Chapter Nine.
Karyn waited for ten minutes in the Intelligence Officers' office. The walls were hung with mission maps, inscribed with long ruled lines in red pencil. Next to the biggest map was a board with the squadrons and aircraft. She saw that four squadrons of B-17 Flying Fortresses were based here. She might even have seen some of them high over Berlin. She read some of the names... "Madame Betterfly." "Wham Bam." "Li'l Skunkface." "Grim Reaper." "Sam's Little Helper." "Flak Alley Lil."
The door opened, and a youngish Captain came into the office.
He smiled.
'Good evening. Welcome to Chelveston, Station 105. You must be Lieutenant Koenig.'
He sat behind the desk. Before he could say anything more; Karyn brought the sealed envelope from her handbag and slid it across the desk. He raised an eyebrow. She sat back in her chair; held his eyes with a steady gaze, and spoke first.
'Major Lounsbury; the Intelligence Officer at the XIX Corps Command Post in Magdeburg instructed me to give you this.'
He took the envelope, opened it, and unfolded the flimsy signal sheet. As he read the contents, his eyes widened. When he had finished; he carefully re-folded the sheet and slipped it back into the envelope.
He gazed steadily at her.
'Holy Cow! You've got yourself one hell of a set of credentials there, Lieutenant! Even I haven’t got high enough clearance to ask you anything! We knew you were something out of the ordinary when you came in on Ike's flight; but where you're going Stateside, and for whatever reason, ain't for me to know. We've not got any women on the station, but we have three WASPS... the girls who fly replacement airplanes from the factories; due to fly out Stateside tomorrow. We've put them in a spare Officers housing unit. Best thing is to put you in with them.'
The "Officer's housing unit" was a curved, corrugated metal building that the English called a Nissen hut. Four crew-members normally lived in one hut and furnished it with whatever they could find in the local area. The interiors were dimly lit with two overhead light bulbs, and a cast-iron, pot-bellied stove in the centre of the hut provided heat. This particular hut was slightly longer, and contained cots for six. The hut had no internal plumbing. Water had to be fetched from strategically-placed cold water taps around the Station. Crews living in the Nissen huts not only had to put up with the strangely shaped, curving inner walls; but more importantly, their washing and toilet facilities were in a separate building with its own little boiler room some twenty feet away. Not much fun having to walk that far, in all kinds of weather just to fill a coffee pot or take a trip to the john.
As Karyn entered; she saw four young women; all wearing A2 leather flight jackets; each with a sewn-on patch depicting a cartoon female with large, blue wings. They were playing cards. The one nearest to the door looked up and smiled amiably.
'Hi! I'm Josie. Why don't you come on in and take a hand?'
Karyn returned the smile and sat down at the table. Josie poured her a glass of what looked like Bourbon whiskey, and introduced the others.
She pointed to a red-head.
'Nancy Taylor from Houston, Texas; my co-pilot.'
The girl smiled.
'Hi!'
Josie introduced the others. Grace Kavenagh... a brunette from Careyville, Tennessee: Navigator. Jessie Davis... a pale blonde from Springfield, Oregon: Flight Engineer. Josie handed Karyn her drink and shuffled a deck of cards.
'You OK with Stud Poker?'
Karyn nodded.
As she dealt; Josie glanced at Karyn.
'So, where are you from?'
Karyn pondered her cards;
'Vermont... Berlin, Vermont. I'm Gisela Koenig.'
The girls giggled.
Nancy Taylor grinned at Karyn.
'Hell, Girl; with a name like that, AND that hometown; they might have had you for a Kraut spy!'
Josie studied her.
'Jeez, Gisela. Unassigned Collar Insignia! They are usually worn by officers with special skills that don't fall into any specific Branches or Services of Uncle Sam. What's your speciality?'
Karyn smiled gently.
'Sorry, Josie; I can't tell you. It's all very Hush-Hush!'
Josie nodded.
'Ok Ladies what are we playing for?'
Jessie Davis snorted.
'Same old crap... Hershey bars and Babe Ruth candy; and just maybe, a few bucks, this time around?'
Karyn smiled, and opened her purse. She brought out five Max Factor Lipsticks, and placed them in the middle of the table. These were part of the Black Market horde that she had been issued with before she went into Helmstedt camp.
'OK, Girls. These are the real deal. They're German Max Factor. They haven’t been available for at least six years. I picked them up in Germany before I came out. One each; and winner take all!'
Josie glanced sideways at her.
'Hell, Girl; you sure you ain't a Kraut spy?'
Karyn laughed.
'You think they'd have let me anywhere within a country mile of Ike's airplane if I was?'
Josie nodded.
'Ain't that the truth!'
As they played cards; Karyn asked about their flying. Josie said that WASPs were restricted to ferrying in the Zone of Interior... not overseas. They were the sole exception... and that was only through sudden necessity. Karyn asked about the cartoon female with large, blue wings. Josie grinned.
'She's our patron saint: "Fifinella." Roald Dahl designed her and Walt Disney drew her. She's a sister of the "Gremlin," but whereas he plays pranks on flyers; she watches over us and helps the WASPs out of tight spots.'
Karyn smiled.
'Why are you called WASPs?'
Josie grinned again.
It stands for the Women Airforce Service Pilots. We deliver fresh airplanes to the squadrons. We're based at Avenger Field, Sweetwater, Texas. We normally fly all types across the United States, but this trip was a "one-off."
She said that they had delivered a brand new B-17 from the Boeing Seattle plant in Washington State to Grenier Army Airfield at Manchester, New Hampshire; then on to the staging point at Presque Isle in Northern Maine for refuelling.
From there; they were ordered to fly the four-hundred and ninety-five nautical miles to Goose Bay in Labrador. This meant that the replacement ferry crew would be flying the Northern route to either "Bluie West-One" or "Bluie West-Eight" in Greenland... the two North Atlantic Ferry Route link airstrips. From there, it was a six-hundred-and-seventy nautical miles leg to Meeks Field, at Keflavik, Iceland, and then, on down to Prestwick in Scotland.
At Goose bay, they had parked up the B-17 and strolled across to Flying Control; only to be told that the crew that was supposed to take the B-17 out had turned a jeep over coming back from a night on the town, and were in the base hospital. The Duty S-3 Operations Officer also told them that twenty minutes before they touched down; a signal had arrived from the WASP Director, Jacqueline Cochran, saying that the United States House of Representatives had ordered that the WASPs be disbanded by December 20th, 1944. That was in five days time.
Josie grinned.
'The Duty S-3 operations officer had to get the B-17 across to ETO. Although it was absolutely forbidden by the General of the Air Force "Hap" Arnold, for WASPs to make intercontinental flights; by the time we returned, we would be civilians, and they wouldn't be able to Court-martial us! He said we would be flying guided by a radio beam tone. Through my headset I would hear the Morse code "dah-dit"... "N", if I was to the left of course; or "dit-dah"... "A", if I was to the right. However the most desirable situation was to hear one continuous tone which would indicate the plane was directly on course to the destination. Did we think we could do it?'
She grinned again.
'That was a damn' silly question. This would be our big chance to see England. Of course we said there would be no problem.
We were thoroughly briefed how to recognise the proper fjord to enter as we approached Greenland. This was vital; because if we picked the wrong one, there would be no way out and we might not have enough engine power left to climb the eight thousand feet necessary to clear the ice cap two miles ahead. Our briefer had explained that on the coastline of Greenland there were three fjords that looked exactly alike... but only the middle one was the correct fjord which led to the airstrip coded "Bluie West-One"; or "BW-1" for short... The others were dead ends and he suggested we stayed out of them unless we had learned how to back up a B-17 in flight.
We took off early the next morning to fly the six hundred and seventy nautical miles of black North Atlantic Ocean, sprinkled with icebergs, to land at Bluie West-One. The flight took four and a half hours, with Grace plotting the course on ordinary Mercator projection charts. 'There was "radio fade" between Goose and BW-1, which lost us the beam, and most of the time I flew on Grace's dead reckoning... no mean feat for our Tennessee Belle. We nailed the middle fjord right on the money, and flew something like fifty miles inland, with rocky cliffs to either side several thousand feet high, numerous dead-end offshoots, no room to turn around, and overcast hanging below the tops of the cliffs. I had to get this one right on the button first time. Just to add to the fun; the briefer had also said that a supply ship named the S.S. Montrose had hit a cliff while steaming up the fjord, sixteen nautical miles southwest of the airfield. Its rusting hulk had become a checkpoint for pilots trying to reach BW-1.'
He had remarked cheerfully;
"Greenland is just one big bowl of ice contained by a ridge of barren rock mountains. If you don't spot that freighter you are in the wrong fjord.... You will not actually see the field until you have made the last turn around the cliff; then it will suddenly appear, so you'd better have your wheels down a little early. It's a single runway with quite an incline... so you have to land whether you like it or not."
He had not been joking. We flew over the rusting hulk of the freighter on our starboard side, and Grace started her stopwatches. At cruise speed, we reckoned that the B-17 would take five and a half minutes to fly the sixteen miles. She called the fifteen- second intervals, and Nancy called gears down at four-minutes forty-five, as I had started to make the still-blind turn to starboard. This was trust... in spades!
There! We sudden saw the thin, grey strip that dead-ended at the base of a mountain. I put down one-third flaps, eased back the throttles, set mixture controls to "Automatic Rich," and made a continuous power let-down for a "straight-away" approach. The B-17 made an awful clatter through the fuselage on the steel mat runway; but the landing was pretty short due to the incline which was surrounded on three sides by high rocky cliffs. We taxied in and set the brakes. It looked cold out there. Tomorrow's engine start would most likely be in freezing weather; so I told Nancy to perform an oil dilute as I cycled the supercharger controls. Four minutes in; I gave Nancy a thumbs-up; indicating that she could close the oil dilution switches.
Ensure your favorite authors get the support they deserve. Read this novel on Royal Road.
This done; I set the prop controls and ran the engines for another thirty seconds. I called "Stop Engines!" and Nancy pushed the mixture controls to "Engine Off." She cut off all switches, and we unlocked harnesses. Nancy grinned at me...'
'Well, that was fun!'
Karyn listened, fascinated. She had never imagined that girls could fly a big bomber like the B-17. Back in Nazi Germany, the very idea would have been unthinkable. Nancy Taylor took up the story.
'You think that was tough... we spent the night freezing our butts off in a tar-paper hut tied down with cables running over the roof against the sudden surges of wind coming off the ice cap that they said could hit a hundred miles an hour. There were blackout curtains on all the sleeping quarters' windows... not to keep the light in; but to keep it out! Greenland at that time of year has daylight nearly around the clock! We slept that "night" fully clothed under four blankets in a temperature of twenty-eight below Zero Celsius. It turned out that we would most likely be the last airplane for Bluie West-One; as they were beginning to close down all the Ferry route bases.
The following morning, after a quick bite to eat in the McKinley Dredging Company mess; we prepared the airplane for the next leg. Before take-off, a powerful heater with five long output tubes was in operation for an hour, with one outlet in each motor, and the fourth into the cockpit to thaw out the airplane! Take-off at BW-1 had to be made down-wind, since the wind always blew from the direction of the nearby mountains. With the temperatures and pressures up; we rolled out for take-off. We opened up the motors to maximum, and Josie let off the brakes. We made one helluva noise on the steel mat as we blasted down the runway... and the cliff was just waiting for us.
The drop over the length of the runway created the impression we would end up in the water. When she unstuck, we both hauled back on the control columns as hard as we ever could; and made a fifty-degree bank to port out over the fjord for the run down to the Ocean. Once clear; Grace plotted a course for Iceland... six hundred and seventy nautical miles of "radio fade" on the beam; grey North Atlantic and Icebergs.
Two hundred miles out, we ran into a storm. We tried to fly above it; but, listening to chunks of ice from the propellers hitting the sides of the airplane, Josie decided to try to fly under the icing, and finally we had to drop to about three thousand feet above the Ocean before we could get away from it. When we finally cleared the storm, Grace found we were very near to our planned course. A slight correction to port would take us directly to Meeks Field, at Keflavik, Iceland. This would be our refuelling stop, and the last place we landed, before the final leg down to the AAF Ferrying Command Base at Prestwick Airport in Scotland.'
The story of their adventures was interrupted by a knock on the door of the Nissen hut. The Military Police Captain that had escorted Karyn to the Intelligence Officer's office, entered, carrying a large parcel. He laid it on the nearest cot and turned to Karyn.
'Excuse me interrupting your game, Ma'am. The General thought you could use these...'
He motioned to the parcel.
'A whole fresh kit and caboodle. The General said you shouldn't have to transit Stateside as you were; so he sent a jeep across to the Quartermaster depot at Wellingborough for a fresh set. Don't concern yourself about the old kit; we'll get it laundered and taken back into inventory after you've flown out in the morning.'
He saluted, and left the hut. Josie glanced at Karyn and raised an eyebrow.
'Wow! That's some kind of service! Let's take a look at what they've given you.'
Karyn opened the parcel. It contained a USAAF Cargo Pack-Bag. Loosing the straps she opened it. Contained within, was a WAC "pinks and greens" uniform. The Olive drab jacket retained the same Eighth Air Force shoulder patches and lapel insignia, except that the female helmeted head was now, not contained in a circle, but was an individual head-shaped badge; and the lower "Unassigned" collar insignia were now, solid, round badges embossed with the U.S. Coat of Arms. The shoulder tabs of the jacket, and the Olive drab Garrison cap displayed two Silver bars... the rank of Captain! The skirt was a pinkish beige colour; and there was also a pair of slacks in the same material. Also contained in the Pack-bag was a fresh set of khaki-coloured nylon underwear, comprising brassiere, panties, girdle and slip; and tan stockings.
Josie grinned, as she saw the Rank insignia.
'Damn, Girl; they've given you a set of Railroad tracks! They must think a whole heap of you! Instant promotion to Captain!'
She was interrupted by another knock on the door. The Military Police Captain came in again, looking apologetic. He walked up to Karyn.
'Sorry, Ma'am; the Colonel needs to see you right away.'
Josie snorted.
'Hell, Captain; we're never going to get through this deck of cards at this rate!'
The Colonel's office in the Headquarters building was big and bright; with tactical maps and charts covering one entire wall. The Colonel sat behind a large desk studying a sheaf of papers. As Karyn entered; he stood and came from behind the desk to greet her. He was about forty; a tall rangy man with cropped dark hair and piercing blue eyes. He took her hand, and shook it. His grip was firm and his hand was warm.
'Welcome to England, Doctor Seringen. I have received orders to issue you with fresh Identity Documents. We shall need to have a photograph. The photographer is on his way right now. Please sit down. Would you care for a drink?'
She nodded.
He brought out a bottle of "Old Forester Kentucky Straight" and two glasses. Sloshing a good three fingers into each glass; he handed one to her and sat down again behind his desk.
'My name is John Kinsey. I understand that you are recently out of Germany. How's it looking over there?'
Karyn took a deep pull at her drink.
'When I came out; the feeling was, that the régime in Berlin would soon collapse. This war can't last for much longer, now. The Russians were closing in rapidly as I left Magdeburg, and the XIX Corps were preparing to hand over the sector east of the Elbe to them.'
Colonel Kinsey nodded.
'That's good to hear. Perhaps I shall soon be able to finish sending my boys into harm's way...'
He was interrupted by a knock on his door. A young Second Lieutenant entered, carrying a large camera. Whilst the Colonel sat and watched; sipping his bourbon; the photographer posed Karyn in a full-face, solemn pose, and took three photographs. He then thanked her and left the office.
The Colonel drew a buff envelope from a drawer in his desk. He studied her, and then spoke.
'This came in this afternoon from the War Department in Washington by way of Command Headquarters at High Wycombe.'
He opened the envelope and drew out a single sheet of paper and a pair of blank dog tags. He handed her a notebook.
'Could you please write down your Blood group and any Religious affinity so that we can get them stamped up with your new identity?'
Karyn stared at him.
'New identity, Colonel?'
He smiled.
'Yes Captain. From here on in, you lose your original identity, and also the one that Major Lounsbury arranged for you back in Diesdorf. The schoolteacher Gisela Koenig; late of Spandau, no longer exists, and neither does Doktor Karyn Helle von Seringen of Grünheide, East Prussia. Your English S.O.E documents and records have also been destroyed by London.'
Karyn stared at him.
'So; Colonel... who am I?'
He picked up the sheet of paper and began to read it aloud.
'You are now a Citizen of The United States of America. You are a Doctor of Archaeology at the University of Pennsylvania Museum of Archaeology and Anthropology. You are also now a member of The Office of Strategic Services, with your existing, equivalent S.O.E. Rank.'
He paused, and gazed carefully at her.
'Washington has established a complete identity for you. You will receive all the relevant documents of an American Citizen when you arrive Stateside... Driver's License, Checking Account, Social Security Number, and so on. An apartment in Philadelphia has been acquired in your new name; as have Insurance Policies and an Automobile.'
He paused again.
'They have decided that your new name will be Charlotte Louise Mckenna. As the words go, in our National Anthem... Welcome to the land of the free and the home of the brave!... and, according to the intelligence reports, you really have been exceptionally brave, these past six years, Doctor Mckenna.'
He picked up the telephone on his desk and called in his orderly. Handing her note, the dog tags, and the folder to the young airman; he instructed that the items should be taken to the Admin. Workshops for stamping, immediately. He waited until the airman had left the office, and regarded her with a quizzical look.
'So; how do you like your new identity, Doctor Mckenna?'
She smiled.
It's a pretty name. It sounds Irish. I'll need a while to get used to it.'
Colonel Kinsey smiled, and glanced at another sheet of paper from his desk.
'A good guess. It is Irish. Washington has really done its homework very accurately on this identity that they have constructed for you. As I mentioned; you are a Doctor of Archaeology at the University of Pennsylvania in Philadelphia. The province of Pennsylvania was one of the centres of Irish settlement in the Eighteenth Century. The name Mckenna appears in the 1920 United States Federal Census for the city of Philadelphia, amongst other places in the State. Their research has been so meticulous that they have actually established a family tree for you, dating back to 1778.
Your ancestor, Darcy Mckenna was an Irish Nobleman. The historical lineage of the Mckennas lies in Truagh, County Monaghan, Ireland, where they were "The Lords of Truagh." They led the Catholic Irish forces against the English in the Jacobite Wars at The Battle of Drumbanagher in 1688; after which, practically all their lands were confiscated. They emigrated to the New World; settling at first, in New England. Later, they moved west to Allegheny County, Pennsylvania and returned to the coastal area in the late Eighteenth century. You carry your South Carolinian Great-aunt Martha Charlotte Mckenna's middle name. Your pedigree is watertight.'
"Charlotte Mckenna" stared at him.
'Why have they gone to so much trouble, Colonel?'
He took another sip of his bourbon.
'That is a matter for Washington to tell you. I only know what is contained in this document; but suffice it to say, that they don't go to these lengths unless they have something very specific in mind for you, and your authorisation has come from the very top. You'll be travelling as "Normal traffic"... personnel cleared through established priority channels and handled on an individual basis. This includes personnel returning to the Zone of Interior on temporary duty, civilians; Foreign Nationals, and Air Transport Command personnel. Washington has classified you as ATC personnel.'
He was interrupted by a knock on the door. His orderly entered and placed a folder on his desk. Colonel Kinsey opened it and withdrew a Brown and cream card, with her photograph attached. The photograph was overprinted with her new name and a service number, below which was a space for date of issue. The right portion of the card was taken up by the Legend:
WAR DEPARTMENT
THE ADJUTANT GENERAL'S OFFICE.
WASHINGTON D.C.
IDENTIFICATION CARD.
Then, there were boxes for her name, Rank designation of Captain; space for her signature; and below that; one more space for a countersignature. The reverse side had two boxes on the left side for Left and Right Index fingerprints; and across the top of the card were boxes for her identification details. The right-hand side of the card was taken up by a dire printed warning about misuse by a second person; and instructions on how and where to return the card if it was found.
Colonel Kinsey rummaged in a drawer of his desk and brought out an ink pad and a pack of tissues. He asked for her hands and rolled both her index fingers across the surface of the ink pad. He then rolled both her index fingers across the boxes of the card, leaving a clear, black fingerprint impression in each box. He gave an apologetic grin and passed her the pack of tissues so that she might clean her inky fingers.
The ink was not easy to remove. He handed her a pen and the card.
'Just sign this... using your new name; then I'll countersign it, and we can try to get that goddamned ink off your hands.'
It felt strange signing the card with a different name. She signed, as instructed; "Charlotte L. Mckenna"; and handed it back. He scrawled his signature in the bottom box and returned it to her. He then stood, and directed her to a door across from his desk. She opened the door and discovered a washroom. On the shelf by the basin was a black and white can emblazoned with the name "Boraxo"... "Cleans dirty hands." She read the instructions printed on the can...
"Boraxo actually does double-duty! It cleans dirty hands faster than most harsh abrasive soaps, yet it leaves the skin as soft and smooth as velvet! No tough grit to bite or sting! Just the mild, magic action of Borax plus fine powdered toilet soap... blended in a special creamy form. Simply pour a little "Boraxo" into your wet palm, Rub it into a rich, creamy lather... then feel the dirt disappear!"
Borax? She wetted her hands; tentatively poured a little into her palm and rubbed her hands together. The obstinate ink simply floated off, leaving her hands feeling as soft as though she had just applied the "Nivea" hand cream she had always used back in Germany.
She dried her hands and returned to the Colonel's office. He was sitting at his desk idly playing with the dog tags that had been returned whilst she was cleaning her hands. She sat down again, and he slid them across the desk to her. She picked them up and studied them. They were attached to a nickel-plated, thirty-inch ball chain. She studied the embossed legend:
CHARLOTTE L. McKENNA
Colonel Kinsey explained that the next line was a Service number, followed by the Year of tetanus shot; and her Blood type:
05159056 T43-44 O
The next lines denoted her Next of Kin's name, Next of Kin's address; Next of Kin's City-State, and her Religion. Kinsey said that Washington had decided that Charlotte L. Mckenna was unmarried, and consequently, the name embossed and subsequent information would refer to a hypothetical relative:
JAMES P HOWELL
1228 BAINBRIDGE ST
PHILADELPHIA PA B
Kinsey said that "James P Howell" was a fictitious character; as was the actual address. There was a Bainbridge Street in Philadelphia; it had an apartment block with a fairy rapid turn-over of tenants at the precise location of the address... which was 1227-9. The specific address number 1228 didn't actually exist. The combination of Next of Kin and address was vague enough to be virtually uncheckable. It had also been established that the later ancestors had been Pennsylvania Baptists and consequently, that was what had been embossed on the Dog tags: the letter "B" in the last line.
When she returned to the Officers housing unit, she was to use her Gisela Koenig name. The WASP girls were not to know about her new identity. She would only assume it when she set foot on American soil. Colonel Kinsey stood up.
'I wish you a pleasant night's rest, Captain Mckenna. You fly out early tomorrow morning, as "Normal traffic." I'll have an orderly give you a wake-up call.'