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They follow north and now it is unmistakable that the tops of trees have been sheared off.
“The plane coming in, crashing,” Jack says. “It will have lopped off some treetops.”
At last they emerge into an open, grassy field, and there in the moonlight lies the wreckage of a plane. The fuselage is in two pieces, the nose and most of the fuselage, and a tail section broken off at an angle and lying fifty feet away. One wing is torn off at the roots and nowhere to be seen. The other wing with its two engines is still attached to the main section of fuselage, but it has been twisted like a piece of licorice, so both engines are pointed down at the ground, with props bent all the way back.
It is a B-17.
This comes as a shock. Rio had formed the picture of a downed fighter, an RAF Spitfire or American P-38. She had not imagined a bomber.
A B-17. What Strand flies.
The odds . . .
There must be hundreds . . .
“Petersen, we don’t want them getting jumpy and shooting us as Krauts. Try to raise them.”
Petersen takes to his radio again, but again there is no answer.
“Sure that damned thing works?” Cat snarls at Petersen.
“Okay, we approach,” Rio says. “They won’t know the password so just try to sound, you know, American.”
“Must I?” Jack says.
Rio pats him on the shoulder and says, “Think ‘Yankee Doodle Dandy.’”
It’s still a twenty-minute walk, or, more accurately, creep, along the shore, in and out of the trees, before they are close enough to be able to see the fuselage clearly. They are on the side without the wing, the landward side.
“Hey,” Rio says in a loud whisper. “Hey, B-17! Hey!”
Nothing.
“Hey, Americans here,” she says. Then she tries a low whistle, which she can’t quite do, so Geer whistles.
This time Rio hears a rustling and bumping sound from the plane. But nothing more.
“Geer, back on point,” she says, regretting that she can’t walk ahead herself. Geer is American, unlike Jack, and male, unlike Cat, and a male American voice is what the crew will expect to hear, want to hear.
“Stay low,” Rio says.
They advance in slow motion, soft steps, quiet steps, every weapon out and ready.
“Don’t shoot unless you’re sure,” Rio reminds everyone. Just like Cole would. Like a cautious parent.
“Who’s there?” a male voice calls out from the wreck.
“Americans,” Geer says. “We’re your rescue.”
“Prove you’re American.”
Geer thinks it over for a moment then says, “Nineteen forty-one Series, Yankees over Brooklyn, four games to one.”
Silence. Then, “Fug the Yankees!”
“You’re preaching to the choir, brother,” Geer says.
A second voice. “Who’s married to Rita Hayworth?”
