Mustang Morning

Friday February 25, 1944

“Major . . .” Marc’s eyes fluttered open. A flashlight glowed against the floor instead of directly in his face, but it was still bright enough in the predawn dark to make him squint. “Major, briefing in one hour.”

Marc nodded and began getting up. “Thanks, Vince.” He swung his legs out from under the blankets and set his feet on the small rug beside the bed. Even through it he could feel the cold plywood underneath, and his breath hung faintly in the air of the minimally heated Quonset hut.

Without another word the orderly left the room. Marc could hear him next door, rousing the pilot in the neighboring cubicle with the same flat, practiced routine. He reached over and switched on the small desk lamp. Marc dressed quietly. His quarters were small but comfortable by wartime standards: a narrow bed, a wardrobe, a desk buried beneath operations paperwork, a bookshelf holding a few well-worn novels, and a photograph of his parents in Virginia held in place tucked into a joint in the desk.

Major Marc Suchet took a moment to collect himself. It had been a rough week for the P-51B pilots of the 355th Fighter Squadron — missions on Sunday, on Tuesday, and now again today. He’d spent yesterday helping plan this one, which meant he already knew what the rest of the squadron was about to find out. Today was going to be long.

Marc had only been with the squadron since late November of ’43, assigned to the 355th after finishing his combat tour with the 49th and later the 94th Fighter Squadrons in the Mediterranean. Seventy-seven missions and six German aircraft down had made him an experienced flyer. That meant he’d had options once his tour ended — flight instructor duty stateside, a staff job, or a second combat tour. He’d fought for the third one. A month spent back in the States that October should have felt like rest. Instead he’d lain awake most nights wondering if his friends had someone watching their tail, if they had come home from whatever mission had been flown that day. The good food and the soft bed hadn’t been able to compete with that.

So here he was — the seasoned man dropped into a squadron that had only reached RAF Boxted four months ago. His real job, whatever the paperwork said, was to carry what he’d learned into a group of flyers who’d never seen combat when they arrived — to keep them alive long enough to become dangerous themselves. He wasn’t sure he could call them green anymore, though. Most of the pilots now had ten or more combat missions logged against occupied Europe and Germany.

His official job was assistant operations officer, ops officer in pilot speak, for the squadron. Every other leadership slot had already been filled by the time he’d arrived, so they’d wedged him in where there was room. It fell to him to help plan missions, lead most of them, and afterward do the paperwork he hated more than flak. The compensations were a promotion to major and a small room in a Quonset hut entirely his own.

He pushed his feet into his slippers, gathered his toiletries and a towel, wrapped himself in his robe, and made the dash through the freezing dark to the showers.

At 0521 Marc filed into the 354th Fighter Group briefing room. Breakfast had been the usual. He couldn’t stomach the powdered eggs, so he’d had oatmeal, sausage, toast, and coffee strong enough to stand a spoon in. Pilots from all three of the group’s squadrons would eventually fill the hut. For now it was only half full. While most men fought for a seat near the back, Marc walked down the center aisle, past a dozen open ones, and took his usual place in the second row on the left, dead center. The front row sat nearly empty, reserved for commanders and ops officers. The room filled quickly after that — not just with men but with the smell of soap, aftershave, coffee, and cigarette smoke, and with the low hum of conversation. He caught pieces of it as he sat. A weekend pass to London. A letter from home. The picture that had played in the mess hall the night before. The girl at the canteen every man in the squadron seemed to be talking to. Every time the door opened, a blast of arctic air cut through the room and set the blackout curtains stirring against the windows.

At the front, a small raised stage, behind it on the wall a wall to wall curtained board where the mission map waited, hidden until the moment came to reveal it.

1st Lieutenant William “Bill” Callahan dropped into the seat beside him. “Why do you always sit in the fucking front, Frenchie?”

Marc hated the nickname, though he’d earned it himself. His first day with the squadron he’d corrected someone who’d mangled his name — Sue-chet instead of the way his family said it, Sue-shay, the French way — and the correction had backfired instantly into a nickname that stuck harder than the mispronunciation ever had.

“Cause I gotta set an example for you wet-behind-the-ears types.” Marc jerked a thumb toward the back of the room, “Lieutenant seating’s back there.”

“Naw, I’m your wingman. Gotta keep you safe. From the Hun and from colonels.”

“Kiss ass.”

Bill blew him a kiss. “So, spill it. Where we going today?”

“You know I can’t tell you.” Marc changed the subject before Bill could press — to something he knew would work every time. “How’s it going with the girl at the laundry?”

Bill’s whole face lit up. “Marge? Going great. We’re going out again tomorrow.”

Marc chuckled. “I can never remember her name, since she’s what — the third girl you’ve chased since I met you?”

He looked genuinely offended, “Hey, I can explain —”

Bill’s explanation died under a voice calling the room to attention. Chairs scraped against the floor as every man rose in one motion — the group commander, the three squadron commanders, and their ops officers walked purposefully down the center aisle. The room fell silent. The colonel made it only a few rows in before he spoke.

“Seats, at ease.” The room filled again with the scrape of chairs and thud of men sitting. The squadron commanders and their ops officers took the front row while the colonel continued on alone to the stage. He turned to face them.
“Gentlemen, I know it’s been a rough week. Today won’t be any easier.”
Beside him, Bill shifted forward and glanced over. Marc kept his eyes fixed straight ahead. His left hand had already begun to shake against his knee.
“I have faith in every one of you,” the colonel went on. “We’ll go out there and see it through.” He paused. “Bob, they’re all yours.” The colonel sat, and the group ops officer took the stage.

“Thank you, sir.” He turned to the room. “Today’s mission —” He nodded to an intelligence officer stationed off to the side, who pulled the cord that drew back the curtain over the map. Marc closed his eyes as the curtain started moving, he didn’t need to look. He already knew where the string ended. Regensburg.

A red string ran from Boxted, bent twice, and stretched all the way into southern Germany. A ripple went through the room — low exclamations, none of them happy. More than a few muttered curse. A groan somewhere behind him. Someone’s pencil rapped twice against a clipboard and went still.

“Settle down, settle down.” The room quieted. “We’ll be escorting the bombers to Regensburg. Their target is the Messerschmitt plant —”

The briefing went on. Marc already knew most of it, but he took notes anyway — the rendezvous point with the bomber stream, the radio frequencies. He paid closer attention during the weather brief, since that part was updated information: low clouds over England clearing by the Channel, and clear skies over the Low Countries and into Germany. Intelligence came last — expected Luftwaffe strength, known airfields along the route, flak concentrations to watch for.
When the group briefing ended, the room was called back to attention, then dismissed to its three squadrons. As they stood, Bill turned to him. “Fuck, you could’ve warned me. Today’s gonna be a son of a bitch.”

Marc shrugged, apologetic. “You know the rules. Buddies or not, I can’t spill anything.” He punched him good-naturedly in the shoulder. “Come on, what does knowing do for ya?” Bill couldn’t argue with that. “Let’s go. We’ve got more work to do.”

The walk to the squadron building took only minutes. Sunrise was just a pale seam along the eastern sky, and the temperature still hovered around freezing. Marc, Bill, and the rest of the squadron walked fast to stay warm. Inside the 355th’s own briefing hut, the squadron ops officer took over — four flights of four aircraft, callsigns Bluebird, Yardstick, Subway, and Asheville. To talk to the entire squadron they were Bulldog, after their squadron patch. Marc would fly as Bluebird 1, leading his flight and the squadron. After a quick review of escort altitude, formation procedures, the rendezvous point, and emergency procedures, the ops officer turned each flight over to its lead.

Marc gathered his flight around him at a table. Maps, checklists, and notepads spread out in front of them. Bill would fly his wing today as number two. Number three was Captain Russell “Russ” Whitmore. Number four, Flight Officer Robert “Robby” Cross. Bill was one of the squadron’s original members and had flown on Marc’s wing for all fourteen of his missions with the 355th. Russ was an original too, with better than ten missions behind him. Robby was new — a month with the squadron, three combat missions to his name — and it showed.

“Okay, there’s some low cumulus today. If you fly into one after takeoff, heads up when we’re forming up. No fucking midairs.” Silent nods from Bill and Russ. Across the table, Robby’s knuckles had gone white around his coffee mug. What he said next he said to the group, but it was really meant just for Robby, “Remember — when you get on the tail of a Hun, don’t get buck fever and shoot right away. Wait. Get inside a hundred yards. Let him have it close and hard. You’re more accurate and you use less ammo. That’s how I got all of mine. No high-deflection shots unless it’s to save somebody. Those shots waste a lot of ammo.” More nods from Bill and Russ, the kind that came from men who’d heard it before and believed it. Robby swallowed hard. Marc turned to him. “Now, Robby — you stick close to Russ. He’ll take care of you.” Robby’s shoulders eased down half an inch. “You keep his tail clear, and he might even let you take a shot.”

“Sure thing, Frenchie,” Robby said, brightening.

Marc barked at Robby while shaking a finger at him, “You don’t get to call me that till you’ve got ten missions or two kills.” Robby’s face fell. Bill and Russ snickered. Marc’s tone softened, and he grinned at the kid. “I’m just fucking with ya. Call me whatever you want. I need your head in the game.” He pushed back from the table. “One last thing. Don’t go chasing a Hun solo halfway to Berlin. Stay in your pairs. Protect the bombers, don’t go hunting glory. No new medals today.” He got nods all around. Even from Robby, “Okay, you sons of bitches, let’s get our gear.”
The four of them stood and headed out of the Quonset hut.

It was a short walk to the next Quonset hut where they drew their flight gear. Mae Wests, parachutes, helmets — little more than leather caps, really — oxygen masks, first aid kits, escape kits, gloves, and fleece-lined boots. Marc also drew a 1911 and a spare magazine. It wouldn’t do much good against a squad of German soldiers, he figured, but you never knew.

Jeeps were already waiting outside by the time they’d finished. All of Bluebird flight piled into one. The sun had cleared the horizon now, though it hung low and pale. Marc climbed into the back, giving the front seat to Robby.

The drive to the hardstands was short, the morning cold made sharper by the wind of the jeep’s speed. It rolled to a stop in front of Marc’s Mustang just long enough for him to jump out with his gear. His crew chief, T/4 Frederick Thorne, was already waiting, along with three other ground crewmen packing up their tools beside the left wing.

“Morning, sir,” Fred said.

“Morning, Fred.” Marc shook his hand. “How you doing today?”

“Good, sir.” Fred nodded toward the Mustang. “Little oil leak, but we just fixed it. She’s ready.”

Marc gave him a quick nod. “Thanks, Fred.” Then he began his walk-around, more habit than necessity — he knew Fred had already gone over every inch of her twice. On the nose of his Mustang was painted Daisy-Mae. It was his mom’s name. He ran his hand along the cold olive drab painted metal of the empennage. Around him he heard the faint sound of men working on other Mustangs, every now and then a shout asking for a tool, the cough of an engine turning over. The smell of engine exhaust wafted across the parking area. As he rounded the tail he spotted a tall, unhurried figure making his way down the taxiway: the squadron chaplain, Captain Francis Messina, a Catholic priest everyone called Padre.

Marc walked over and met him at the end of the right wing. He’d never been an especially religious man. He’d gone to church every Sunday as a boy because his family went, and every Sunday as an Aviation Cadet because it was an hour away from the instructors. Since reaching Europe there hadn’t been much room left for organized religion at all. But he remembered his father telling him once, long before any of this, that every man found God quickly enough on a battlefield. He hadn’t understood it then. He did now.

“Morning, Padre.”

“Morning, Marc.” The Padre knew every man in the group by name, “Would you like a prayer?”

Marc wasn’t Catholic, but he figured God wouldn’t much care who did the asking, “Sure thing, Padre.”

He bowed his head, clasped his hands in front of him, and closed his eyes. Father Messina rested a hand on his shoulder and bowed his own head. “O Father, we humbly come before You, lifting up this brave pilot in prayer. Surround him with Your divine protection, grant him strength in adversity, and bring him safely home to his loved ones. May his heart be filled with peace and courage, and may Your grace guide him every step.” A pause. “Amen.”

“Amen,” Marc echoed. Then, “Thanks, Padre.”

Father Messina moved on to continue his rounds, and Marc turned back to Daisy-Mae. He finished his walk-around and climbed up into the cockpit. Fred was right behind him, helping him get strapped in. Fred stepped back from the wing, “See ya this afternoon sir.” Marc gave him a thumbs up.

Marc settled into his seat and scanned the instrument panel. He gave a thumbs-up. Fred returned the gesture. The area around Daisy-Mae was clear of maintainers, except for Fred. Fred held his arms over his head, crossed at the wrists. Fred looked left then right. Satisfied that the area was clear he spun one finger in the air then re-crossed his arms. Marc glanced down at his left hand. It was shaking again. Time to go to work. He began the methodical process. Parking brake, generator disconnect, throttle, mixture control, main fuel valve, ignition switch, starter. The Merlin coughed once. Then roared to life. Thick white plumes billowed out of the exhaust. The smell of the exhaust filled the cockpit.

Around him, the thick white exhaust came out of the other Mustangs as their propellers become a blur. All across Boxted the P-51s came alive one after another.