!”

“I hope you know what you’re doing, sir,” his co-pilot advised. “Kenney’s liable to be piping mad.”

“Don’t worry, I can handle him. Kenney will understand once he hears how bad this storm is. He doesn’t want to lose any planes to midair collisions or weather.”

“Nav to pilot. It’ll be a left turn to a heading of 230 degrees for Gasmata. We're going to hit the alternate target.”

The Hero of Benghazi

This is the first chapter of a work in progress, set on the Aegean island of Rhodes during the waning days of the Italian Empire in WWII.

The Hero of Benghazi

“There was a great battle here long ago,” the colonel said to his aide, waving his good hand across the wide, windswept horizon past the parapets of the harbor wall. “And a great leader stood where we are standing, and he looked across the strait as 400 ships set sail from the mainland. Over 100,000 Turks landed on these shores defended by our forefathers, and tried to raise their standards from the heights of this glorious fortress.”

“Four hundred ships carried 100,000 Turks?” the captain apprehensively asked. “That would make, let’s see, 100,000 divided by 400. Drop a few zeros and that’s 250 men per ship. Did they have ships that big back then, Colonello Umberto?”

“That’s not the point of my story, Capitano Lamperti, although your math is precisely on target. If only your military prowess were as sharp. But I digress. The Grand Master, a resolute and pious Frenchman named Villers de l’Isle-Adam, along with 700 brother-knights of the Order of St. John and 500 of the finest Venetian archers, stood their ground. For months, the siege lasted, until one day, exactly 421 years ago this month, the treacherous sultan, Mehmed the Conqueror, hurled his elite Janissaries against these resolute walls...”

“But, colonello, if the Grand Master was resolute, can you fairly say that the walls were resolute also? How can this be?”

“It doesn’t matter. The point is that the battle rose to a feverish pitch and the vastly outnumbered knights and archers held firm. The Turks withdrew to their camps and the siege continued. And now we are faced with the same threat as the brave knights of old.”

“The Turks are coming?!” the wide-eyed captain cried. “I thought they were neutral!”

“No, you imbecile. There is talk that our government has agreed to an armistice with the Americans. Surely, you are aware that our German allies are not too happy about this latest turn of events in Rome. The Germans will be coming to Rhodes, for us, their former comrades in arms, and you know what they say about two lovers when one has scorned the other?”

A blank stare told Colonel Umberto that the captain did not know what they said about spurned lovers. Perhaps he had not been unlucky in love, or maybe he had never been in love to start with. He figured the latter.

“We will be thrown into prison for the rest of the war unless we make a stand, just like the knights against the Turks.”

“Scorned lovers throw their mistresses in chains?” the captain asked. “I don’t understand.”

“You are impossible, Lamperti. It is a good thing the war is almost over.”

Umberto sighed as they left the ramparts behind, entering the cobbled streets of the old city. Faded Fascist banners hung limply from the eaves of ancient buildings in the nearly deserted market, unmoved by the faint, salty breeze from the Mediterranean as if signifying the dying dream of revived Roman glory. The echoing of their footsteps reminded the well-tanned colonel of that distinguished age long ago, when l’Isle-Adam rallied his men in the face of the bloodthirsty Turks. However, the Turks were no Germans, with their Stukas, tanks, and flamethrowers. Just as the intrepid defenders of Rhodes four centuries earlier, he would lead his fellow Italians against a numerically and militarily superior force, and, God willing, he would be the one to pull it off.

Umberto knew firsthand the futility of facing the Nazis; he had fought alongside them in two wars: Spain in ’36 and Libya in ’41. But that is what made him the man of the moment. He knew their brilliant tactics and their few weaknesses. If only he could convince the general, that ancient shell of a warrior who ruled the island as governor-general, to see it his way.

The colonel and his aide walked up Ippodon, the famed Street of the Knights, toward the Palace of the Grand Masters, where the erstwhile governor held sway over the rapidly crumbling empire. Soldiers were busily making last-minute preparations for the inevitable arrival of the Germans. Sandbags and barricades were being hastily constructed across the ancient cobblestone street, in hopes that the Germans could be held at bay until their new allies, the British, could arrive like the horse cavalry of the famous American moving pictures. Rumors abounded through the Italian garrison of a roving band of Anglo commandos in the Aegean, hopping their way across the Dodecanese like errant mountain goats.

Umberto found the octogenarian governor-general holed up in his war room inside the tower keep, trying to stay awake as his agitated, self-occupied advisors fastidiously moved tiny wooden ships around a gigantic table map of the Aegean.

“Good afternoon, generale,” Umberto said, without the usual salute to Il Duce. There really was no point in it, since the once required salutation had been quickly dropped after Mussolini was deposed in July. “I see your preparations are in order for our defense.”

“Ah, Umberto, just the man I wanted to see,” the general said with a renewed glean in his eye. “The hero of Benghazi comes to me in my need.”

“Don’t forget Wal Wal and Albania too,” Lamperti added, before a stern look from the colonel silenced him.

“Ah, yes, you served in Abyssinia and Albania. How I forget. Umberto, tell me, how did we do in those glorious campaigns?”

“They’re not important, generale...”

“Indulge me, Umberto. I am an old man and need to hear tales of valor, especially when we need inspiration for our impending clash with our old friends, the Germans.”

“If you insist. In the first battle of Wal Wal in ‘34, my men were overrun by the Abyssians and I was wounded.”

“But didn’t the Abyssians use spears and arrows?”

“Yes, that is correct. Not my finest hour. But we managed to carry the campaign...”

"How were you wounded?”

“By an arrow.”

“An arrow? Where?”

“At Wal Wal, in Abyssia.”

“No, Umberto, where were you wounded by the arrow?”

“In my lower back area, sir, but we managed to carry on despite...”

“In your bottom? You were hit by an arrow in the ass?”

From the corner of his eye, Umberto saw the captain restrain a snicker. He cleared his throat to silence his erring officer and continued.

“Yes, generale, but I managed to...”

“So, how about Albania? Were you not a hero there?”

“Sir, my company was repulsed by the Greeks near the Albanian frontier, and we fell back with heavy losses. Once again, I was wounded...”

“In the ass?”

“No sir, I was hit by a tank.”

“By a tank? A Greek tank? I didn’t even know they had tanks.”

“No, one of ours. It was retreating faster than we were. I was nearly killed.”

This time Lamperti’s snicker turned into a boyish giggle not so easily stifled by a firm rebuke from his commander. Umberto turned back to the general.

“One of our tanks was retreating from the Greeks?”

“Yes, but they were many and we were few. But we held them off in Albania until the reserves could be brought forward.”

The old man continued his probing attack. It felt as if Umberto were undergoing a dental examination.

“So then are you not really the hero of Benghazi?”

“I never said I was a hero. However, when we were evacuating the city in the face of the advancing Australian army, I was wounded when...”

“Nevermind, Umberto. I don’t think your daring exploits are inspiring us in our time of need. Maybe we should just surrender to the Germans and get it over with.”

“Well, sir, that is what I wanted to see you about. I have a brilliant plan to save the city and drive the Germans into the sea...”

The general broke down, laughing, with unrestrained tears of joy flowing down his wrinkly, bright red face. His frail, nearly emancipated body trembled with long suppressed mirth like an asinine earthquake, and he began beating his deeply polished desktop with gleeful abandon. The rest of the room joined in, mocking Umberto with the implied blessing of the ancient general. Not surprisingly, the piercing, hyena-like guffaw of Lamperti was loudest of all. Umberto found himself subconsciously rubbing his maimed left hand, the result of his injuries in Benghazi two years ago. Funny, how he found solace in such a simple pleasure, massaging the tender flesh that sent tingles all the way up his shattered arm.

Fortunately, the outburst mercifully ended, save that of Lamperti’s insubordinate snickering. Why couldn’t he find loyal, trustworthy officers, Umberto wondered. It shouldn’t be too much to ask for, but it was war, and he’d take whoever was available, even if it were the spoiled son of one of Rome’s richest bankers. He cleared his throat to silence his wayward subordinate, but it was the general’s stare that reeled Lamperti in.

“So, Umberto,” the general said, wiping away a tear from his eye with the back of his hand. “Forgive me, but I have not laughed like that since I was a boy. Hard to believe, no? But, that is not why I wanted to speak with you. I know your intentions are altruistic, but I have already made arrangements for our defense.”

“What part am I to play in your plan, generale? How can I be of service?”

The general nodded at one of his attentive advisors who instantly sprang to the table map and pointed a long wooden pointer at a point halfway down the east coast of the island.

“There is your objective,” the general continued. “I want you to take a company of men and secure our airfield at Lindos.”

Lindos! Umberto could not believe his ears! Did the old man not realize that the battle with the Germans would be fought in the streets of the old city? Why was he being pushed out of the battle? Apparently, he was being punished, but why? Was it because of the arrow in his ass? Or perhaps it was the harried exodus of his troops across the Albanian frontier from the failed invasion of Greece, not to mention his embarrassing near-death experience on the bottom side of a tank? The general did not even know about the humiliating fratricide episode in Benghazi just as he was leading a counter-attack against the Tommies from Down Under, so that couldn’t be it. Or could it? Maybe the senile old fart knew more than he let on.

The general’s strategist rambled on about defensive fields of fire, anti-aircraft artillery positions, and the expected route of the German attack, while Umberto found himself subconsciously nodding along. His moment of martial glory had passed him by. There would be no Turks at the gate, no chivalrous melees along the walls, and no place in history for a three-times wounded, washed up, forgotten colonel on a backwater island at the edge of the empire. And what kind of empire had it been? The New Rome had lasted scarcely 20 years, and Umberto was unceremoniously being tossed out on his ear. Or maybe it was his ass. It sure felt like he had been shot in the posterior one more time.

Divine Vengeance

This is the first chapter of a book I've been working on for, I don't know, the last decade or so. I'm at the point now of looking for representation to get it published. The final manuscript comes in just under 99,000 words, or approximately 400 pages. It is set during World War II on the island of New Guinea.

Divine Vengeance

There it was again, that free-falling sensation in his gut that caused Second Lieutenant Anthony Vega to break into a chill, despite the sweltering heat of the Australian rainforest. Having grown up in southeast Texas, he was used to humidity, but the steamy air of Australia’s Cape York Peninsula was overwhelming. Sleep had been nearly impossible: drenched sheets, the buzz of mosquitoes outside the netting, his constant tossing and turning, and Wurth’s incessant snoring. When the symphony of equatorial birds began warming up for the coming day, he gave up and hit the showers, hoping for some relief.

The shower felt good, but it did nothing to calm his nerves. His years at Texas A&M had prepared him for the life of a military officer. The bravado and camaraderie of the cadet corps: early fall mornings, marching in time, cadence echoing across the quad, voices in unison extolling the heroic deeds of the Texans who had marched into battle before them – at Belleau Woods, Chateau-Thierry, the Marne, San Juan Hill, and San Jacinto. Mock wars were fought and won on the Brazos Plain by cadets eager to give everything for God and country. But the closer Vega got to the war, the more he worried. Would he betray the legacy of those who had marched before him or would his name be spoken in idolized reverence by those yet to follow the call to arms?

The rest of Vega’s crew began emerging from their tents. They were all rookies, even Ferris, who despite his double silver bars had only seen the cockpit of the Bolo, an obsolete bomber destined never to see combat. Vega glanced at the somber faces of the crew: the officers, Captain Alton Ferris, First Lieutenant Otis Wurth, and Second Lieutenant Horace Boll; and the enlisted men, Staff Sergeant Nick Fassino and Sergeant Vernon Relly. They were a green, wet-behind-the-ears, ferry crew going to war like children on their first day of school.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Ferris said. “It’s only a short flight to Moresby. I’ll brief everyone once we get to base operations.”

“That’s if we get to base ops, captain,” Fassino said. “I don’t see our ride yet and I’m sure that I’m not walking.”

The deep, throaty sound of aircraft engines roared through the trees, drowning out the captain’s response. A pair of P-38 Lightnings rose into the air and climbed until they disappeared into the hazy sky. A shudder ran through Vega’s body; the war was suddenly very real, close at hand, and unnerving.

A battered troop truck pulled up and the men loaded their bags. They were met at the operations hut by a grizzled, sunburned captain with a wad of tobacco in his mouth. “Howdy, boys. Ready for the big leagues?” he asked before spitting on the ground. He wiped his lip with the back of his hand before continuing. “Don’t worry; you shouldn’t have any problems today. Just stay in the air corridor, and if you’re lucky enough to spot enemy fighters, descend to the lowest possible altitude and turn back toward Australia, unless you can determine that you can safely proceed to Port Moresby.”

“If we had gunners, we wouldn’t have to run,” Fassino said.

“Don’t worry, slugger,” the captain answered. “You’ll have plenty of opportunities to exchange lead with the Japs in the near future. And you’ll be assigned gunners once you reach New Guinea.”

“That won’t help us if the Nips jump us today.”

It was a short ride down the flight line to the Liberator named Divine Vengeance, a four-engine behemoth parked in an earthen revetment among the trees. None of the crew really liked the bomber’s name, but Ferris lost a brother at Hickam Field during the Japanese attack on Hawaii. Ferris felt that God would give him vengeance on behalf of his fallen brother and had named the aircraft accordingly. The crew found it difficult to argue with God and Ferris, although Fassino had tried many times.

Before leaving stateside, Ferris had shown the crew a sketch of the proposed nose art for the aircraft. It depicted a bare-chested archangel leading a heavenly host forth from the pearly gates into battle. Fassino countered with his own quickly drawn image of a nude woman that he called ‘Jersey Girl’, but the devout captain did not want to fly a plane into battle bearing any exposed part of the female anatomy. The crew’s support for Fassino’s Bimbo, as his version was popularly known, rapidly fell apart. In the end, Ferris paid a mechanic $50 to adorn the angelic Armageddon on the nose, and they flew to the war on a solemn crusade to avenge the captain’s dead brother.

The officers unloaded their baggage as Ferris walked over to the aircraft. Vega watched as he touched the side of the aircraft and bowed his head in prayer.

“Not again,” Fassino moaned. “This has got to stop.”

“Let it go, Nick,” Vega said. “It’s over and done with.”

“Don’t give me any of that crap, L. T. If you weren’t such a limp-dick co-pilot, we wouldn’t have a plane with a half-naked man painted on the side of it, for chrissakes.”

“Have some respect, Fassino. It isn’t a man; it’s St. Michael.”

“Why can’t we have a half-naked woman like other planes?”

“Jeez, let it go, Nick. We have a job to do.”

Vega climbed into the aircraft. He was happy to be flying the B-24 Liberator. It wasn’t as glamorous as its popular cousin, the B-17 Flying Fortress, but it could carry a heavier bomb load over a longer distance. The B-24 boasted a top speed over 270 MPH and a maximum ceiling of 27,000 feet. Its range could reach 1,700 miles, making it an ideal bomber for the vast Pacific theater. The aircraft was armed by twin .50 caliber machine guns in a top turret and in the tail, and single .50 caliber guns in two waist positions and in the nose. There was room for a belly turret, but the often-muddy airfield conditions in the Pacific made their use practically impossible.

“How’s it going?” Ferris asked as he climbed into his seat. “Pre-flight done?”

“Yep, we’re just about ready.”

“OK then, let’s get everybody on headset. Times a wasting. Intercom check.”

“Nav checking in,” Wurth said.

“Bombardier checking in,” Boll said.

“Radio Operator checking in,” Relly said.

“Engineer checking in,” Fassino said.

“All positions accounted for,” Vega reported.

“Let’s go with engine start,” Ferris ordered.

Vega keyed his radio. “Ground control, Condor 47 requests engine start and clearance, over.”

“Roger, Condor 47, engine start approved. Clearance on request. Altimeter two nine eight one.”

Vega adjusted the altimeter setting while Fassino rotated the propellers by hand to lubricate the bearings. After Fassino cleared the last engine, Ferris began the steps to bring the bomber to life. The first engine started with a bang, sending a shudder through the aircraft. Vega confirmed hydraulic pressure as Ferris continued with the other engines. They completed the remaining checklists before calling for permission to taxi.

“Roger, Condor 47. Taxi to runway 29 right.”

After receiving their takeoff clearance and lining up on the runway, Ferris pushed the throttles forward while applying the brakes to hold the aircraft in position. The powerful engines vibrated through the airframe, shaking and rattling every fiber of Vega’s body. The noise was simply deafening.

“Four good engines,” Vega reported.

“Roger,” Ferris replied and released the brakes. With a lurch, the Liberator groaned forward, rapidly gaining speed.

Vega felt a heady rush as the plane charged down the runway, a blur of trees passing on both sides. Past the point of no return now, Vega noted, as the end of the runway grew ever closer. Ferris muscled the control wheel into his gut and held it until they were airborne. Divine Vengeance slowly, yet gracefully, climbed into the sky. The eucalyptus, paperbarks, and kurrajongs gave way to the sparkling Coral Sea as the aircraft continued its climb. A line of thunderstorms languished offshore, trailing dreary shafts of rainfall over phosphorescent submerged islands of coral amid a boundless sea of darkening blue. The intercom was silent as the men admired the unfolding scenery. Or perhaps, it was something more; like Vega, they were facing the gravity of their situation. They were going to war.

He wondered what the war would be like. He had learned what little he knew from cinema newsreels and intelligence reports, yet they told nothing of the sweat and toil of men in foxholes and bunkers scattered across the Pacific. The Japanese were seemingly inhuman, uncaring, unyielding children of Mars. They came to foreign shores and conquered, taking no quarter.

But the juggernaut had awakened. America struck back with a daring low-level raid that left Tokyo ablaze. Although the damage was minimal at best, a patriotic fervor swept America, and the government eagerly cashed in with war bond drives in every city and town nationwide. Scarcely did the tickertape settle before the Coral Sea became the next stage in the war’s spotlight. Despite the loss of two carriers, the Navy handed the Japanese its first major defeat, saving Australia in the process.

New Guinea became the key to Japan knocking Australia out of the war. But the Aussies rose to the challenge and stood their ground, holding the last foothold in New Guinea. The fighting on the outskirts of Port Moresby had been brutal, but the Aussies prevailed. By the time America came to their relief, the mopping up was nearly complete. With the threat to Port Moresby removed, an armed camp arose, allowing heavy bombers like the Liberator to conduct combat operations closer to the action.

Most of what Vega had learned about New Guinea came from the army’s Serviceman’s Guide to New Guinea. It described the shape of the island as an ungainly bird of prey, stretching along the equator from the Dutch East Indies to the Solomons. Covering an area as large as California, New Guinea was a mysterious land of dense jungles, broad highland plains, and great mangrove swamps. Jagged mountains, usually enshrouded in a persistent veil of clouds, extended like a backbone along the entire length of the island. Throughout the monsoon season, the island was subject to sudden downpours, followed by periods of intense sunshine that turned the jungle into a greenhouse. The native people were primitive and had little contact with the outside world, except through missionaries, government patrol officers, gold miners, and plantation workers. Now New Guinea had the attention of the world, with all its planes, bombs, guns, and tanks. Of all the places to pick for a war.

“Engineer to pilot,” Fassino interrupted in an agitated voice. “I have one, possibly two bogies, ten o’clock high, seven miles and closing.”

“Damn!” the bombardier said. “I knew we’d need gunners!”

“Hold on Boll, nobody said they were bandits,” Vega calmly said despite the freefall in his stomach. It surprised him that the words were actually his own; they felt alien, as if somebody else had formed the words and placed them in his mouth.

It was as if nobody heard him. Anxious voices filled the intercom, until the captain’s stern voice silenced them all. “Well, boys. It looks like the war has come for us before we were ready for it. Now let’s do what we were trained to do.”

My Last Corps Trip

After three and a half years in the Corps of Cadets at the A&M College of Texas, I was certain I’d never wear another uniform ever again after I graduated next semester. Many of my fellow cadets were eager to join the military after graduation, but I already had a job as an engineer waiting for me in the oil fields of West Texas, not far from my hometown of Fredericksburg. With the hardest of my classes already behind me, I could concentrate on enjoying the remainder of my senior year to the fullest.

Our football team had easily won a third consecutive Southwest Conference championship, despite our sole disappointing loss to Texas on Thanksgiving Day, which had derailed a chance for another national title. All that remained of our regular season was an away game with the State College of Washington before our New Year’s Day berth at the Cotton Bowl in Dallas. I had never left the state of Texas before, so I eagerly convinced my roommate Anthony to join me and 57 other cadets making the three-day trip to the game in Tacoma, Washington.

Our train pulled up to Tacoma’s Union Station the day before the game under dreary, overcast December skies. A steady mist enveloped us as we disembarked and made our way onto the wet streets of Tacoma, looking as out of place in our cadet uniforms as fish out of water. I pulled my overcoat closer around me and followed the line of cadets to the charter bus to Fort Lewis, where we’d stay until our train departed for the three-day return trip to Texas on Sunday afternoon.

“Toto, we’re not in Kansas anymore,” Anthony said, eyeing the dismal clouds. “Or Texas either for that matter.”

“What’s that smell?” I asked, sniffing the rancid air. “It smells like rotten eggs!”

“Must be a paper mill,” Anthony noted. “We had one near my house in Houston. By the smell of things, there’s probably more than one of ‘em here.”

“What kind of uniforms are you guys wearing?” a bystander asked as we passed. “Those aren’t regulation, are they?”

“No sir, we’re cadets from Texas A&M,” Anthony answered. “We’re here for the big game against State tomorrow.”

“The Cougars have a tough team this year,” the man grinned. “It’d be a shame for you boys to come all the way from Texas to see your team lose.”

“You clearly haven’t seen the Aggies play,” I replied. “May the best team win.”

We boarded the bus and rode to our guest barracks at Fort Lewis. It was nearly dark by the time we stowed our luggage in what looked like Civil War era quarters, but we were eager to hit the town. After changing into our street clothes, Anthony and I grabbed a taxi with a couple of fellows from A Battery and headed downtown.

“So what’s this place known for?” Anthony asked the taxi driver.

“Tacoma? Other than the railroad, paper mills, and Gallopin’ Gertie: not much.”

“Gallopin’ Gertie? Who’s she?” I asked.

“She’s no dame. It was a suspension bridge that fell into the Narrows last year during a windstorm.”

“I heard about that. So, what do you recommend for a good night on the town?”

“There’s some action around Broadway Square, clubs, theaters, bars, that kind of stuff. Murphy’s Tavern on Pacific is a popular joint. You young guys will fit right in.”

I wouldn’t say we fit right in, but we still had a pretty good time. The place was full of coeds from State, which it turns out, wasn’t a local college either; it was an agricultural land-grant college like A&M, located deep in rural eastern Washington. However, they would certainly have home field advantage tomorrow. We Aggies would be a tiny minority among the thousands of spectators expected at the game.

“Lots of dames here tonight,” I said, looking around the tavern. “Anthony, we might make a new friend or two tonight, that is, if you were a free man this weekend.”

“I don’t think so, Pete. Maria and I have been together since 10th grade.”

“What’s gonna happen when you go off to the army next year? What if you end up in the Philippines or the Canal Zone? You gonna take her with you?”

“Maybe so. We’ve talked about marriage.”

I noticed a thin, pretty Asian girl giving me the eye across the smoky room. “Suit yourself, Anthony. But I’m gonna make the best of our time in Tacoma. I’m gonna say howdy to that sweetheart over there.”

Her name was Doris and she was a sophomore at State. She was a local gal, from a nearby town called Puyallup, home for the weekend’s big game. Her mother had emigrated from Japan as a young girl and settled in the area, only to upend her family’s traditional ways by eventually marrying a local rhubarb farmer. We talked and danced well into the evening, until the place closed up at midnight. She agreed to meet me after the game as her friends dragged her towards their waiting automobile. Anthony pulled me aside as well; some Aggies were starting an impromptu Yell Practice in nearby Broadway Square, so we hurriedly ran uphill to join in. Sadly, our gathering was broken up a few minutes later by a couple of police officers who were clearing the streets of drunken revelers. All that was left of the chilly evening was to hail a taxi for the ride back to our barracks.

The next day arrived under mostly clear but cool skies. We dressed in our Class A cadet uniforms and caught the bus to Tacoma Stadium, a bowl-shaped football arena carved into a hillside overlooking a narrow bay. Steam and smoke billowed from the bustling port below the stadium, and at least one large navy vessel lay at anchor among the merchant ships awaiting their turn to unload at the docks. Our team had already filed onto the playing field by the time we found our section, and the crowd went wild when the State Cougars took the field moments later. The near-capacity crowd was a mix of State coeds, soldiers from the post, a few sailors, as our contingent of Texas Aggies.

I can’t really say the game was very thrilling; other than a few close scares on the field, the most excitement came from the jeers from the coeds sitting behind our section. Anthony tried to enlighten them why Aggies stand at all of our football games, but they weren’t interested in his patient explanation. But we held our ground and the coeds eventually stood up for the game as well. It was a close contest, but our Aggies prevailed, topping the Cougars 7-0.

After the game, we met Doris and two of her friends at a nearby café. Despite having told her last night about being a cadet at an all-male military college, she was somewhat delighted, yet intrigued, by my uniform.

“Why, Pete, you didn’t tell me that you’d look so dashing in your uniform,” she said with an amused grin. “And you say you’re going to work at Humble Oil? You should reconsider a career as a military officer. You’d make a smart looking officer.”

“No, my days in uniform are numbered. There’s nothing short of a war that would convince me otherwise.”

“Aren’t you worried about the war in Europe then? They keep saying that we’ll get drawn in eventually.”

“It’s possible, but Germany wouldn’t dare to start another war with us. Look what happened to them the last time they messed with us.”

“Not worried about Japan either?” Anthony asked.

“Things may be a little strained between us and them right now, but it’s nothing a little diplomacy won’t fix. But enough talk about war. This is our last night in town, so I’d like to make it a memorable one.”

That evening in Tacoma was so eventful it was hard to remember it all the next morning, and it wasn’t from overindulging in alcohol. Doris and her friends showed us the sights: Point Defiance Park overlooking Puget Sound, the Tacoma house where Bing Crosby lived, a café shaped like a giant coffee kettle, the college hangouts near the University of Puget Sound, and the downtown nightclubs and dancehalls jammed with soldiers and coeds out for a lively Saturday night. The streets were gaily illuminated with Christmas lights and festive decorations, and an oversized Christmas tree accentuated Broadway Square like an evergreen exclamation point. It was the perfect evening and I wished it could have lasted forever.

We certainly tried to make the night last as long as possible. Even after Doris and her friends went home at midnight, Anthony and I joined several other Aggies still celebrating our football victory into the wee hours. We figured we had three days to rest up on the train ride home, so we caught a taxi for the late-night beer joints near the docks. By dawn Sunday morning, we had found a vantage point overlooking the sound and watched an early ferry head out into the sound as the sun rose over towering, snow-capped Mt. Rainier.

“This, my friends, was a helluva way to end our night,” I said as I took a swig from the bottle we were passing around.

“The party’s almost over,” one of the Aggies said. “Next week at this time, we’ll be cramming for final exams.”

“You only live once. Might as well enjoy sniffing the roses.”

“Roses? All I can smell is that damn Tacoma Aroma.” Anthony said. “We’d better be getting back soon. You gonna see Doris before we leave?”

“She said she’d meet me at the station at noon to say goodbye.”

After enjoying breakfast at a waterfront diner, we made it back to Fort Lewis with just enough time to shower and change clothes before our bus left for Union Station. As I was packing the last of my luggage, a lull in the Sunday morning music program on the radio caught my attention. After an awkward moment of silence, a hesitant announcer came onto the air.

“Sorry folks for the interruption…we’re getting reports of an attack on Pearl Harbor…”

“Pearl Harbor? Where’s that?” an Aggie interrupted before we yelled at him to quiet down.

“…details are still forthcoming…it appears that the attack is still underway. For those who have not heard of Pearl Harbor, it is the main naval base for our Pacific fleet, located in the Hawaiian Territory…”

“Who would attack Hawaii?” another Aggie asked.

“Who do you think? The Germans?” Anthony deadpanned. “It could only be the Japanese.”

“Why would they attack us?”

“I don’t know, but it looks like we’re going to war.”

I was dumbstruck. I couldn’t believe what was happening. I numbly grabbed my luggage and followed the other cadets to our bus. Silence and quiet whispering reigned during the ride to the train station as the events unfolded over the bus’s radio. It appeared that carrier aircraft of the Japanese Imperial Navy had pulled off a surprise attack of our naval forces, and we had likely suffered a terrible loss of life. In addition, it sounded like our entire Pacific fleet now lay at the bottom of a little known harbor in Hawaii. The entire West Coast now lay undefended against further Japanese attack.

Fear and subdued panic saturated the air as we arrived at Union Station. Hushed voices from the crowd whispered concerns of the whereabouts of the Japanese fleet, perhaps now heading unopposed towards the West Coast. The Aggie football team was quietly gathered near the ticket counter. Coach Norton looked up as we entered and promptly waved us over.

“I was happy to see you Aggies in the crowd yesterday. It’s always nice to see the 12th Man on the road, especially way up here in Washington. I guess you boys have heard about the Japanese attack.”

“Yes sir, we sure did,” a cadet answered. “And it sounds like they’re heading this way, so we shouldn’t waste any time getting back to Texas.”

“That’s not gonna happen today,” the coach answered. “All train service has been cancelled along the West Coast. We’ll have to stay for at least another night or two.”

I looked over and saw a visibly shaken Doris waiting urgently nearby. As the coach continued, I slipped out of the crowd of Aggies and walked over to her.

“How are you, Doris?” I asked.

“This is all so scary. I don’t know what to think. I guess it means we’ll go to war with Japan.”

“It sure looks like they’re on the warpath. I doubt we’ll take it sitting down.”

“I guess your train isn’t leaving today now.”

“Nope, I think we’re stuck here for a few days at least.”

An older man glared at Doris and said something under his breath as he passed. She timidly looked after him as he exited the station.

“Did he say what I think he said?” I asked.

“It’s nothing. I’ve been hearing little comments like that ever since the news broke about the attack.”

“But you’re an American.”

“And I’m part Japanese too.”

“That’s no reason for people to say hateful things.”

“I’m afraid it’ll get worse before it gets better.”

“Don’t worry, Doris. What’s the worst that could happen?”

“I don’t know, but I’m troubled. Fear makes people do idiotic things.”

“Since we’re not leaving today, maybe I could see you later, that is, unless you’re heading back to State later.”

“No, my train won’t be leaving either. You could come out to my parent’s place for dinner if you’d like.”

“Okay, I’ll see you later. It looks like we’re heading back to the post for now.”

After saying goodbye, we filed back onto a bus and headed back to Fort Lewis. As we passed McChord Army Airfield, we noticed a couple of twin-engine army bombers taking off. They rose into the sky, neatly silhouetted against the heavy rain-swollen clouds overhead.

“Look, there’s more getting ready to take off,” a cadet said. “By golly, it looks like a whole squadron of bombers!”

“Maybe they’re going after the Japanese fleet!” an excited cadet exclaimed. A roar of approval rose from our throats.

“Those are B-18 Bolos,” Anthony observed. “I sure wouldn’t want to take on the Japanese navy in one of those relics. Those were obsolete when we were still in high school.”

“Whoa!” I said as I noticed a sleek twin-engine bomber with a twin tail rise into the air. “What the heck is that, Anthony?”

“That, my friend, is a B-25. It’s more than capable of taking on the Japanese.”

As we stopped at the front gate of the army post, soldiers were stacking sandbags in front of the guard booth. A machine gun nest had been set up on one side, covering the road leading up to the fort. Coach Norton hopped off the bus to speak with one of the MPs, who eventually allowed us to enter the installation. We soon pulled up to our barracks and reclaimed our bunks.

In the distance, a warbling tone grew in volume and soon echoed across the post. We looked at each other in confusion until one of the cadets yelled, “Air raid!” We wasted no time crawling under our bunks as the air raid siren continued its punishing assault on our ears. In was unbelievable; we had come from Texas for a football game and had seemingly ended up in a war zone. The air raid siren soon quieted and, not hearing enemy fighters or distant explosions, we crawled out of our hiding places. A cadet turned on the radio to find out what was going on and found only static. He tuned the dial in search of other stations and found the full radio spectrum strangely quiet.

After a half hour, a sergeant arrived to brief us on the curfew, in the town and on post, so we would have to be back at our barracks by 10 pm. He also asked if we would like to help with the post’s defensive preparations, which we soon found out meant filling sandbags. But we were eager to help, so we didn’t complain. Heck, if they had inducted us into the army on the spot, the majority of us probably would never have said a disparaging word. Aggies had served with distinction in our wars with Spain and Germany, so we would likely turn out en masse for what looked like war with Japan.

I still had plans to meet Doris and Anthony agreed to come along as well. Since taxis were no longer allowed on post, we had to walk several miles to reach the front gate where a line of taxis waited. It was soon dark, and I immediately noticed that there was a blackout in effect in Tacoma. We drove through strangely darkened city streets and along a river illuminated only by the thin moon racing overhead above the clouds.

“This is the closest I can place that address,” the driver said as he stopped at a service station. “Sorry, I don’t get to Puyallup much. You can ask inside if they know the place.”

I paid the driver and, after asking directions inside, we walked down a muddy road to a dimly lighted farmhouse a block off the highway. I nervously knocked on the door and soon found myself looking at a tall muscular man with blonde hair and vaguely Nordic features. Seeing my consternation, he stuck his hand out in greeting.

“You must be the fellows from Texas Doris told me about. I’m Mr. Lund, Doris’s father.”

“Pete Engel. Glad to meet you sir.”

“I’m Anthony Vega. It’s a pleasure, sir.”

Doris came down the stairs as we walked in and introduced us to the rest of her family: her mother, her brothers Jack and Walter, and her sister Margaret. The smell of supper hung heavy in the air and my stomach rumbled in response. Doris brought us drinks and we sat in the family room talking with her father and brothers while Doris helped her mother in the kitchen.

“Such dreadful news today from Hawaii,” her father said. “It looks like war may be unavoidable now.”

“I’d say that we’re in a state of war already,” Anthony replied. “We may not have a declaration of war yet, but we won’t let their surprise attack go unchallenged.”

“I suppose not. But I hoped our nations would work their differences out before it came to this…”

“Pop, they attacked us,” Doris’s brother spat. “We have to answer in kind.”

“Would you fight against your mother’s homeland, son?”

“I’m an American, pop. If America declares war, I’ll be one of the first to sign up for the army.”

“I suppose you boys will be eager to join up as well.” her father said.

“I was already heading to the army when I graduate next semester,” Anthony replied. “I would happily go sooner if I could.”

“What about you, Pete? Doris says you’re going to work for Humble Oil.”

“That’s the plan, but I don’t know anymore. If we go to war, I want to do my part.”

“No more talk about war or politics,” Doris said from the kitchen. “Dinner’s ready.”

After dinner, Doris and I sat on the porch while the debate renewed inside. In the distance, an air raid siren faintly sounded from nearby Tacoma. Searchlights crisscrossed the sky, illuminating nothing more than the low lying clouds; however, it was probably just another false alarm generated by the fragile nerves of a people seemingly next in line to face the inevitable Japanese invasion.

“Pop says the trains are supposed to run tomorrow. So we’ll be heading our separate ways. I have exams next week and I’m sure you probably do also.”

"Unfortunately, yes. But I wouldn’t mind a few more days here.”

“You wouldn’t say that after the rains come back. It’s supposed to storm tomorrow. You’ll probably be happy to get back to Texas.”

“Everything has changed, Doris. I’m not sure I plan to go back.”

“What do you mean?” she asked with astonishment.

“I don’t think I can go back to school if my nation needs men to fight. I would if I was already going to the army, like Anthony, but I already turned down the chance at an officer’s commission last year. I want to do my part, and that may not include finishing school for now.”

“So you’d just join the army?”

“I don’t know. I have a lot of thinking to do.”

It was soon time to leave before the curfew took effect. Anthony and I said goodbye and her father drove us back into town. As we drove along the vacant riverside highway, a police officer waved us to a stop with his flashlight. Mr. Lund quickly complied and the officer walked over.

“No automobiles are allowed in Tacoma without shielded headlights per the blackout order. You’ll have to turn around.”

"These boys are cadets staying at the army post. I’ve got to get them back.”

“Not while the blackout is in effect. There are reports of enemy aircraft in the area. These boys can catch a taxi about a mile up the road.”

There was no use arguing, so we thanked Mr. Lund for the ride and started walking towards Tacoma. We still had an hour before the curfew, but if we didn’t find a taxi, we wouldn’t make it in time. We were nearly in town when it started to rain, so we picked up the pace. By the time we saw the first taxi, we were completely soaked.

“Where to, boys?” the driver asked as we climbed in.

“Fort Lewis,” I answered.

“You boys soldiers? I’m surprised you aren’t on the beach waiting for the Japanese.”

“What do you mean?”

“You haven’t heard? The Japanese fleet is supposedly 50 miles off the coast. Our bombers are out looking for them as we speak.”

“We’ve heard lots of rumors today, everything from subs to bombers to the whole Imperial fleet. You may be right, but things may be clearer in the morning.”

The next morning, there was excitement in the air, despite the heavy downpour outside. The President was about to speak before a joint session of Congress. The radio station was back on the air and we eagerly gathered around it to hear the latest news reports before the President’s address. Hawaii had suffered a devastating blow; in addition to our naval losses, army airfields and installations were heavily damaged. One of our battleships had gone down with the loss of its entire crew – over a thousand men. Apparently, the Japanese military had been quite busy elsewhere as well; fighting had broken out in cities and scattered island outposts across the Pacific. It was a major offensive which could only be countered through American military action.

The broadcast cut to Capitol Hill as the President took to the podium; his words etching an indelible imprint on our nation. “Yesterday, December 7, 1941 – a date which will live in infamy – the United States of America was suddenly and deliberately attacked by naval and air forces of the Empire of Japan…”

The President’s voice rose powerfully above the electronic whine and static on the radio. Cadets and football players pushed forward, surrounding the radio as the President laid down the case for war: American ships between San Francisco and Honolulu had been torpedoed and Malaya, Hong Kong, Guam, the Philippine Islands, Wake, and Midway had all felt the enemy assault.

“…The facts of yesterday and today speak for themselves. The people of the United States have already formed their opinions and well understand the implications to the very life and safety of our nation. As Commander in Chief of the Army and Navy, I have directed that all measures be taken for our defense…”

I felt an upwelling in my soul. I knew what I had to do.

“…Always will our whole nation remember the character of the onslaught against us. No matter how long it may take us to overcome this premeditated invasion, the American people in their righteous might will win through to absolute victory…”

I looked around the room, into the intent faces of my fellow Aggies as the thunderous applause rang out on Capitol Hill.

“…I believe I interpret the will of the Congress and of the people when I assert that we will not only defend ourselves to the uttermost, but will make very certain that this form of treachery shall never again endanger us…”

My heart was racing. I glanced at Anthony’s stoic face and his eyes met mine. I saw a spark of knowing – he knew what I was thinking.

“…Hostilities exist. There is no blinking at the fact that that our people, our territory, and our interests are in grave danger. With confidence in our armed forces - with the unbounding determination of our people - we will gain the inevitable triumph - so help us God…”

I knew I would never wear my cadet uniform ever again. I had gone on my last Corps trip.

“…I ask that the Congress declare that since the unprovoked and dastardly attack by Japan on Sunday, December 7, 1941, a state of war has existed between the United States and the Japanese empire.”

I would not return to Texas. I was going to war.

The End of the Rope

“It sure looks cold out there,” my seatmate observed as he watched the frozen scenery roll past our window.

“Yes, it does,” I replied. “That’s Wyoming for you.”

It was two days before Christmas, 1940 and I was going home for the holidays during my senior year at West Point. My cadet uniform, which had been freshly starched and ironed when I left New York, was now crumpled and in dire need of an iron, but that was to be expected after four days on the cross-country train. The boring monotony of the Nebraska plains had ended at the familiar pine-covered bluffs, marking our passage into the Cowboy State. I was nearly home, a place that I had not seen since last December.

I watched as a rain of soot and cinders blemished the newly fallen snow lining the tracks and, overhead, an obsidian plume of volcanic smoke belched forth from the locomotive pulling us uphill toward Wyoming’s capitol city. The jagged, white spires of the Rockies loomed in the distance like sails on the Hudson, resplendent against the marvelous cobalt sky. It was the landscape that I knew like the back of my hand, one that I saw every night in my dreams at the Point.

I was ecstatic as the train topped a ridge, revealing the city of Cheyenne in its snow-covered valley along Crow Creek. I crossed the half-empty coach and observed the familiar landmarks of the city: the golden dome of the state house, the majestic spire of St. Mary’s cathedral, and the clock tower at the station where my father waited for my arrival. A fresh blanket of white covered rooftops and treetops, but a phalanx of early-morning snowplows had etched out an intricate pattern of blacktop through the city, allowing motorists to escape the confines of their homes until the next storm plowed through. A pallid layer of smoke and haze from hundreds of chimneys did little to tarnish my homecoming.

Soon, Union Station towered above the tracks like a sentinel, welcoming me home. I gathered my baggage quickly, as if the train would barely hesitate before it began its long climb uphill to the sheltered pass to Laramie. I was off the train in seconds.

“Carl!” a familiar voice rose above the din of the crowd. My father waved proudly, beckoning me over. He looked much older than last year and I immediately regretted that I had been unable to return home last summer. Much was expected of an upperclassman at the Point, and new responsibilities had prevented me from enjoying the cool Wyoming summer.

“How are you, Dad?” I asked as we embraced in a bear hug. His strength certainly hadn’t diminished. Working on the family ranch had made strapping men out of my brothers and me, each of us molded in the image of our rugged father.

“It’s good to see you, son. It’s too bad about the season, though. Especially the loss against Penn.”

We had suffered a terrible year, winning only one game, a one-point victory over Williams College. It was almost embarrassing to be part of the team, finishing the season a dismal 1-7-1.

“It’s for the best, I suppose. If we’d have gone to a bowl game, I wouldn’t have been able to come home for Christmas. The new sup, General Eichelberger, gave Coach Wood his walking papers.”

“Well, that’s good. With his record, it’s too bad it didn’t happen earlier.”

“Where’s Mom?” I asked as we walked to the street where his pickup was parked. The city was decked in a holiday splendor of red and green as last-minute shoppers plied busy Capitol Avenue.

“She’s doing a bit of shopping. We thought that you might like to do some of your own.”

We agreed to meet at the truck in one hour and I hastily joined the maddening throng of shoppers, trying to find presents for the last of my five brothers. Being the youngest of six boys made for a rough upbringing, but at least it had made a better football player out of me. I quickly found a present for Ben at the drugstore and decided on a new toolbox for Matt. Coming out of Mr. Dempsey’s hardware store, I passed a familiar face in the crowd.

“Carl?” the elderly man asked. “Carl Roebel? I’ll be! You sure look dashing in your cadet uniform!”

“Why, Father Patrick! How are you?” It was the pastor of St. Mary’s, the grand cathedral where I had served as an altar boy so many years ago. His emaciated frame was crooked and bent over, yet he stubbornly walked without a cane. There was an inner strength that belied his age. Even his handshake grip was surprisingly robust.

“How much longer until you graduate?”

“Next June, father. I plan to go to the air corps.”

“A pilot, eh? That’s good. Do you think we’ll be in a war soon? I think the troubles over in Europe will draw us in. It’s so distressing.”

“I just do what they tell me, father. If Roosevelt says to fight, then I have to fight.”

“Well, I hope that calmer heads prevail,” he continued. “We can’t get involved every time the old world can’t get along. It’s just too bad that we didn’t fix things right the last time.”

I knew that it was more than a matter of countries not getting along. France had fallen, Germany and Britain were bombing each other, Nazi subs preyed on English shipping in the Atlantic while English ships preyed on Italian warships in the Mediterranean, and enormous armored columns clashed in the blazing sands of North Africa and on the frozen steppes of Russia. Hitler was a danger to the world and would inevitably lash out at America. All of my fellow cadets knew that war with Germany was coming, and we naively looked forward to it like we would to an upcoming football game. However, it didn’t seem right to discuss my enthusiasm with the priest who had baptized me 22 years ago. So, I deftly changed the subject.

“Looks like the weather is turning,” I said.

The old priest looked at the incoming overcast, now covering half of the stunning blue sky. “Yes, it is supposed to snow tonight, though I hope not too much. We got over six inches last night. But, you know what they say; if you don’t like the weather in Wyoming, wait five minutes, ‘cause it’ll change,” he chuckled.

“I should finish my shopping, father. I have to meet my folks and get home before it comes down. It was nice seeing you again.”

“I hope to see you and the rest of the family for Christmas mass, my son.”

“We wouldn’t miss it, father,” I smiled. “Merry Christmas.”

After a joyful reunion with my emotional mother, I helped her load her packages into the back of the truck. She clutched my hand as she climbed into the cab; her petite frame was dwarfed by the six-foot plus builds of my father and me on either side. Dirty, blackened drifts of packed ice lined the Lincoln Highway as we headed west on the trip home. It would take over an hour to reach the ranch tucked up against the eastern slopes of the Laramie Mountains.

It was really unbelievable that the whole clan would be home for Christmas. All five of my brothers and four of the wives would be there, not to mention nearly a dozen kids, all under the age of ten. Of course, I would take some well-deserved ribbing from my brothers for the lousy season, especially from Earl, who played linebacker for a very good Colorado team in ’34. I was really looking forward to seeing my newest niece, Emily, who had been born nearly a year ago.

The roads were slick, but passable, but snow soon began falling. It wouldn’t take long before the situation changed for the worse. The sky was now covered by snow-heavy clouds spilling over the mountains like water over a dam. As we climbed higher up into the foothills, the wind picked up, whipping the large, sodden flurries into an agitated frenzy.

We were nearly home when my mother excitedly cried out, pointing to the side of the road. A truck had slid off the road, down an embankment, and onto the snow-covered creek. There was no telling how long it had been there, and my father wasted no time in stopping. We hopped out and I hurriedly scrambled down the slope, and found myself nearly swallowed up in a three-foot drift.

“Hold on, son!” my father yelled above the howling wind. “You don’t want to end up in the creek.” Deep beneath the snow and ice, I could hear a vibrant, pulsating stream refusing to completely surrender to old man winter.

I nodded and slowly waded through the deep snow. There were footprints in the deepening snow, although they were gradually being filled in by the storm. My father made his way down the slope with a coil of rope, the end of which was tied to the bumper of his truck.

As I approached the truck, I heard a frantic knocking on the window. I yanked open the passenger side door and saw Mrs. Willis, one of our neighbors. She was weeping tears of joy and threw her arms around my neck.

“Oh, thank God!” she cried. “I knew Hank would get help!”

“Hello, Mrs. Willis, it’s me, Carl.”

“Oh, I know who it is. You back for the holidays?”

My father came huffing up behind me as the wiry older woman climbed into the waist deep snow. “Hello, Myra,” he smiled. “Had a bit of a tumble?”

“Where’s Hank?” a concerned Mrs. Willis asked. “Hank didn’t fetch you?”

“No, we’ve just come from the city,” my father answered.

“I suppose it’s nothing to worry about,” she consoled herself. “We’re not far from the house and Hank knows these hills like our own backyard.”

As we helped Mrs. Willis up the snowy embankment, I couldn’t help but worry about her husband. Gale force winds were coming down from the high country, driving the snow into a furious arctic dance, stinging our numbed faces. It wasn’t quite a whiteout, but a man could easily lose his way in conditions such as these. I mentioned my concerns to my father.

“Your mom will take Mrs. Willis home. We’ll stay here and look for him along the creek. We have plenty of rope to keep from getting lost.”

We tied one end of the rope onto the Willis truck as mom drove off. It was frightfully cold, as cold as I’d ever remembered, but we were sheltered from most of the polar wind in the creek. The sun wouldn’t set for several hours, but there was an eerie duskiness that settled onto the landscape like a blanket. If Mr. Willis couldn’t find his way home before nightfall, he wouldn’t make it home at all.

We followed his slowly vanishing trail and it was soon apparent that he traveled away from the road, which took a more circuitous route to reach the Willis place. As the crow flies, it was much shorter to walk cross-country, over a line of low hills. That was normally true, if there wasn’t over two feet of snow of the ground. We followed his path into a ravine until we reached the end of our rope. I looked at his tracks climbing up the ravine as my father reached my side.

“We’ve got to go back to the road, son,” he said. “Your mother will send your brothers out to get us.”

“We can’t leave him out here. Once the sun goes down, it’ll be a death sentence.”

“If we let go of the rope, it’ll be a death sentence for us too!”

“Dad, I’ve got to try to find him. I know this area. All of us boys used to play in these ravines when we were kids. I’ll be okay without the rope. Why don’t you head back to the road to wait for help? I’ll keep looking for Mr. Willis.”

“Are you sure you’ll be okay?”

“I’ll be alright. If I don’t find him before nightfall, I’ll dig a snow cave and settle in until morning.”

“When your brothers come, we’ll get more rope. Make sure you mark your trail and we’ll find you. Good luck, Carl.”

“I’ll see you soon, Dad.”

With one last look, I let go of the rope and stumbled along the barely visible footprints of Mr. Willis. Moments later, I was alone, swallowed up by the blizzard. I knew there wasn’t much time before the sun set behind the mountains, so I turned up my coat collar and pushed on into the storm. I followed the ravine until Mr. Willis’s feeble tracks climbed an embankment and onto the frozen plains. The wind howled frightfully and I knew there would be little chance I could find him in the open. Why hadn’t he stayed in the ravine?

We had to be near the Willis place. He probably thought he could cut across his back pasture to the house, but the blizzard would prevent either of us from making it safely across open ground. I probably should have waited for my father and brothers to arrive with more rope, but time was running out. Once darkness settled in, Mr. Willis would be dead. So I followed him out into the open.

It didn’t take long before the howling wind completely erased any sign of his passage. I had seemingly run into a dead end. Shielding my eyes from the stinging snow and ice, I glanced across the barren expanse of white; I could just make out a gnarled cottonwood tree at the edge of a frozen stock pond. I made a beeline for it.

Huddled at its base on the leeward side sat a shivering Mr. Willis. Elatedly, I let out a welcoming shout; we’d be able to head back to meet my family before night fell. My hopes were quickly dashed as I noticed he was gently cradling his right ankle; a wayward step in a snow-covered prairie dog hole had ended his attempt to reach home.

“Don’t be a fool, Carl,” Mr. Willis stammered. “We both know we won’t stand a chance out here. Why on earth did you come out here looking for me?”

“In the army, you never leave a man behind.”

“Well, it looks like we’re at the end of our rope, boy. You and me will go out together.”

“President Roosevelt once said that when you reach the end of your rope, tie a knot and hang on.”

“What do you have in mind?”

“We’re going to tie a knot and hang on like the dickens. Here, let me help you up. We’ve got to get back to the ravine so we’ll be out of the wind.”

It was slow going and we stumbled more than once, but we eventually made it to the ravine as the sun settled behind the mountains. There was no time to lose, so we slid down the embankment and started digging into the snow. As the last of the day faded into night, we climbed into our cramped snow cave and waited for the cavalry to come to the rescue. Outside, the wind continued to howl, but we would be protected from the storm for the night.

“You’ll make a fine officer, Carl,” Mr. Willis said in the chilly darkness. “I would have been proud to follow you into battle. I never talk about it much, but I was in the service during the Great War.”

“Really? Where did you serve?”

“I was on the line under Blackjack Pershing. Went over the top at St. Mihiel. God, it was a nightmare! I lost so many buddies that day. My L T refused to fight; he just lay in a shell crater sobbing like a child. Hell, we were all sobbing, but we had a job to do. We had to keep moving forward or we would have all died. We could have used an officer like you that day, Carl.”

“Every man has their own limit, Mr. Willis. Men don’t really know how they’ll react under fire until it happens.”

“You showed your mettle today, son. If we get drawn into the war with Germany again, you’ll rise to the occasion. You’ll be a fine officer, that is, if we make it through the night.”

I dozed off at some point, but when I awoke, the wind had quieted down. Mr. Willis was asleep, so I dug my way outside to check on the storm. A fresh layer of snow covered everything but the trees, but overhead, the sky was perfectly clear. Thousands of stars sparkled across the wide expanse of sky, announcing the passage of the storm. Our gamble had paid off; we now had to hold on to the knot until my father and brothers pulled the rope in.

It was numbingly cold; my frozen breath rose like smoke into the chilly night. A glow on the horizon indicated the moon would soon make its appearance, hopefully providing enough light for us to navigate back to the road. It would normally be best to wait until daylight, but I knew my family would be out in force looking for us after the storm had passed. I crawled back into the snow cave to wake Mr. Willis.

We started out along the ravine under the luminous glow of the risen moon, but the heavy snow accumulation made it extremely time-consuming, given Mr. Willis’s ankle injury. We were both soon huffing and puffing as we lurched through the frigid night. We forced each other to talk so we’d remain alert, but it was soon apparent that we should have waited until dawn. Exhaustion had set in and we’d soon become susceptible to hypothermia. We simply could go no farther.

“You go on without me, Carl,” Mr. Willis huffed. “I’m just holding you back.”

“No, we’ll walk out together or not at all. Let’s rest for a little while and then we’ll continue.”

Soon a dim gray light was visible to the east; the coming dawn would soon be upon us. I got to my feet and climbed a nearby boulder; the lights of Cheyenne were glowing below me, miles to the east. In the pre-dawn darkness between my rocky perch and the city lights, an assembly of flashlight beams darted across the snowy landscape, slowly heading up the ravine towards us. My family had not given up the search.

“Looks like it will be a Merry Christmas after all, Mr. Willis,” I excitedly shouted. “Here come our reinforcements!”

I watched with elation as the dim figures of my father and five brothers eventually emerged from the darkness. After a warm reunion with my family and sharing a thermos of hot coffee spiked with whisky with Mr. Willis, we hiked down to the road. I would have to endure my brothers’ jokes and wisecracks about my adventure over the remainder of my winter vacation, but despite my ordeal, I would always cherish that last Christmas with all of my brothers. When we got together for our next Wyoming Christmas, after the war, two of us would not return.

America was naïvely living on borrowed time while the global maelstrom raged uncontrollably around us like a fire in the high country. Peace and goodwill still held sway in America that Christmas, yet we were approaching the end of our rope. And while it may have been tempting to tie a knot and hang on, it would have been impossible to fight a two-front war with one hand hanging onto a rope. America would have to enter the blizzard of war with both hands swinging.

The Predator's War

This is an article that I wrote for Airman Magazine, the official magazine of the US Air Force.

The Predator's War

In the starry skies over the sparse Mojave Desert — far from the pulsating neon lights of Las Vegas — lurks a nearly silent sentinel. It searches among the yucca cactuses and Joshua trees for a lonely radar station atop a mountain peak. The RQ-1 Predator’s infrared eye pierces the night like an owl, capturing the landscape with dreary shades of white, black and gray — not unlike the surface of the moon. Miles away, the crew of the small aircraft — an unmanned aerial vehicle — watches the scenery unfold on a video monitor while the aircraft methodically closes in on its target.

“To sit in a [ground control station] in one country while flying the Predator and looking at targets in another country hundreds of miles away is mind-boggling,” said Capt. Rob Kinerson, a Predator pilot with the 11th Reconnaissance Squadron, Nellis Air Force Base, Nev. “And knowing that we are now directly involved in determining the outcome of battles — and even the war — makes us realize the importance of our mission.”

Just another day on the job for the men and women who fly and maintain the Predator.

The pesky Predator is a medium altitude, long-range aircraft capable of hanging out above a target for more than 20 hours. Its sensor array permits detailed scrutiny of enemy targets using fixed and adjustable lenses, an infrared lens and a synthetic aperture radar.

To an enemy, the Predator is like the unwanted guest who doesn’t want to leave. “Like the mosquito that you hate to have in your tent at night,” Kinerson said. “Not only are we watching, but we’re ready to strike. The enemy won’t sleep knowing it’s only a matter of time until he feels the bite.”


Strong capabilities

Unmanned aircraft have come a long way from their humble beginnings. In years past, the military used pre- programmed drones for target practice on gunnery ranges. That drone misconception still persists in many Air Force circles. But things have changed.

Just as Brig. Gen. Billy Mitchell crusaded against traditional military thinking regarding the use of airpower, Predator crews are pushing for greater recognition of their aircraft. They want people to know what the aircraft has accomplished in its short operational life and what it’s capable of doing. Traditionally, the Predator’s foremost mission has been aerial reconnaissance, but the Air Force has discovered that the versatile aircraft has other talents. It can direct close air support missions, act as a killer scout on the battlefield and help protect friendly troops.

“Using its new capabilities and missions, the Predator has evolved into a highly sophisticated and battle-proven warrior,” Kinerson said. “No longer do we simply act as slow-speed cheerleaders watching the war; we now have opportunities to quarterback the team to victory.”

A ground crew controls the Predator with line-of-sight data and satellite links. A newly installed ultra-high frequency radio permits communication over the data links, allowing the crew to “talk” to other aircraft. And pilots fly the Predators. From ground control stations far-removed from the front lines, they can maneuver the Predator just like any other aircraft. Pilots can comply with headings, altitudes and airspeeds directed by air traffic control, just as if they were in the cockpit.

Capt. Joe Rizzuto, a Predator instructor pilot, said that’s crucial to the Predator’s success.
“Having a pilot control the aircraft, even remotely, provides the flexibility required to participate in missions previously reserved for manned aircraft,” he said. Another instructor pilot, Capt. Jon Wozniak, agrees. “As other airframes realize the capabilities of the Predator, our training pace has accelerated significantly,” Wozniak said. “Emerging missions demand a rapid training pace so our crews can learn new ways of doing business.”

Wozniak said Nellis is a perfect Predator base. It’s home to Red Flag, the Air Force’s premier combat training exercise. The realistic training involves aircraft from the Air Force and a host of foreign nations. They mix it up over the vast Nevada Test and Training Range. “No other base can provide the diverse weapons systems required for our integration into the combat air force,” Wozniak said.


Afghan operations

The skills Predator crews learned in the Mojave Desert also help America in the war on terrorism during operations in Afghanistan. The previously unheralded star of Operation Enduring Freedom has turned heads all the way to the White House. But for the airmen who work with the Predator every day, it’s no surprise.

Peculiar-looking, spindly and white, the aircraft roamed the skies over the Balkans and Iraq for years providing aerial reconnaissance in airspace too dangerous for manned platforms. The Predator quickly adapted to the emerging demands of Afghan operations. Its missions there now include force protection, and fighter and close air support.

“What I do is important,” said Airman 1st Class Adam Fields, a sensor operator with the 11th Reconnaissance Squadron. “By having my video feed sent to commanders throughout the [theater] and having them make critical and sometimes life-saving decisions based on my video feed, I’m making a vital contribution. I know when I deploy in a contingency that I’m going to save lives, and I know I’ll help determine the course of an operation. There’s nowhere else in the world where I can do this operationally. I don’t ever want to stop.”

The Predator’s emerging popularity is a direct result of its successes in the war on terrorism.
At any given time, a Predator is airborne over Afghanistan shadowing suspected terrorist hideouts. Force protection is one key area where it has proved its mettle, providing intelligence for ground commanders, scouting and even locating a lost patrol of Marines.

Today, many ground forward air controllers don’t want to deploy without a Predator overhead, Rizzuto said. “At first, they didn’t want anything to do with us,” he said. “But when we were able to scout ahead, reporting on enemy positions around the next bend in the road or over a hill, their attitudes changed.”

Rizzuto said force protection missions have been the most rewarding tasks. “Even more so than blowing things up,” he said. “But if we can help the guys on the ground and still blow things up, so much the better.”

Operations in Afghanistan have shed light on the Predator’s other capabilities. In its killer-scout role, the aircraft can operate as an airborne forward air controller locating targets for waiting strike aircraft. Its pilot directs the strike, providing target information, altitude and geographic deconfliction. The Predator also provides attack aircraft run-in and egress headings.

“Killer-scout allows us to strike targets that never would have been hit in the past,” Rizzuto said. “Target approval is now accomplished in minutes, not days.”

After a strike, Predators can provide commanders with instant battle damage assessment. That allows for immediate follow-on strikes if necessary. And what a Predator sees it can easily uplink via satellite to command and control forces. This gives battlefield commanders real-time feedback allowing them to make quick decisions affecting enemy targets. In the past, those targets may have slipped away unharmed long before fighters arrived.

“The Predator has a better perspective of the battlefield than a ground forward air controller,” Wozniak added. “And it can go closer to threats than a manned airborne forward air controller like the OA-10 aircraft.”

This same perspective allowed the Predator to work close air support missions with ground units fighting in Afghanistan. And since it can remain above a target longer than most aircraft, the Predator can direct strikes in proximity with ground forces if needed.


Close air support

The aircraft’s close air support role mirrors its killer-scout role, with the key difference being target determination, Wozniak said. During a close air support mission, a ground commander chooses which targets will be hit. But a killer-scout crew finds the targets. In either case, the Predator coordinates with available fighters and uses them accordingly. Rizzuto said it’s important to identify the correct target because a missed target could have severe ramifications for nearby friendly troops.

What happens when a Predator crew discovers a significant target and there are no fighters nearby? A test at the Nellis range last year proved the Predator can also strike targets. Armed with Hellfire missiles, Predators became hunters and destroyed stationary and moving targets.
Now, a Predator that uncovers an enemy site can identify the target, mark it with a laser and launch its missile long before other strikers converge on the scene, Wozniak said. This is critically important when the target is on the move.

“A Predator strike can prevent its escape before fighters arrive,” he said.

The addition of the Hellfire missile-packing Predator will open a new window of warfare, Kinerson said. It will introduce a truly multirole and unmanned aircraft capable of significantly influencing a war. “With the Hellfire, the Predator can watch a potential target for hours then, single-handedly, eliminate it without ever having to put an aircrew at risk,” Kinerson said. “It’s like combining the best of our reconnaissance and strike assets for a fraction of the cost and almost none of the risk.”

The Predator’s Enduring Freedom successes are paving the way for newer unmanned aerial vehicle systems like Global Hawk, Predator B and the unmanned combat aerial vehicle — the first unmanned aircraft specifically designed for air combat. With every victory, the Predator solidifies the Air Force’s commitment to the unmanned aircraft.

Maj. Gen. Glen Shaffer, the Air Force’s chief of intelligence, said, “Predator operations in Operation Enduring Freedom have had a hugely significant impact to the future of Air Force warfighting. [Predator crews] have fundamentally changed command and control of the air battle.”

The Predator can be best viewed as a pioneer, just like the early biplanes over France in World War I, Kinerson said. And just like the rapid evolution from a reconnaissance role to armed fighters and bombers during that tumultuous war, Operation Enduring Freedom has provided the catalyst for the evolution of the unmanned aircraft.

“It may be just a matter of time before the world’s first UAV ace claims a place among the legendary aviators of the past, racking up kills from a remote ground control station miles from the action,” Kinerson said. “General Mitchell would have been proud.”