A thousand suns

Pieter’s lower jaw moved from side to side. Max knew he was grinding his teeth, an unfortunate habit of his when he was immersed deep in thought. His thick, full eyebrows were knotted in concentration beneath a lick of blond hair as he waded through the information, the repercussions, and the events that would follow if they went ahead with the mission.

Pieter was undecided.

Decisions like these were for leaders, generals, he argued wordlessly, not for the likes of him. It is the luxury of a soldier not to fathom why an objective exists, just to make sure it is met. Max had briefed them on the task, but then he’d also clouded the water with suggestions on how the Americans, Russians and British might react, and how the whole thing might play out in the next few weeks. He wished Max hadn’t. It was a layer of detail too much for him and he was making no progress with it. He decided to sidestep these considerations by assuring himself that the top brass would have exhausted finer minds than his on the strategic repercussions of what they were planning to do. He limited himself to a simpler, straightforward question.

Can it be done?

He sucked on his cigarette, as he weighed up the risks. The mission sounded like a bastard. But you had to hand it to this Major Rall, it sounded like an audacious and impressive bastard. If it could be done, and the war won, then surely they had to do it. They had to at least try, surely. Pieter wasn’t afraid to die — he’d passed that point a long long time ago — he just wasn’t that keen on doing it pointlessly. If there was a fair chance for success — just a fair chance — they had to give it a go.

Max turned to study Hans.

The young man was nodding and tapping a finger on the metal rim of his mug, as if enjoying a tune no one else could hear. In his other hand he held his smoke, forgotten, burning steadily towards the filter. His blue eyes were unfocused and lost in the distance. Of all of them, Max knew Hans would have the least reservations and would probably be the first to volunteer. He wasn’t one for careful deliberation by any stretch of the imagination; he was a bull-necked thug with a preference to thinking with his fists — a typical gunner. But here, now at least, he seemed to be indulging in some level of introspection about what could lie ahead. Even for Hans, the mission was too dangerous to blithely accept. But there was one thing Max was certain of: if Pieter voted yes, so would he. Hans, although physically strong, was a follower, unsure of himself. He would always look to either Pieter or Max for a direction. Hans would follow Pieter on this.

And finally Stefan.

The young lad rocked gently from side to side; his eyes darted uncertainly from Max to Pieter to Hans. ‘Baby Bear’ was what Pieter liked to call him when he ruffled the boy’s ginger hair. That was stupid. Stefan had done his share of growing up like the rest of them. He had been with them for over a year and flown on nearly a hundred sorties as navigator and radio operator; but being the youngest would always make him the pup of the crew. Stefan absent-mindedly pulled on the tuft of red hairs that had managed to grow on his chin. All of them were sporting bristles long enough to tug, it had been many days since they’d had the luxury of a razor, but unlike the others, who would happily pay a day’s ration for a razor and some shaving oil, Stef took great pride in the meagre offering on his jaw.

‘Okay, tell me what you lads are thinking,’ said Max.

Pieter looked up at him. ‘What do you think, Max?’

‘I want to see what you boys reckon first. Whatever decision we end up with, it has to be unanimous, right?’

Hans cocked his head.

‘Unanimous means… everyone has to agree,’ Max added.

‘Right.’

Stefan raised a finger, a classroom habit that he still hung on to. Max nodded. ‘Go on.’

‘We’ll get fighter escort cover most of the way?’

‘Across France and some of the way beyond, yes. They’ll be arriving soon, some of the best fighter pilots in the Luftwaffe. You can’t get a better escort than that.’

‘How many?’

‘As many as we can find planes for. Major Rall told me that they have managed to pool something like thirteen 109s, maybe some more can be put together between now and when we leave.’

‘Thirteen fighters and a B-17 against everything they can throw at us between here and the Atlantic?’ Pieter smiled. ‘My money says we won’t even make France.’

Max shrugged. ‘I’m not going to lie to you. This is going to be a nasty one, the worst one we’ve flown together. But we have the element of surprise, we’re flying one of their planes — they won’t expect that, and we’ll have a squadron of the best fighter pilots nearby watching and waiting to step in when we need them.’

‘This is a one-way flight, isn’t it?’ said Stefan.

Max turned to the lad.

Clever boy, you’ve done the maths.