Widowmakers, p.1
Widowmakers, page 1
part #2 of JTF 13 Series
Widowmakers
A JTF 13 Novel
By:
William Joseph Roberts
Three Ravens Publishing
Chickamauga, GA
Copyright © 2020 by William J. Roberts
Published by Three Ravens Publishing
threeravenspublishing@gmail.com
160 Park St. Chickamauga, Ga 30707
https://www.threeravenspublishing.com
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law.
For permission requests, contact the publisher listed above, addressed “Attention: Permissions” to the address above.
Publishers Note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are a product of the author’s imagination. Locales and public names are sometimes used for atmospheric purposes. Any resemblance to actual people, living or dead, or to businesses, companies, events, institutions, or locales is completely coincidental.
Credits:
Widowmakers was written by William J. Roberts
Cover art by Brendan Smith
Widowmakers by: William J. Roberts, Cannon Publishing, 1st edition, 2019
Widowmakers by: William J. Roberts, Three Ravens Publishing, 2nd edition, 2020
Trade Paperback ISBN: 978-1-951768-17-1
Authors Note:
As with anything I do, there’s usually a great deal of research involved. This particular story and the setting sent my evil mind squirrels to task, and down the rabbit holes of the internet we went. Now the upside to all this research is the number of new folks I have met, (in Facebook groups mostly), and because of the amount of time I took out of these folks’ busy days, I’d like to give them a special little shout out.
Thank you to the members of the Northrop P-61 Black Widow Facebook group, The B-25 Mitchell Fans Facebook group, the Mid-Atlantic Air Museum, and the wonderful folks down at the Museum of Aviation at Warner Robbins Air Force Base for letting me turn wrenches on an actual B-17 Flying Fortress. A special thank you goes out to Michael Woods for all the information he bestowed upon me about the aircraft they have in the museum. (Dude is a serious fountain of knowledge.)
This particular story was a fun change of pace into a time period I’ve wanted to write in for some time. The fact that I was able to take part in my own backstory and turn a lowly wrench-turning crew chief (aircraft mechanic) from the 2nd pursuit squadron into a hero was pretty damned cool. Knowing there was a chance other aircraft-loving gearheads could possibly be reading this really drove my need to know the finer details about the specific aircraft featured in this story.
Last, but never least, a huge loving thank you goes to my beloved wife, Meg. She is my rock, my sounding board, and my voice of reason when the squirrels send me spiraling in too many directions. Thank you, babe.
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Epilogue
Appendix A
Chapter 1
“I
don’t know about the rest of youse guys, but I know exactly what I’m going to do when I get back to the States,” Private First Class Russo said in a thick Brooklyn accent. He shuffled through a handful of well-worn playing cards. “I’ve got four books,” he said, then looked to the soldier to his right. “Your turn, Burns.”
“I’ve got two,” Private Burns said as he tapped his hand level and laid the cards face down on the table. “Your turn, Gershowitz.” Burns reached under the table and retrieved an unopened bottle of beer, popping the cap loose on the edge of the table with a quick slap.
“Well, don’t leave us hanging in suspense, Russo,” Corporal Gershowitz said. “Three books for me,” he said, placing his cards on the table. He pulled out a pack of Lucky Strikes from his shirt pocket, slid a cigarette from the opened end, then mouthed it and lit it with the smoldering stub of his previous smoke. “I think you’re just full of shit and like to hear your own lips flap, Russo.”
Russo scoffed, “You’re the one that’s full of shit, Gershowitz.”
Gershowitz snatched the beer from Burns before he’d taken the first sip. He upended the beer and emptied the bottle in two gulps, then let out a loud, wet belch.
“Hey, asshole! That was my beer!” Burns yelled.
“Not anymore it isn’t!” I laughed, nursing one of my own rare and coveted drinks.
“Very funny, Sarge,” Burns said. “Asshole.”
“Watch it, Burns,” I warned. “That could be considered disrespect of a non-commissioned officer.” I tapped a crooked camel cigarette from my crumpled package. Lifting the glass of an old kerosene lamp, I lit the smoke from the oily flame. Dust motes launched from the narrow shelf where the lamp sat and floated carelessly about the only source of light in the old barn as I exhaled. The sweet smell of the tobacco overpowered the smell of dry hay and livestock.
“Sorry, Sergeant Sullivan,” Burns said as he shuffled through his hand, avoiding eye contact with me. “Won’t happen again, Sarge.”
“Don’t worry about it, Burns,” I said with a chuckle and took a long draw from the unfiltered cigarette. “I’m just messing with you, Private. Nothing to worry yourself about.” I flashed a mischievous smile at him and took another sip of my warming beer.
“Yeah, he likes to fuck with the rookies, Burnsie,” Russo said. “Hey, Gershowitz, tell Burnsie here what the Sarge did to you when you first reported for duty.”
“Piss off, Russo. Are we going to play spades or what? Christ's sake,” Gershowitz said, uncomfortably shifting.
“Oh hell, here we go again,” Staff Sergeant Henderson said and folded up the letter he’d just been working on. “Why in the hell do you fellas have to get Russo riled up like this? You know he won’t shut up for hours once he gets started.”
“Oh, har har freaking har! Very funny, Staff Sergeant,” Russo said.
“Might as well go ahead and tell Burns the story before your head explodes,” I said, then took a long drink of the warm but tasty beer. We’d acquired a case of the freshly bottled sunshine from a local brewer earlier in the day, in exchange for a gallon of diesel fuel and a pair of size nine combat boots Russo had recovered from a German scout we’d caught snooping around camp the week before.
We’d been assigned as a detachment of the 2nd Pursuit Squadron to Forward Air Base Jackson. Our orders were simple as an intercept unit; chase down and destroy any German bomb raiders before they could reach allied forces, or escort our bomb groups across the German lines as requested by HQ. They’d originally issued us six Curtiss P-40 Warhawks, three Lockheed P-38 Lightnings, and a lone North American P-51 Mustang.
Only a few days earlier a baker's dozen of Northrop P-61A Black Widows arrived on our doorstep, fresh off the assembly line in the States. Without notice, the squadron of aircraft landed, rolled to a stop, and parked in a neat and tidy formation near the commandeered barn of our quaint little airfield in northern France. The Army Corps of Engineers had surveyed the area north of what remained of the village of Evrecy and deemed it as suitable. Decades of livestock grazing had compacted the soil well enough for use by smaller aircraft.
In hindsight, it would have been nice if the engineers had offered a few solutions to removing a steadfast herd of sheep from the path of an incoming aircraft without the use of brute force or a truck. The herdsmen didn't care for our routine use of the .50 cals to clear the runway, but sometimes you gotta do what you gotta do. If that’s the least of our problems, we’re doing pretty damned good, I thought and took another swig of my lukewarm beer.
“Well, you see,” Russo said, “Sarge here asked Burnsie if he was musically inclined in any way. Burns said he was, and that he’d played a bit of guitar growing up. Then Sarge asked if he’d like the chance to play an Army Banjo out back to help the unit out of a serious bind. Being the kiss-ass that he is, Burnsie jumped all over the opportunity. Then the next thing you know, Sarge here handed him a shovel and told him to start digging the next shitter pit out back of the barn.” Russo laughed, slapping his knees.
“Can we play cards already?” Burns looked to Stewart. “Isn’t it your turn, Private?”
“I can get eight books,” Private Stewart said, then leaned back in his chair.
“Whoa! We’ve got ourselves a big spender right here!” Gershowitz shouted.
“You know you’re going to put us in the hole even further if you’re bluffing again,” Burns said.
“Why would I bluff?” Stewart dropped his hand face down on the table.
“Cause you’re full of shit, Stewie. That’s why,” Gershowitz said. “Play your card already, Russo.
“Oh, ha ha ha,” Stewart said, flashing a middle finger in Gershowitz’s direction.
Russo fanned out his cards and sorted through the hand. “Keep your shorts on, I’m thinking.” He carefully rearranged the positi on of the cards, then chose one from the center of the hand, and placed a six of clubs face up on the table.
“What the hell kind of play is that, you stupid Dago?” Gershowitz shouted. “Are you trying to lose this round for us?”
“No more than you are, you freaking big nose!” Russo shouted back.
“Cool it, both of you,” I said. “You start that bullshit arguing again, and you’ll have the captain and the rest of the flyboys down here chewing our asses.”
“Fine,” Russo said, shifting in his seat. “I’ll keep it down so the precious pilots up in the hayloft get their beauty rest.
“So, spit it out already,” Gershowitz said, changing the subject. “What’s this secret plan of yours, Russo?”
“Oh, yeah. I almost forgot about that. See, it’s simple really. Even for a bunch of apes like youse guys.” Russo laid his cards face down and straightened the collar of his fatigue shirt. “As soon as I get back to the States, I’m going straight home to kiss my Ma. Then I’m going to go out and find me a good, God-fearing Italian girl to bring home. Nothing against the Jewish or the Sicilian girls back in Brooklyn. I mean, there’s more than a few hot numbers I wouldn’t mind taking out a time or two. But Ma is just that sorta particular when it comes to marriage and prospective grandchildren. The woman I choose has gotta be from good, wholesome stock, ya’ know.”
“What would your Ma say if you were to bring home a French girl? Especially if it’s true love,” Private Stewart said.
“Ya know, I’m not honestly sure, come to think of it,” Russo said. “Ma’s never really said much of anything about the Frenchies back in Little Paris on the west side of Brooklyn. Granted, there aren’t any that I know of from back in the old neighborhood, so that might be part of it.”
“Well, hell, Russo,” Private Steward said. “You can have the pick of the litter, then. There’s a whole herd of soft and fuzzy French girls out at the end of the runway.
“Oh, ha ha, smartass,” Russo said. “That would be more up Sergeant Sullivan’s alley,” he said with a nod toward me.
“Best watch yourself, Private,” I said, then turned up my beer and emptied the bottle. “That was good, Burns. Thank you.” I set the bottle down on the table and headed for the door.
“Where you going, Sarge?”
“I’m stepping out before it gets too deep in here.” I slipped out of the barn through the small side door.
The moon hung high and full in the clear July sky. A warm, lavender-scented breeze blew in from the south, across vast fields of the fragrant flowering bush. Rounding the rear corner of the barn, I made my way to the tree line of a small copse of hardwoods. Nature’s rhythmic night songs of love struck me as a competition between the crickets of the underbrush and the frogs from a nearby pond.
I finished my business and started back to the barn. Stopping outside the small side door, I pulled another cigarette from the nearly empty package, lighting it from the previous one. I field stripped the stub, making sure to stomp out the still smoldering ember, when I heard a strange grating screech from the airfield. It was like the sound made by scraping nails across a chalkboard, but mingled with an odd metallic twang. Cautiously I approached the front of the barn and crouched in the shadow of the structure. My breath caught in my throat as I waited, motionless. I watched for the slightest hint of movement among the small squadron of mixed aircraft parked to the side of the open pasture. Twisting metal screeched and popped from the nose landing gear bay of Jumpin’ Jess, one of the unit’s newly-issued P-61 Black Widow pursuit aircraft.
Originally, Russo saw her tail number, 42-39212 and wanted to name her Double-Deuce, complete with a five-card poker hand-painted across her nose containing two pairs of twos and an ace of spades in the center due to the last three digits of her tail number. Instead, I chose to name her after this blonde bombshell of a gal I knew from back home. We’d dated for a short time before I enlisted and got shipped out to Boot. I wasn’t without a fair bit of artistic talent, so I took it upon myself to paint a likeness of Jess, topless in a torn and tattered dress, leaning back against a still and holding a BAR, or Browning Automatic Rifle, across her bare chest. She held it close, snuggled deep into the ample painted cleavage.
I doubt I’ll ever get that particular image out of my mind. It was one hell of a night spent on the side of Lookout Mountain in McLemore Cove, Georgia, guarding one of her father’s stills from his competitors. One thing led to another, and before you knew it, we were both pouring sweat in the sweltering August night. And anyone who’s spent time in Georgia in the middle of August knows there’s no such thing as cool during that time of the year.
Something large had rolled in the underbrush about fifty yards down the hill from us. I’d jumped to my feet and grabbed the shotgun, ready for a fight. When I glanced back at her, that was the exact image that had been forever burned into my brain. Come to think of it, I don’t know of any red-blooded man who’d want that image out of his mind. It turned out the noise we’d heard was actually a federal revenuer, and not one of her father’s competitors from over the mountain in Fort Payne. We detained him until the next morning, when her father came up to the site and sent us back to the house for some breakfast.
Something grunted loudly and pulled me out of the fond memories of Jess. Instinctively I reached down to loosen the strap over the Colt Army revolver that hung on my right hip. My father had passed it down to me before I’d shipped out for the war. He’d carried it during the Great War, his father before him had carried it during the Spanish War, and his father before him carried it during the War of Northern Aggression. Great Grandad Jacob had gotten it from the cold, dead hands of a Union officer during the battle of Chickamauga. So, my father thought it was only fitting that I should carry it into the next war and make our family proud. I looked in the direction of the noise and saw something moving about in the shadows of Jumpin’ Jess’s nose landing gear bay.
Probably just a possum or something, I thought, then wondered to myself if they had possums in France. The thing jerked and grunted in time with the sound of popping sheet metal. I put the strap back over the revolver and secured it in place. Without taking my eyes off the aircraft, I reached down into the wooden tool tray Burns had left sitting at the corner of the barn earlier in the day. The inch and a half open-ended wrench I found was heavy in my grip but would work fine for running a critter out of the landing gear.
I crouched low as I crept across the field to the aircraft. I could hear a subtly wet slurping sound that reminded me of a dog gnawing on a bone coming from the wheel well. Leaning down, I peered upward into the darkness of the bay. Nothing moved, but I could hear the faint sound of a raspy wheezed breathing. I shifted my position to the aft of the nose gear and saw a flinching movement within the darkness.
“I’ve spent entirely too much time maintaining this bird for you to go and chew up her wiring,” I said to the thing in the darkness. “Don’t know what you are, but you gotta go.”
I shifted again to get a better view before reaching blindly into the area. Retrieving my grandfather's zippo from my pocket, I flicked it open and lit the battered lighter against my pant leg in one swift motion.
“Let’s see if we can’t get a better look at you.” As I held the lighter near the opening, the thing moved. Claws scratched across the metal of the compartment as the thing scrabbled between the nose strut’s upper mount and the forward bulkhead of the bay. I shifted to the front side of the strut, holding the lighter above my head to get a better look at the thing without sticking my head up into the area. It moved, and I caught a quick glimpse of a nearly hairless, fleshy-brown section of hide. It had alternating stripes of darker and lighter skin like you’d see on a tabby cat. It shifted again as I moved the light around to get a better look.
“Well, I guess you’re just an old mangy cat, ain’t you,” I mumbled to myself as I tried to get a better look at the thing. “I don’t want to kill you if I don’t have to. Come on out of there, and I’ll let you go on your way. We’ll just let bygones be bygones.”
