Free The Hess Cross by James Thayer Page A

the weather. Adding to Crown's discomfort was the tough little waist gunner who sat on the bicycle seat near his machine gun, glowering at him.
    Many times during the flight Crown questioned his choice of the B17 over a conventional passenger plane, say, a Boeing Stratoliner. The Stratoliner had padded seats, a heated and pressurized cabin, hot meals, and even bunks. But the drawbacks to the passenger plane were substantial and dangerous. It had a range of only 1,750 miles, which would have required a fueling stop at the RAF airfield in Greenland, one of the most hazardous fields in the world. And a more dangerous factor: scheduled passenger service between Croyden and New York's La Guardia had been suspended due to the heavy German air raids on London. A passenger plane would have been highly conspicuous. Crown didn't want a curious Luftwaffe fighter pilot investigating an unarmed Stratoliner.
    A Fortress crossing the North Atlantic was routine. Hundreds of them flew from the U.S. to England as the States became increasingly involved in arming the British. Many of the B17s returned from England to Wichita to be re-outfitted and refurbished. To make
Iron Mike
look as if it needed repair, Wing Commander Stratton had been ordered to paint strings of black spots on the plane's wings and fuselage to resemble bullet holes and to blacken one of the engine encasements to appear as if it had been on fire. Enraged bombardier Budwig greased and regreased the bomb bay doors.
    Wing Commander Stratton climbed down from the cockpit and squeezed through the short aisle between seats toward Crown, who wondered how the 25-year-old Britisher had risen to the rank of wing commander at such a youngage. Air Chief Marshal Hilling had promised him the best pilot available. Crown was an inexperienced flier, so his only gauge of Stratton's competence was the obvious high regard his crew had for him. Even the surly waist gunner straightened up as Stratton walked past.
    "We're just over Lake Michigan, sir. We'll be arriving at Midway in thirty minutes or so," the wing commander said, just loud enough to be heard over the engine rumble. "The runway is clear, and the fog has let up, so there'll be no problem."
    "Thanks, Commander," answered Crown. "Have you contacted our ground escort?"
    "Yes, sir. They're in place and ready."
    "Did the Hurricanes have any problem?" Crown asked, referring to the twelve RAF fighters that had accompanied the Fortress until it was out of the war zone. An hour after
Iron Mike
lifted off from Croyden, Crown had climbed into the observer's bubble atop the cockpit to view the escort. The shark-nosed fighters were flying in two six-plane V formations, one two miles off the bomber's starboard wing and the other at ten o'clock off the port wing. The formations had been ordered to maintain a substantial distance from the bomber to reduce the possibility an enemy spotter would see the entire procession and attach significance to it.
    "No. They turned back two hundred and fifty miles out, and they're all back at Croyden. And the Greenland fighter escort returned to base in good shape, too."
    Only during the last few hours of the transatlantic flight, when the plane had been well beyond the range of any German fighter, had
Iron Mike
been unescorted. It touched down at La Guardia for fueling. No one had been allowed to leave the plane.
    "Good. Say, Commander, I understand your crew wasn't very enthusiastic about this flight."
    "No, they weren't. Neither was I. No one would tell me who we were going to transport, but I took a look at the bloke when he boarded
Mike
, and I placed him." The commander bent closer and said, "This is one very important cargo."
    "That's right. I toyed with the idea of confining you and your crew during our stay in Chicago, which may last several weeks. But I've got enough problems without a mutiny. So I want you to impress upon the crew that this flight and anything they may have seen on it must be kept an