Darmstadter, scanning the night sky, eased back on the yoke. The aircraft began leveling off. Canidy saw that the altimeter was now indicating 5,100 feet, the airspeed 180, and he called that out.
Darmstadter maintained that level and speed for five minutes, quietly scanning the sky. Then he turned and looked at Canidy.
“Nice flying,” Canidy said.
“What the hell was that, Dick?”
“Goddamn big. And goddamn close.”
“I noticed.”
“And goddamn German, for sure. I saw the enormous swastika on the tail.”
“Yeah, so did I,” Darmstadter said, his tone sarcastic. “It was nicely lit, I recall.” He paused, then repeated, “What the hell was that?”
Canidy answered with a question: “Did you count six engines?”
“Yeah. Pretty sure I did. So, a Giant? What the hell is a Giant doing out here alone?”
“Trying to wipe us out of the sky, for one. A Giant would explain how the Browning ate up the wing and maybe the fuselage, too. They’re fabric.”
The six-engine high-wing Messerschmitt Me323 Gigant had an airframe built of lightweight tubing and covered in doped canvas, giving the aircraft a twenty-ton payload. It had clamshell doors that formed its nose, through which it could quickly load and unload everything from 88mm flak cannons to half-tracks to Panzer IV tanks to 120 troopers.
“Maybe it’s one of those that got away,” Darmstadter said after a moment. “Last month, some P-40s and Spitfires scrambled after a couple dozen Giants that were being escorted not far from Pantelleria. We shot down all but six or so.” He paused. “Maybe that was one of the six.”
Darmstadter was quiet a long moment. Canidy noticed that he still had his hand firmly on the throttles, and now that he finally was letting go, and flexing his fingers, he saw why.
His hands are trembling. . . .
Canidy said, “Well, beyond there being one fewer Giant for the Third Reich, there is good news.”
“What?”
“You get to paint your first kill on the nose of this bird.”
Darmstadter didn’t respond to that. Instead, he said: “Speaking of that, do you want to go back there and kick his ass? Or do you want me to do it?”
“Why?”
“Damn it, Dick, those Giants have four thirteen-millimeter machine guns!”
“Five, normally,” Canidy offered.
“Okay, then five! To our one!” He scanned the sky again. “And what if there’d been escorts?”
“I don’t know that John Craig is fully at fault, Hank.”
Darmstadter turned to look at Canidy.
“Meaning?” he challenged.
“I was thinking that you may have been as responsible for that as him.”
“How in hell do you figure that?”
“When you stood us on the starboard wing, you put that giant aircraft right in John Craig’s sights. Who wouldn’t take a great shot like that? I’m tempted to go back there and tell him if you can find him four more, and he shoots them down, he will become a certified Ace.”
Darmstadter shook his head in disgust.